Bad Love (49 page)

Wrinkled forehead. “You spoke to Harrison? Maybe I’ll visit him after all.”

A sick feeling flooded me. “He doesn’t know anyth—”

“Don’t fret, fool, I’m fair, always have been. I gave all of you the same chance I gave Harrison. But the rest of you flunked.”

“You never called me,” I said.

Smile. “November thirtieth, nineteen seventy-nine. Two p.m. I have a written record of it. Your snotty secretary insisted you only treated children and couldn’t see me.”

“She wasn’t supposed to screen — I never knew.”

“That’s an
excuse
? When the troops fuck up, the general’s culpable. And it was a chance you didn’t even deserve — a lot more than I got, or Delmar, or any of the other
loved
ones. You muffed it, bro.”

“But Rosenblatt,” I said. “He
did
see you.”

“He was the
biggest
hypocrite. Pretending to understand — the soft voice, the phony
empathy
. Then he revealed his true colors. Quizzing me, trying to get into
my
head.” Coburg put on an unctuous look: “ ’I’m hearing a lot of pain . . . one thing you might consider is talking about this more.’ ” Fury compressed the light brown eyes. “The phony bastard wanted to give me
psychoanalysis
to deal with my
conflicts
. Hundred-buck-an-hour
couch work
as a cure for political oppression because he couldn’t accept the fact that he’d worshiped Hitler. He sat there and
pretended
to hear, but he didn’t believe me. Just wanted to mess with my head — the worst one of all, bye-bye birdie.”

He made a shoving motion with his free hand and smiled.

I said, “How’d you get him to see you outside his office?”

“I told him I was bedridden. Crippled by something Hitler had done.
That
piqued his interest, he came right over that evening, with his kind looks and his beard and his bad tweed suit — it was hot but he needed his little shrink costume. The whole time he was there, I stayed in bed. The second time, also. I had him bring me a drink . . . serving
me
. It was a really muggy day, the window was
wide
open for air. Tissue box on the ledge — karma. I pretended to sneeze and asked him to get me a tissue.” Shove. “Fly away, hypocrite bird.”

Other people’s houses. A financial man . . 
. A farm in Connecticut. Did that mean an apartment in New York City?
And her such an educated woman
.

She a lawyer, he a banker.

I said, “The apartment belonged to your mother and stepfather.”

He shook his head joyfully. “Clever little Alex. Mrs. Lyndon would be so proud. . . . Mummy and Evil were in Europe, so I decided to crash at the old homestead. Rosenblatt’s office two blocks away . . . karma. Eight floors up, have a nice flight.”

Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad. Cold people, Shirley Rosenblatt had said. Unwilling to let a private investigator search their place. Guarding more than privacy? How much had they known?

“You left burglar tools behind,” I said. “Did you need them to get in, or were you just setting it up as another East Side burglary?”

He tried to mask his surprise with a slow, languid smile. “My, my, we
have
been busy. No, I had a key. One keeps looking for home sweet home. The big Brady Bunch in the sky . . .”

“Stoumen and Lerner,” I said. “Did they meet with you?”

“No,” he said, suddenly angry again. “Stoumen’s excuse was that he was retired. Another flunky shutting me out, did I want to speak to the doctor on call — you people really don’t know how to delegate authority properly. And Lerner made an appointment but didn’t show up, the rude bastard.”

The unreliability Harrison had spoken of:
it had affected his work — missed appointments
.

“So you tracked them down at conferences — how’d you get hold of the membership lists?”

“Some of us are thorough — Mrs. Lyndon would have liked me, too — what a kindly old bag, all that midwestern salt-of-the-earth friendliness. Research is
such
fun, maybe I’ll visit
her
in person someday.”

“Did Meredith help you get the lists?” I said. “Was she doing publicity for the conventions?”

Pursed lips. Tense brow. The hand wavered. “Meredith . . . ah, yes, dear
Meredith
. She’s been a great help — now, stop asking stupid questions and get down on your knees — keep those hands up — keep them up!”

Moving as slowly as I could, I got off the couch and kneeled, trying to keep a fix on the gun.

Silence, then another impact that shook the glass.

“The dog’s definitely chops and steaks,” he said.

The gun touched the crown of my head. He ruffled my hair with the barrel and I knew he was remembering.

The weapon pressed down on me, harder, as if boring into my skull. All I could see were his shoes, the bottoms of his jeans. A grout seam between two marble tiles.

“Say you’re sorry,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“Louder.”

“Sorry.”

“Personalize it — “I’m sorry, Andrew.’ ”

“I’m sorry, Andrew.”

“More sincerity.”

“I’m sorry, Andrew.”

He made me repeat it six times, then he sighed. “I guess that’s as good as it’s going to get. How are you feeling right now?”

“I’ve been better.”

Chuckle. “I’ll bet you have — stand up slowly
— slowly
. Slo-o-o-wly. Keep those hands up — hands on head — Simon says.”

He stepped back, the gun trained on my head. Behind me was the couch. Chairs all around. An upholstered prison, nowhere to go . . . a run for it would be suicide, leaving Robin to deal with his frustration. . . .

The dog throwing himself, harder . . .

I was upright now. He stepped closer. We came face-to-face. Licorice and rage, lowering the gun and pushing it against my navel. Then up at my throat. Then down again.

Playing.

Choreography.

“I see it,” he said. “Behind your eyes — the fear — you
know
where you’re going, don’t you?”

I said nothing.

“Don’t you?”

“Where am I going?”

“Straight to hell. One-way ticket.”

The gun nudged my groin. Moved up to my throat again. Pressed against my heart. Back down to my crotch.

Taking on a rhythm — the musician in him . . . moving his hips.

I was altered . . .

Groin. Heart. Groin.

He poked my crotch and laughed. When he raised the gun again, I exploded, chopping the gun wrist with my right hand as I stabbed at his eye with the stiffened fingertips of my left.

The gun fired as he lost balance.

He landed on his side, the gun still laced between his fingers. I stomped on his wrist. His free hand was clamped over his face. When he pulled it free and grabbed at my leg, his eye was shut, bleeding.

I stomped again and again. He roared with pain. The gun hand was limp, but the weapon remained entangled. He struggled to lift it and aim. I dropped my knee full force on his arm, got hold of the hand, tugging, twisting, finally freeing the automatic.

My turn to aim. My hands were numb. I had trouble bending my fingers around the trigger. He slid across the carpet on his back, kicking out randomly, holding his eye. Blood ran over his hand. His escape was blocked by a sofa. Flailing and kicking — he looked at me.

No
— behind
me.

He screamed, “Do it!” as I ducked and wheeled, facing the hallway.

The smaller gun in my face. A woman’s hand behind it. Red nails. Coburg shouting, “Do it! Do it! Do it!” Starting to get up.

I dropped to the floor just as the little gun went off.

More gunshots. Hollow pops, softer than the black pistol’s thunder.

Coburg on me. We rolled. I struck out with the black gun and caught the side of his head. He fell back, soundlessly, landed on his back. Not moving.

Where was the silver gun? Arcing toward me again from across the room. Two red-nailed hands starting to squeeze.

I dove behind the couch.

Pop! The fabric puckered and gobbets of stuffing flew inches from my face.

I pressed myself flush to the marble.

Pop! Pop, pop!

Heavy breathing — gasping — but whose I couldn’t tell.

Pop!

A dull noise from my back, then the windchime song of shattered glass. Scampering feet.

A small, black blur raced past me toward Meredith.

Hooking my arm around the couch, I fired the big black automatic blindly, trying to aim well above dog level. The recoil drove me backward. Something crashed.

Barks and growls and female screams.

I scuttled to the opposite side of the couch, squeezed the trigger, waited for return fire.

More screams. Footsteps. Human. Getting distant.

I hazarded a look around the couch, saw her heading for the front door, silver gun dangling like a purse.

Coburg still down.

Where was the dog?

Meredith was almost at the door now. The bolt was thrown — she was having trouble with it.

I rushed her, pointing the black gun, feeling the trigger’s heavy action start to give.

Swift justice.

Screaming “Stop!” I fired into a wall.

She obeyed. Held onto the silver gun.

“Drop it, drop it!”

The gun fell to the floor and skidded away.

She said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to — he made me.”

“Turn around.”

She did. I yanked off her mask.

Her face was trembling, but she tossed her hair in a gesture more suited for a teenager.

Blond hair.

My hand was still compressing the trigger. I forced myself not to move.

Jean Jeffers said, “He made me,” and glanced at Coburg. He remained openmouthed and inert, and her eyes died. She tried tears.

“You rescued me,” she said. “Thanks.”

“What’d you do with Robin?”

“She’s fine — I promise. She’s in there — go see.”

“Step out in front of me.”

“Sure, but this is silly, Alex. He made me — he’s crazy — we’re on the same side, Alex.”

Another look at Coburg.

His chest wasn’t moving.

Keeping the black gun on Jeffers, I stooped and pocketed the silver one. Maintaining a clear view of her, I managed to pull a large, upholstered chair over the bottom half of Coburg’s body. Not worth much, but it would have to do for the moment.

I walked Jeffers back to the bedroom. The door was closed. The dog stood on his hind legs, scratching at it, gouging the paint. An acetone stink came from the other side. Familiar . . .

“Open it,” I said.

She did.

Robin was spreadeagled on the bed, hands and feet tied to the posts with nylon fishing line, duct tape over her mouth, a bandana over her eyes. On the nightstand were the spool of line, scissors, nail polish, a box of tissues, and Robin’s manicure set.

Nail polish remover — the acetone.

A used emery board. Jeffers had passed the time by doing her nails.

She said, “Let me free her, right now.”

I pocketed the scissors and let her, using her hands. She worked clumsily, the dog up on the bed, growling at her, circling Robin, licking Robin’s face. Specks of blood dappled his fur. Diamond glints of broken glass . . . Robin sat up and rubbed her wrists and looked at me, stunned.

I motioned her off the bed and gave her the silver gun. Shoved Jeffers down on it, belly down, hands behind her back.

“Did she hurt you?” I said.

Jeffers said, “Of course I didn’t.”

Robin shook her head.

Jeffers’ red nails were so fresh they still looked wet.

She said, “Can we please—”

Robin tied her up quickly. Then we returned to the living room. Coburg’s head where I’d hit him was huge, soft, eggplant-purple. He was starting to move a bit but hadn’t regained consciousness.

Robin trussed him expertly, those good, strong hands.

The dog was at my feet, panting. I got down and inspected him. He licked my hands. Licked the gun.

Superficial cuts, no sign he was suffering. Robin picked the glass out of his fur and lifted him, kissing him, cradling him like a baby.

I picked up the phone.

Three days later, I waited for Milo at a place named Angela’s, across the street from the West L.A. stationhouse. The front was a coffee shop. In back was a cocktail lounge where detectives, lawyers, bailbondsmen, and felons drank and worked on their lung tumors.

I took a booth at the rear of the lounge, drinking coffee and trying to concentrate on the morning paper. Nothing yet on the “bad love” murders, orders of the brass till it got sorted out. Coburg was in the hospital, and Milo had been virtually sequestered with Jean Jeffers at the county jail.

When he showed up, fifteen minutes late, a woman was with him, thirties, black. The two of them stood in the doorway of the lounge, outlined by hazy gray light.

Adeline Potthurst, the social worker I’d seen on film, Dorsey Hewitt’s knife up against her throat.

She looked older and heavier. A big white purse was clutched in front of her, like a fig leaf.

Milo said something to her. She glanced over at me and replied. A bit more conversation, then they shook hands and she left.

He came over and slid into the booth. “Remember her? She’s talking to me.”

“She have anything interesting to say?”

He smiled, lit up a cigar, and added to the pollution. “Oh, yeah.”

Before he could elaborate, a waitress arrived and took his Diet Coke order.

When she left, he said, “Lots happening. I’ve got New York records placing Coburg in Manhattan during all the East Side break-ins up till the day after Rosenblatt’s death: busted for shoplifting, he was arrested in Times Square two days before the first burglary, went to court the day he shoved Rosenblatt out the window, but his attorney got a continuance. Records listed his address as some dive near Times Square.”

“So he celebrated with murder.”

He nodded grimly. “Jivin’ Jean finally opened up — her attorney convinced her to sell out Coburg for a reduced plea to accessory. Names, dates, places, she’s puttin’ on a good show.”