I stopped at a place on Santa Monica near Bundy. Scrawled the possibilities as I saw them on a napkin and slid it across the table as Milo returned from making some calls.
“It’s that last one I love.” Milo waved for the waitress, ordered pecan pie a la mode. Finishing most of the wedge in three gulps, he nibbled the rest with excruciating care, as if that proved self-restraint.
“I called Michaela’s mother again, it was all about her, big time woe-is-me. Too sick to come out to claim the body. The way she was gasping I figure it’s probably true.”
I summarized Michaela’s account of her childhood.
“Ugly duckling?” he said. “Every gorgeous girl says that…what that Jewish lady said, the lifestyle issue, maybe she had a point.”
“Michaela got caught up in the Hollywood thing.”
“You know what that does to the ninety-nine-point-nine percent who fall on their asses. The question is, did it snag her or was it just one of those bad-luck deals.”
“Like running into Peaty.”
He ate the last bit of pie, wiped his mouth, put way too much money on the table, and extricated himself from the booth. “Back to the salt mine. Lots of boring stuff to do.”
Boring was his code word for
That evening Michaela’s murder was the lead story on every local broadcast, blow-dried news readers half smiling as they intoned about the “shocking crime” and exhumed mock-solemn memories of Michaela and Dylan’s “publicity stunt.”
Dylan was cited as “a person of interest, not a suspect.” The implication was clear, as it always is when the police phrase it that way. I knew Milo hadn’t given them the quote. Probably some public relations officer, issuing yet another boilerplate release.
Next morning’s paper ran a page-three story with five times the ink space the hoax had merited, graced by two pictures of Michaela: a sultry, airbrushed head-shot taken by a photographer who churned them out for Hollywood hopefuls, and her LAPD booking photo. I wondered if either or both would resurface in the tabloids or on the Internet.
One way to get famous is to die the wrong way.
I didn’t hear from Milo that day, figured the tips would be pouring in and he’d either learn a lot or nothing. I filled my time polishing up reports, thought about getting a dog, took a new referral from an attorney named Erica Weiss.
Weiss had filed suit against a Santa Monica psychologist named Patrick Hauser for molesting three female patients who’d attended his encounter groups. Chances were it would settle and there’d be no court appearance. I negotiated a high hourly fee and felt pretty good about the deal.
I looked up Hauser’s office address. Santa Monica and Seventh. Allison also practiced in Santa Monica, a few miles away on Montana. I wondered if she knew Hauser, thought about calling her. Figured she might see it as an excuse to get in touch and decided against it.
At a quarter to six, when she was likely to be between patients, I changed my mind. Her private line was still on speed dial.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Hi,” she said. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine. You?”
“Fine…I was about to say, ‘How’ve you been, handsome.’ Got to watch those little slips.”
“All compliments will be received with gratitude, oh Gorgeous One.”
“Listen to this smarmy mutual admiration society.”
“If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”
Silence.
I said, “I’m actually calling on a professional matter, Ali. Do you know an esteemed colleague named Patrick Hauser?”
“I’ve seen him at a few meetings. Why?”
I told her.
She said, “I guess I’m not surprised. Rumor has it he drinks. An encounter group, huh? That does surprise me.”
“Why?”
“He seems more the corporate consultant type. How many patients are we talking about?”
“Three.”
“That’s pretty damning.”
“Hauser claims it’s a group delusion. There’s no physical evidence, so it boils down to a he said/they said. The State Board’s been sitting on it for months, still hasn’t handed down a disposition. The women got impatient and contacted a lawyer.”
“All three have one lawyer?”
“They’re framing it as a mini-class action, hoping others will hear about it and come forward.”
“How’d they find out they’d had similar experiences with Hauser?”
“They hung around after session, went for drinks, it came out.”
“Not too smart of Hauser to put them in the same room.”
“Fondling patients is no act of genius.”
“So you think he did it.”
“I’m open-minded but all three were seeing Hauser for mild depression, nothing delusional.”
“Like I said, he’s known to imbibe. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Thanks…so how’s it been?”
“Life in general?” she said. “It’s been okay.”
“Want to join me for dinner?”
Where had
She didn’t answer.
I said, “Sorry. Rewind the tape.”
“No,” she said. “I’m thinking about the offer. When did you mean?”
“I’m open. Including tonight.”
“Hmm…I’ll be free in an hour, have to eat anyway. Where?”
“You name it.”
“How about that steak place?” she said. “The one where we met the first time.”
I asked for a booth away from the mahogany bar with its low-pitched alkie chatter and sports on TV. By the time Allison showed up ten minutes later, I’d finished my Chivas, was working on my second glass of water.
The restaurant was dim and she stood there for a few seconds letting her eyes adjust. Her long, black hair swung free and her ivory face was serious. I thought I saw tension around the shoulders.
She stepped forward, revealed color. An orange pantsuit hugged her trim little body. Tangerine-orange. With that hair of hers, Halloween Costume could’ve been a problem but she made it work.
She spotted me, strode forward on high heels. The usual adornments sparkled at earlobes, wrists, and neck. Gold and sapphire; the stones brought out the deep blue of her eyes and played off the orange. Her makeup was perfect and her nails were French-tipped. The smile that parted her lips was hard to read.
A substantive woman but she takes a long time getting herself together.
The kiss on my cheek was quick and cool. She slid into the booth, just close enough to make conversation
