limbs of the sturdier trees.
Inside, things would be less cheerful. Drunks screaming with the D.T.’s would be locked away in rooms with padded walls; the elderly would be treated like children; schizoids would be locked away in padded rooms or strapped to beds chained to the floor. I knew about institutions like Shuler’s and about dementia.
“Make like you’re drunk, but don’t make a lot of noise,” I said.
We walked up the steps to the main office. Old memories flashed back and my stomach cramped as I entered the place.
A smallish, trim woman in a gray gabardine suit came out of an office as I entered the foyer. She had a stern face and her blue-white hair was mannishly cut in a short bob. She wore round glasses, her suspicious eyes framed in gold. She was followed by a surly hunk of a man in his late twenties, his body apparently molded by barbells. He was wearing a white nurse’s uniform.
“Mrs. Fisher? I’m Tyler Marchand. We just spoke on the phone.”
Ski staggered past them into the office, dropped heavily in a chair, closed his eyes, and started humming to himself.
I looked at the hulk and back at her.
“Can we go in your office and talk?”
Randy stood stiffly, arms hanging loosely at his sides.
“It’s alright, Randy, finish your rounds,” she said officiously, without looking at him.
“You sure? The lush is a big one.”
“He won’t cause you any trouble,” I said. “He’s a pussycat.”
“Go on,” she said, and Randy left. I followed Ione Fisher into her office.
“So you’re Mr. Marchand?” she said with a snap in her tone.
“Yes,” I said. “You’ll have to forgive Raymond, my brother; he forgets his manners when he’s under the weather.”
Ski let his arms fall loosely, his mouth fell open, and he was still as a pillow.
Her office was pleasant, considering where we were. There was a vase of flowers on her desk and polka-dot curtains dressed the windows. I strolled over to the window facing the rear of the compound and looked the place over. The road made a wide arc around the rear grounds. In the center of the arc was a large, three-story building. There were no windows on the first floor; small, slitted oblongs of light every four or five feet on the second. The third floor looked like it belonged to a hotel. Sliding glass doors opened onto small balconies on the three sides I could see. I watched an elevator climb up one corner of the structure.
A muffled, inhuman cry echoed from one of the lower floors; a moment later I heard the sharp crack of a leather strap and the cry became a barely audible moan. Then the quad fell silent again.
“Seems pleasant enough,” I said, and turned back to Nurse Fisher.
She sat down behind her desk and folded her hands on its top.
“How long has he been drinking?” she asked.
“About twenty years.”
“No, no, I mean this time,” she said, her frown deepening.
“Oh, let’s see, it was Mother’s birthday… sixteen days.” I changed the subject. “Your place is quite impressive,” I said. “These towered rooms on the floors above, is one of them available? I want Raymond to be as comfortable as possible.”
“The tower suites are reserved for special visitors.”
“Is that right. How does one become a special visitor?”
“Get elected to the board of directors,” she said. “Have a seat, Mr. Marchand. I’ll have to take down some information before we even consider accepting your brother.”
“Thank you.”
Before she went any further, a phone rang in the outer office.
“Excuse me, my secretary left an hour ago,” she said, and went into the office and closed the door. I got up and looked out the front window. No cars. So far, so good.
She was gone about two minutes. When she came back, her expression had changed from stern to angry.
“Guess what?” she said.
I raised my eyebrows.
“There aren’t any Marchands in Santa Maria,” she said smugly. “No Marchand Estates. Nobody up there ever heard of you. What’s your game, whoever you are?”
“You’re very good,” I said. I took out my wallet and showed her my badge.
“My name’s Bannon, Central Homicide, L.A. Police,” I said. “Raymond here is Detective Agassi, my partner.”
Ski opened his eyes and sat up in the chair with his hands on his knees and offered her a brief smile.
“What do you want?”
I put it to her bluntly. “When’s the last time you heard from Lila?”
She looked like I had thrown cold water in her face. The question stunned her and she just stared at me.
“Let me hit it from another angle,” I said. “Did your daughter come down here and hide out with you after the Riker trial?”
She got control of herself.
“You better get out of here before…” She hesitated.
“Before what? Your sadistic flunky Randy comes back?”
Her face was white. “I haven’t seen or heard from Lila in over twenty years,” she whispered. “She left me when I married Ollie Fisher. She hated him. Look, people here at the Institute don’t know about Lila. Nobody at this hospital was even here when it happened. Now please leave.”
Her face tightened and fear began to take the place of anger.
“Be straight with me,” I said. “Have you been in touch with Lila at all since Arnie Riker’s murder trial?”
She lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. “I told you, she walked out of my life when she was fourteen.”
“Never written? No phone calls?”
She shook her head.
“In all these years, she’s never been in touch with you? No Christmas cards, birthday cards…?”
Her eyes widened. “NO!” She looked toward the front window and back at me. Ski walked over to the window and stared down the road.
“Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me?”
“A woman was murdered down in Los Angeles a few days ago. We can’t track her back beyond 1924. Somebody was paying her five hundred dollars a month for all these years, and we think the dead woman may have been Lila.”
She stared at me and tears welled up in her eyes.
“Sergeant…?”
“Bannon.”
“Sergeant Bannon, why would you think that?”
“The dead woman showed up in L.A. in 1924-with no past.”
“For the last twenty years I have lived each day hoping I would hear her voice. Or get a card. Any thing to let me know she’s alive. She was my only child. Do you have any children?”
I shook my head.
“Can you understand what that was like?”
“Yes, I can, and I’m sorry I have to bring it up,” I said. “Do you have any pictures of Lila, even from when she was a child?”
She slowly shook her head.
“I couldn’t afford to keep them,” she said. “I was going to quit here and leave when she testified at Riker’s trial but nobody cared about me.” She hesitated for a moment and then said, “This girl who was murdered, why do you think it may have been Lila?”
“It’s the only lead we have right now that makes sense.”
