19
I found a pharmacy and a phone booth in Brentwood. Milo picked up on the first ring, listened to what I had to say, and said, “I knew there was a reason I came home early.”
Twenty minutes later he came driving up to Mandeville and Sunset and followed me back to the murder house.
“Stay right there,” he said, and I waited in the Seville, drawing on a cheap panatela, while he went around to the back. A while later he reappeared, wiping his forehead. He got into the passenger seat, took a cigar out of my shirt pocket, and lit up.
He blew a few smoke rings, then began taking my statement, coolly professional. After leading me through my discovery of the bodies, he put down his pad and asked, “Why’d you come up here, Alex?”
I told him about the porn loops, D.J. Rasmussen’s fatal accident, the resurfacing of Leland Belding’s name.
“Kruse’s hand runs through most of it.”
“Not much hand left,” he said. “Bodies been there for a while.” He put the note pad away. “Any working guesses about whodunit?”
“Rasmussen was an explosive type,” I said. “Killed his father. For the last few days he’d been talking about being a sinner, doing something terrible. This could have been it.”
“Why would he snuff Kruse?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he blamed Kruse for Sharon’s death- he was pathologically attached to her, sexually involved.”
Milo thought for a while. “What’d you touch in there?”
“The light switch- but I used a handkerchief.”
“What else?”
“The gate… I think that’s it.”
“Think harder.”
“That’s all I can think of.”
“Let’s retrace your steps.”
When we were through, he said, “Go home, Alex.”
“That’s it?”
Glance at his Timex. “Crime scene boys should be here any minute. Go on. Disappear before the party begins.”
“Milo-”
“Go on, Alex. Let me do the damned job.”
I drove away, still tasting decay through the bite of tobacco.
Everything Sharon had touched was turning to death.
Ever the mind-prober, I found myself wondering what had made her that way. What kind of early trauma. Then something hit me: the way she’d acted that terrible night I’d found her with the twin photo. Thrashing, screaming, collapsing, and ending up in a fetal curl. So similar to Darren Burkhalter’s behavior in my office. The reactions to the horror in his life that I’d captured on videotape, then played for a roomful of attorneys without noticing the connection.
Early childhood trauma.
Long ago, she’d explained it to me. Followed it up with a display of tender, loving kindness. Looking back, a well-staged display. Another act?
It was the summer of ’81, a hotel in Newport Beach, swarming with psychologist conventioneers. A cocktail lounge overlooking the harbor- tinted picture windows, red-flocked walls, chairs on rollers. Dark and empty and smelling of last night’s party.
I’d sat at the bar gazing out at the water, watching dagger-sharp yachts etch the surface of a blown-glass marina. Nursing a beer and eating a dry club sandwich while lending half an ear to the bartender’s gripes.
He was a short, potbellied Hispanic with quick hands and a coppery Indian face. I watched him clean glasses like a machine.
“Worst I’ve ever seen, without a doubt, yessir. Now, your salesmen- insurance, computers, whatever- your salesmen are serious drinkers. Your pilots too.”
“Comforting thought,” I said.
“Yeah, your salesmen and your pilots. But you psycho guys? Forget it. Even the teachers we had last winter were better and they weren’t any great shakes. Look at this place. Dead.”
Twisting open a bottle of baby onions, he drained the juice and poured the pearly balls into a tray. “How many of you guys at this shebang, anyway?”
“Few thousand.”
“Few thousand.” He shook his head. “Look at this place. What is it, you all too busy analyzing other people, not allowed to have fun?”
“Maybe,” I said, reflecting on how dull the convention had been. But conventions always were. The only reason I’d attended this one was because I’d been asked to deliver a paper on childhood stress.
The paper having now been read, the inevitable picayune questions fielded, I was grabbing a bit of solitude before heading back to L.A. and a night shift on the adolescent ward.
“Maybe you guys should study yourselves, pal. Analyze why you don’t like to have fun.”
“Good idea.” I put some money down on the bar and said, “Have one on me.”
He stared at the bills. “Sure, thanks.” Lighting a cigarette, he poured himself a beer and leaned forward.
“Anyway, I’m for live and let live. Someone don’t want to have fun, okay. But at least come in and order something, know what I mean? Hell, don’t drink it-
“To the working man,” I said and raised my glass. I put it down empty.
“Refill, Doc? On the house.”
“I’ll take a Coke.”
“Figures. One rum and Coke coming up, hold the rum, hold the fun.”
He put the drink on the bar and was about to say something else when the door to the lounge opened and let in lobby noise. His eyes shifted to the back of the room and he said, “My, my.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw a woman in white. Long-legged, shapely, a cloud of black hair. Standing near the cigarette machine, head moving from side to side, as if scouting foreign territory.
Familiar. I turned to get a better look.
Sharon. Definitely Sharon. In a tailored linen suit, matching purse and shoes.
She saw me, waved as if we’d had an appointment.
“Alex!”
All at once she was at my side. Soap and water, fresh grass…
She sat down on the stool next to mine, crossed her legs, and pulled her skirt down over her knees.
The bartender winked at me. “Drink, ma’am?”
“Seven-Up, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After he handed her the drink and moved down, she said, “You look great, Alex. I like the beard.”
