that stayed under my skin.
Sharon was right-handed but in the film- stroking, kneading- she’d favored her left.
Switching? Trying on a new identity?
The left hand.
Putting on a blond wig and becoming a bad girl… a left-handed
Suddenly something about the drowning story bothered me- something that hadn’t troubled me six years ago, when I’d wanted to believe her:
The details, the vivid imagery.
Too complex for a three-year-old. Too much for a toddler to remember.
Practiced detail. Or a well-rehearsed lie? Had she been coached? Had her memory enhanced?
As in hypnosis.
As in Paul Kruse, master hypnotist. Amateur film-maker. Professional sleaze.
I was certain, now, that he’d known enough to fill in lots of blanks. Had died with that knowledge. Horribly, bloodily, taking two other people with him.
I wanted, more than ever, to know why.
20
Feeling infected, the carrier of some dread disease, I canceled my flight to San Luis, turned on the TV, and created some electronic companionship.
The Kruse murders were the lead item on the eleven o’clock news, complete with sweeping live minicam shots of the murder house and inset photos of Paul and Suzanne in better days. The third victim was identified as Lourdes Escobar, age twenty-two, a native of El Salvador who’d worked as the Kruses’ maid. Her picture portrayed an open-faced young woman with plaited black hair and dark, melting eyes.
Innocent victim, pronounced the reporter, lowering his voice and oozing irony. She’d fled the turmoil and poverty of her native land, fueled by the dream of a better life, only to encounter violent death amid the seductive luxury of the City of the Angels…
That kind of philosophizing meant he didn’t know much.
I switched back and forth between channels, hungry for facts. All three newscasts were identical in style and lack of substance: reporters addressing the anchors instead of the audience, wondering out loud if one of Kruse’s patients had turned homicidal, or if this was just another random L.A. bloodletting.
I absorbed predictions of runs on gun shops, starved attack dogs. The reporter cupped one ear and said, “One moment. We’re about to have a statement from the police.”
The camera shifted to Cyril Trapp, clearing his throat. His shirt was TV blue. His white hair gleamed like a steel helmet. Under the spotlights his mottled skin was the color of dirty sheets. His mustache wriggled as he chewed his cheek. Establishing eye contact with the camera, he read a prepared statement pledging that the full investigative resources of the Los Angeles Police Department would be marshaled to solve these vicious slayings. A tight smile and head shake. He said, “That’s all I’m at liberty to divulge at this time,” and walked away.
The reporter said, “There you have it, Keith and Kelly. Reporting live at the scene of…”
I turned off the set, wondered about Trapp’s presence at the crime scene, waited for Milo to call and clue me in. When he hadn’t phoned by one, I undressed and slipped beneath the covers, dry-mouthed and so tense my palate ached. I tried deep breathing but, instead of relaxing, worked myself into a state of wide-eyed hyperawareness. Embracing the pillow like a lover, I tried to fill my head with pleasant images. None came. Finally, some time before dawn, I managed to sink into sleep.
The next morning I called Milo at the station and was told he was still on vacation. No one answered at his house.
I took in the morning paper. Unlike Sharon’s death, the Kruse murders were being treated as serious news- a headline shouting DOCTOR AND SPOUSE SLAIN bannered over the top half of page 3. The byline was that of a staff writer named Dale Conrad, a name I recognized because he’d covered behavioral science stories in the past, generally doing a slipshod job.
The Kruse piece was no exception. Despite all those column inches, Conrad had come up with nothing about the murders that hadn’t been covered on last night’s broadcasts. The bulk of the article was biographical information on Kruse. He’d been sixty at the time of his death, twice the age of his wife- whom the article described only as a former actress. His birthplace was New York City; his origins, moneyed. He’d been commissioned as an officer in Korea attached to a psychological warfare unit, received his doctorate from a university in south Florida and, aided by society connections and his advice column, built up a lucrative Palm Beach practice before moving to California. His recent appointment to head the department was noted, and his predecessor, Professor Milton Frazier, was quoted as being shocked by the senseless death of an esteemed colleague.
The death of Lourdes Escobar was a last-paragraph afterthought: “Also found was the body of the housekeeper…”
I put the paper down. New York, old money, society connections- reminiscent of the phony background Sharon had created for herself.
Had it been a total fabrication? Failed starlet mother or not, she’d lived like a rich girl- the clothes, the car, the house. Perhaps Linda Lanier had married money- the call girl’s fantasy come true.
Or perhaps she’d gotten it another way. Passing along to her daughter a choice chunk of hillside real estate once owned by a dead billionaire who’d employed her. Still deeded to that billionaire’s corporation and put up on the market the day after Sharon died.
Too many questions. My head was starting to hurt.
I dressed, found a legal pad and a couple of pens, and left the house. Walking down the glen, I crossed Sunset and entered the north end of the University campus. It was eleven-twenty when I passed through the doors of the research library.
I headed straight for the reference section, played with the MELVYL computerized index, and found two books on Leland Belding in the library’s holdings.
The first was a 1949 volume entitled
I left the computer and did a little low-tech research- two hours spent turning the pages of volume after volume of the Periodicals Index. Nothing on Linda Lanier here either, but over a hundred articles on Leland Belding, stretching from the mid-thirties to the mid-seventies. I selected what I hoped was a representative dozen references, then took the elevator up to the stacks and began seeking out the sources. By two-thirty I was ensconced in a reading cubicle on the fourth floor, surrounded by stacks of bound magazines.
The earliest pieces on Belding were in aerospace-industry journals, written while the tycoon was still in his early twenties. In them, Leland Belding was hailed as a technical and financial prodigy, a master designer of aircraft and collateral equipment with three patents for every year of his life. The same photograph was used in each, a publicity shot credited to L. Belding Industries: the young inventor sitting in the cockpit of one of his planes, goggled and helmeted, his attention fixed upon the instrument panel. A handsome man, but cold- looking.
Belding’s enormous wealth, precocity, boyish good looks, and shyness made him a natural media hero, and the tone of the earliest popular magazine pieces was worshipful. One article designated him the
