Silent Partner

A white VW Rabbit was parked in front of my carport, blocking the Seville. A young woman slouched against it, reading a book.

When she saw me she sprang up.

“Hi! Dr. Delaware?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Delaware? I’m Maura Bannon? From the Times? The Dr. Ransom story? I wondered if I could talk to you- just for a minute?”

She was tall and stick-skinny, about twenty, with a long, freckled face that needed finishing. She wore yellow sweats and white running shoes. Her pageboy hairdo was dyed orange with pink overtones, the same color as the lashes around her light-brown eyes. She had a marked overbite with a toothpick-wide gap between the upper incisors.

The book in her hand was Wambaugh’s Echoes in the Darkness and she’d flagged it in several places with yellow tags. Her nails were gnawed stubby.

“How’d you find out where I live, Ms. Bannon?”

“We reporters have our ways.” She smiled. It made her look around twelve.

When she saw I wasn’t smiling back, she said, “There’s a file on you at the paper. From a few years ago? When you were involved in catching those child molesters?”

Privacy, the last luxury. “I see.” At least Ned Biondi hadn’t played fast and loose.

“I could tell from reading the clippings on you that you’re a dedicated person,” she said. “Someone who doesn’t like bullshit? And bullshit is what they’re giving me.”

“Who is?”

“My bosses. Everyone. First they tell me to forget the Ransom story. Now, when I ask to cover the Kruse murders, they give it to that dweeb Dale Conrad- I mean the guy never leaves his desk. He has about as much drive as a sloth on Quaaludes. When I tried to reach Mr. Biondi, his secretary told me he was out of town- off to Argentina, taking some Spanish course. Then she handed me an assignment to follow up a trained horse story- out in Anaheim?”

A mild, warm breeze blew in from somewhere across the glen. It ruffled the tags in her book.

“Interesting reading?” I said, holding my own books in a way that obscured their titles.

“Fascinating. I want to be a crime writer- get into the core of good and evil? So I need to immerse myself in life-and-death issues. I figured I’d go with the best- the man was a cop, has a real solid experiential base. And the people in this one were so weird- outwardly respectable but totally crazed. Like the people in this case?”

“Which case?”

“Cases, actually. Dr. Ransom? Dr. Kruse? Two psychologists dying in the same week- two psychologists who were connected to each other. If they were connected in life, maybe in death too? Which means Ransom may have been murdered, don’t you think?”

“How were they connected?”

She made a naughty-naughty gesture. “Come on, Dr. Delaware, you know what I’m talking about. Ransom was one of Kruse’s students. More than that- a prize student. He was her doctoral committee chairman.”

“How do you know that?”

“Sources. C’mon, Dr. Delaware, stop being coy. You’re a graduate of the same program. You knew her, so chances are you knew him, too, right?”

“Very thorough.”

“Just doing the job. Now could you please talk to me? I’m not giving up on this story.”

I wondered how much she actually knew and what to do with her.

“Want some coffee?” I said.

“Do you have tea?”

Once inside the house, she said, “Camomile, if you’ve got it,” and immediately began inspecting the decor. “Nice. Very L.A.”

“Thanks.”

Her gaze shifted to the pile of papers and unopened mail on the table and she sniffed. I realized the place had taken on a stale, unlived-in smell.

“Live alone?” she asked.

“For the moment.” I went into the kitchen and stashed my research materials in a cupboard, fixed her a cup of tea and myself a cup of instant coffee, put all of it on a tray with cream and sugar, and brought it into the living room. She was half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa. I sat down facing her.

“Actually,” I said, “I was off campus by the time Dr. Kruse came to the University. I graduated the year before.”

“Two months before,” she said. “June of ’74. I found your dissertation too.” She flushed, realized she’d given away her “sources,” and tried to recover by looking stern. “I’m still willing to bet you knew him.”

“Have you read the Ransom dissertation?”

“Skimmed it.”

“What was it about?”

She bobbed her tea bag, watched the water in her cup darken. “Why don’t you answer some of my questions before I answer yours?”

I thought of the way the Kruses had looked in death. Lourdes Escobar. D.J. Rasmussen. Bodies piling up. Big-money connections. Grease the skids.

“Ms. Bannon, it’s not in your best interests to pursue this case.”

She put the cup down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Asking the wrong questions could be dangerous.”

“Oh, wow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t believe this. Sexist protectionism?”

“Sexism has nothing to do with it. How old are you?”

“That’s not relevant!”

“But it is, in terms of experience.”

“Dr. Delaware,” she said, standing, “if all you’re going to do is patronize me, I’m out of here.”

I waited.

She sat. “For your information, I’ve worked as a reporter for four years.”

“On your college paper?”

She flushed, deeper this time. Bye-bye, freckles. “I’ll have you know the college beat had plenty of tough stories. Because of one of my investigations, two bookstore clerks were fired for embezzling.”

“Congratulations. But we’re talking about a whole other level now. It wouldn’t do to have you sent home to Boston in a box.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, but there was fear in her eyes. She masked it with indignation. “I guess I was wrong about you.”

“Guess so.”

She walked to the door. Stopped and said, “This is rotten, but no matter.”

Primed for action. All I’d done was whet her appetite.

I said, “You may be right- about there being a connection between the deaths. But at this point all I’ve got is guesses- nothing worth discussing.”

“Guesses? You’ve been snooping yourself! Why?”

“That’s personal.”

“Were you in love with her?”