Bad Love (42 page)

Lack of coverage still didn’t mean Rosenblatt’s killer had committed the earlier break-ins. Local residents might be aware of the burglaries, and a local could know who was on vacation and for how long. But the idea of a 19th Precinct resident owning burglary tools and robbing from his neighbors seemed less than likely. So Mr. Silk probably had burgled before. Ritualistically.

The same attempt to use what was at hand, to master and dominate the victim.

Bad love.

Myra Evans Paprock.

Rodney Shipler.

Katarina.

Only at those three scenes had the words been left behind.

Three bloody, undisguised murders. No attempt made to present them as anything else.

Stoumen, Lerner, and Rosenblatt, on the other hand, had been dispatched as phony accidents.

Two classes of victims . . . two kinds of revenge?

Butchery for the laypeople, falls for the therapists.

But
Katarina
had been a therapist . . .

Then I realized that at the time of Mr. Silk’s trauma — sometime before seventy-nine, probably closer to seventy-three, the year Delmar Parker had gone off the mountain — she hadn’t yet graduated. In her early twenties, still a grad student.

Two patterns . . . part of some elaborate rage-lust fantasy that a sane mind could never hope to understand?

And where did Becky Basille fit in?

Two killers . . .

I remembered the clean, bustling street where Harvey Rosenblatt had landed: French restaurants, flower boxes, and limos.

How long had it taken the poor man to realize what the swift, sharp shove at the small of his back meant?

I hoped he hadn’t. Hoped, against logic, that he’d felt nothing but the Icarus-pleasure of pure flight.

A fall, always a fall.

Delmar Parker. Had to be.

Avenging an abused child?

Surely if de Bosch had been abusive, someone would remember.

Why hadn’t anyone spoken out after all these years?

But no big puzzle there: without proof, who would believe them? And why rake up the dirt around a dead man’s grave if it meant stirring up one’s own childhood demons?

Still,
someone
had to know what happened to the boy in the stolen truck, and why it had set off a killer.

I sat there for a long time, staring at tiny, microfilmed words.

Corrective School alumni . . . how to get hold of them. Then I thought of one. Someone I’d never met, a name I’d never even learned.

A problem child whose treatment had given Katarina the leash to put around my neck.

I returned the microfilm spools and rushed to the pay phones in the library’s lobby, trying to figure out who to call.

Western Pediatric, the late seventies . . .

The hospital had undergone a massive financial and professional overhaul during the past year. So many people gone.

But one notable one had returned.

Reuben Eagle had been chief resident when I’d started as a staff psychologist. He’d taken a professorship at the U’s med school, a gifted teacher, specializing in medical education. The new Western Peds board had just wooed him back as general pediatrics division head. I’d just seen his picture in the hospital newsletter: the same tortoiseshell spectacles, the light brown hair thinner, grayer, the lean, ruddy outdoorsman’s face adorned by a trimmed, graying beard.

His secretary said he was out on the wards and I asked her to page him. He answered a few moments later, saying, “Rube Eagle,” in a soft, pleasant voice.

“Rube, it’s Alex Delaware.”

“Alex — wow, this is a surprise.”

“How’re things going?”

“Not bad, how about you?”

“Hanging in. Listen, Rube, I need a small favor. I’m trying to locate one of Henry Bork’s daughters and I was wondering if you had any idea how to reach her.”

“Which daughter? Henry and Mo had a bunch — three or four, I think.”

“The youngest. She had learning problems, was sent to a remedial school in Santa Barbara around seventy-six or seventy-seven. She’d be around twenty-eight or twenty-nine now.”

“That would have to be Meredith,” he said. “
Her
I remember because one year Henry had the interns’ party at his house and she was there — very good-looking, a real flirt. I thought she was older and ended up talking to her. Then someone warned me and I split fast.”

“Warned you about her age?”

“That and her problems. Supposedly a wild kid. I remember hearing something about institutionalization. Apparently she really put Henry and Mo through it — did you know he died?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Ben Wardley, too. And Milt Chenier . . . how come you’re looking for Meredith?”

“Long story, Rube. It has to do with the school she was sent to.”

“What about it?”

“Things may have happened there.”

“Happened?
Another
mess?” He sounded more sad than surprised.

“It’s possible.”

“Anything I should know about?”

“Not unless you had something to do with the school — the Corrective School, founded by a psychologist named Andres de Bosch.”

“Nope,” he said. “Well, I hope you clear it up. And as far as Meredith’s concerned, I think she still lives in L.A. Something to do with the film business.”

“Is her name still Bork?”

“Hmm, don’t know — if you’d like I can call Mo and find out. She’s still pretty involved with the hospital — I can tell her I’m putting a mailing list together or something.”

“I’d really appreciate that, Rube.”

“Stay on the line, I’ll see if I can get her.”

I waited for fifteen minutes with the speaker to my mouth. Pretending to look busy each time someone came by to use the phone. Finally, Rube came back on the line.

“Alex?”

“Still here.”

“Yes, Meredith’s in L.A. She has her own public relations firm. I don’t know if she ever married, but she still goes by Bork.”

He gave me the address and phone number and I thanked him again.

“Sure bet . . . another mess. Too bad. How’d you get involved, Alex? Through a patient?”

“No,” I said. “Someone sent me a message.”

Bork and Hoffman Public Relations, 8845 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 304.

The eastern edge of Beverly Hills. A five-minute ride from the library.

The receptionist said, “Ms. Bork is on another line.”

“I’ll hold.”

“And what was the name again?”

“Dr. Alex Delaware. I worked with her father at Western Pediatric Medical Center.”

“One moment, sir.”

A few minutes later: “Sir? Ms. Bork will be right with you.”

Then, a smoky female voice: “Meredith Bork.”

I introduced myself.

She said, “I specialize in the entertainment industries, doctor — movies, theater. We do a few doctors when they write books. Have you written a book?”

“No—”

“Just want to beef up your practice, a little press exposure? Good idea in today’s economy, but it’s not our thing. Sorry. I’ll be happy to give you the name of someone who does medical publicity, though—”

“Thanks, but I’m not looking for a publicist.”

“Oh?”

“Ms. Bork, I’m sorry to bother you, but what I’m after is some information about Andres de Bosch and the Corrective School, in Santa Barbara.”

Silence.

“Ms. Bork?”

“This is for
real
?”

“Some suspicions have come up about mistreatment at the school. Things that happened during the early seventies. An accident involving a boy named Delmar Parker.”

No answer.

“May, nineteen seventy-three,” I said. “Delmar Parker went off a mountain road and died. Do you remember hearing anything about him? Or anything about mistreatment?”

“This is too much,” she said. “Why the fuck is this any of
your
business?”

“I work as a consultant to the police.”

“The
police
are investigating the school?”

“They’re doing a preliminary investigation.”

Harsh laughter. “You’re putting me on.”

“No.” I gave her Milo as a reference.

She said, “Okay, so? What makes you think I even went to this school?”

“I worked at Western Pediatric Medical Center when your father was chief of staff and—”

“Word got around. Oh, I’ll just bet it did. Jesus.”

“Ms. Bork, I’m really sorry—”

“I’ll just bet it did . . . the Corrective School.” Another angry laugh. “Finally.”

Silence.

“After all these years. What a trip . . . the Corrective School. For bad little children in need of correction. Yeah, I was corrected, all right. I was corrected up the ying-yang.”

“Were you mistreated?”

“Mistreated?” Peals of laughter so loud I backed away from the receiver. “How delicately put, doctor. Are you a delicate man? One of those sensitive guys really tuned in to people’s feelings?”

“I try.”

“Well, goody for you — I’m sorry, this
is
serious, isn’t it. My problem — always was. Not taking things seriously. Not being
mature
. Being mature’s a drag, isn’t it, doc? I fucking refuse. That’s why I work in entertainment. Nobody in entertainment’s grown up. Why do
you
do what
you
do?”

“Fame and fortune,” I said.

She laughed, harder and louder. “Psychologists, psychiatrists, I’ve known a shitload of them . . . how do I know you’re for real — hey, this isn’t some gag, is it? Did
Ron
put you up to this?”

“Who’s Ron?”

“Another sensitive guy.”

“Don’t know him.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’d be happy to show you credentials.”

“Sure, slip them through the phone.”

“Want me to fax them?”

“Nah . . . what’s the diff? So what do you really want?”

“Just to talk to you a bit about the school.”

“Good old school. School days, cruel days . . . hold on . . .” Click. Silence. Click. “Where are you calling from?”

“Not far from your office.”

“What, the pay phone downstairs, like in the movies?”

“Mile away. I can be there in five minutes.”

“How convenient. No, I don’t want to bring my personal shit into the office. Meet me at Cafe Mocha in an hour, or forget it. Know where it is?”

“No.”

“Wilshire near Crescent Heights. Tacky little strip mall on the . . . southeast corner. Great coffee, people pretending to be
artistes
. I’ll be in a booth near the back. If you’re late, I won’t wait around.”

The restaurant was a narrow storefront blocked by blue gingham curtains. Pine tables and booths, half of them empty. Sacks of coffee stood on the floor near the entrance, listing like melting snowmen. A few desperate-looking types sat far from one another, poring over screenplays.

Meredith Bork was in the last booth, her back to the wall, a mug in her left hand. A big, beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting high and straight. The moment I walked in, her eyes were on me and they didn’t waver as I approached.

Her hair was true black and shiny, brushed straight back from her head and worn loose around her shoulders. Her face was olive tinted like Robin’s, just a bit rounder than oval, with wide, full lips, a straight, narrow nose, and a perfect chin. Perfect cheekbones, too, below huge gray-blue eyes. Silver-blue nail polish to match her silk blouse. Two buttons undone, freckled chest, an inch of cleavage. Strong, square shoulders, lots of bracelets around surprisingly slender wrists. Lots of gold, all over. Even in the weak light, she sparkled.

She said, “Great. You’re cute. I allow you to sit.”

She put the mug down next to a plate bearing an oversized muffin.

“Fiber,” she said. “The religion of the nineties.”

A waitress came over and informed me the coffee of the day was Ethiopian. I said that was fine and received my own mug.

“Ethiopian,” said Meredith Bork. “They’re starving over there, aren’t they? But they’re exporting designer beans? Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“Someone always does okay,” I said. “No matter how bad things get.”

“How true, how true.” She smiled. “I like this guy. Perfect mixture of sincerity and cynicism.
Lots
of women love it, right? You probably use it to get laid, then get bored and leave them weeping, right?”

I laughed involuntarily. “No.”

“No, you don’t get
laid
, or no, you don’t get
bored
?”

“No, I’m not into conning women.”

“Gay?”

“No.”

“What’s your problem, then?”

“Are we discussing that?”

“Why not?” Giant smile. Capped teeth. “You want to discuss
my
problems, jocko, fair is fair.”

I raised my cup to my lips.

“How’s the java?” she said. “Those starving Ethiopians know how to grow ’em?”

“Very good.”

“I’m
so
veddy glad. Mine’s Colombian. My regular fix. I keep hoping there’ll be a packaging error and I’ll get a little snort mixed in with the grind.”

She rubbed her nose and winked, leaned forward, and showed more chest. A black lace bra cut into soft, freckled flesh. She wore a perfume I’d never smelled before. Lots of grass, lots of flowers, a bit of her own perspiration.

She giggled. “No, I’m just joshing you, Mr. — sorry,
Doctor
No Con. I know how touchy you healer types are about that. Daddy always had a
bovine
when someone called him mister.”

“Alex is fine.”

“Alex. The Great.
Are
you great? Wanna
fuck and suck
?”

Before my mouth could close, she said, “But seriously, folks.”

Her smile was still on high beam and her breasts were still pushing forward. But she’d reddened and the muscles beneath one of the lovely cheekbones were twitching.

She said, “What a tasteless thing to say, right? Stupid, too, in the virus era. So let’s forget about stripping off my
clothes
and concentrate on stripping my
psyche
, right?”

“Meredith—”

“That’s the name, don’t wear it out.” Her hand brushed against the mug and a few droplets of coffee spilled on the table.