Blood Test (20 page)

“I rarely do.”

Milo wasn’t available and the desk man at the station
wouldn’t tell me where he was so I asked for Delano Hardy, my friend’s
occasional partner, and was connected to him after being put on hold for ten
minutes. Hardy is a dapper, balding black man with an easy wit and a ready
smile. His skill with a rifle had once saved my life.

“Hey, Doc.”

“Hi, Del. I need to talk to Milo. The guy at the desk
was all hush-hush. Isn’t he back from La Vista?”

“He’s not back because he never went. Change of plans.
We’ve been working on a very hot case and a big break came through yesterday.”

“The stomach-shitter?”

“Yeah. We’ve got him cold and Milo and another guy
have been locked up with the prick all morning playing good-cop, bad-cop.”

“Congratulations on the bust. Could you give him a
message to call me when he’s free?”

“What’s the trouble?”

I told him.

“Hold on. Lemme see if he’s gonna break soon.”

He returned to the phone moments later.

“He said give him another half hour.

He’ll call you.”

“Thanks a lot, Del.”

“No sweat. By the way, I’m still digging that Strat.”

Hardy was a fellow guitarist, a first-rate musician
who gigged with an R & B group after hours. I’d bought him a vintage Fender
Stratocaster in gratitude for his marksmanship.

“Glad you’re enjoying it. Let’s jam again.”

“Absolutely. Come by the club and bring your axe.
Gotta go now.”

I called Helen and told her it would take time. She
sounded shaky so I talked her through it by getting her to tell me about her
work. When the chill came back into her voice I knew she’d be okay. At least
for a while.

Milo called an hour later.

“Can’t talk long, Alex. We’ve got the asshole nailed.
A Saudi Arabian student, related to the royal family. It’s gonna get hairy but
I’ll be damned if this one is gonna slither away on diplomatic immunity.”

“How’d you get him?”

“I wish I could say it was brilliant police work. He
attacked another woman and she had mace in her purse. Sprayed the fucker until
he shrieked, knee-dropped him, and called us. Little wisp of a thing, too,” he
added, with admiration. “We found articles belonging to the other victims in
his apartment. The guy shits his pants when he gets excited. It’s been a giggle
interrogating him. Only cheerful note is that his asshole lawyer has to sit
there and smell it, too.”

“Sounds like fun. Listen, if you can’t talk now—”

“It’s okay. I took a break. Gotta come up for air. Del
told me about the Cuban. I called Houten and he told me what happened. Seems
your friend is a hothead. Drove into town this morning like Gary Cooper before
the big showdown. Barged in on Houten, demanded he arrest the Touch people for
the murder of the Swopes, and claimed the boy and Nona were being held captive
at their place. Houten told him they’d already been questioned by him, that I
was planning to come down and do it again, and that the premises had been
thoroughly searched. Melendez-Lynch wouldn’t listen, got really abusive and
eventually Houten had to basically kick him out. He got in his car and drove
straight to the Retreat.”

I groaned.

“Wait, it gets better. Apparently they have big iron
gates at the front entrance that they keep locked. Melendez-Lynch drove up and
started screaming for them to let him in. A couple of them came out to calm him
down and it got physical. He absorbed most of the damage. They went back in, he
started up his car and rammed the gate. At that point they called Houten and he
busted Melendez-Lynch for disturbing the peace, malicious mischief, and who
knows what else. Houten said the guy seemed like a lunatic and he got to
wondering if we’d be interested in interviewing him. So he locked him up,
offered him an attorney, which he refused, and gave him the proverbial one
phone call.”

“Unbelievable.”

Milo laughed.

“Isn’t it? Between him and Valcroix and the stories
Rick tells me, I’m losing what little faith I had in modern medicine. I mean,
these guys are
not
confidence inspiring.”

“Maybe the Swopes didn’t think so either.”

“That’s right. If they saw the kind of flakiness we’ve
been uncovering I can understand them wanting out.”

“Not as far out as they got.”

“Yeah. Once we’re sure the Saudi’s off the streets
their case will be my number one problem. But it’s going to have to wait awhile
because if we don’t play close attention to Shitpants, he’ll weasel out and be
back in Riyadh before we know it.”

His words chilled me. Human life meant a lot to Milo,
and if he thought Woody and Nona were alive he’d find a way, Saudi or not, to
pursue their case aggressively.

I fought back my anger.

“When did you decide they were dead?”

“What?—Jesus, Alex, stop analyzing! I haven’t decided
a goddamn thing. I’ve got
platoons
going through the canyons, I check
the APB’s at least two, three times a day. So, it’s not like I’m sitting on my
ass. But the fact is I’ve got a suspect in custody in one case and zilch on the
other. Where would
you
put your priorities?”

“Sorry. I was way out of line. It’s just that it’s
hard to think of that little boy as beyond hope.”

“I know, pal.” His tone softened. “I’m on the rag,
too. Too much time spent with blood and crud. Just be careful you’re not
getting overinvolved. Again.”

Unconsciously, I fingered my jaw.

“Okay. Now what’s the story with Raoul? I need to tell
his girlfriend something.”

“No story. I told Houten we didn’t care if he let him
go. The guy may be whacko but right now he’s not a suspect. Houten says he
wants him escorted out of there. Melendez-Lynch hasn’t stopped ranting since
they locked him up, and they don’t want him causing trouble the minute they let
him out. If you think you can keep him calm, I’ll tell Houten to release him to
your custody. Your being a shrink would make it look better, too.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve seen Raoul pull tantrums
but never like this.”

“Up to you. Unless the guy calms down and agrees to
talk to a lawyer or someone comes to get him, he could be there for a while.”

If word got out about Melendez-Lynch’s incarceration,
his professional reputation would be compromised. I knew of no one close to him
except Helen Holroyd and she was definitely not up to the task of dragging him
away from La Vista.

“They’re calling me back, Alex,” Milo was saying, “gotta
hold my nose and jump into it.”

“All right. Call the sheriff. Tell him I’ll get down there
as soon as I can.”

“What a nice guy. Bye.”

I called Helen again and told her I’d secured the
release of the esteemed Dr. Melendez-Lynch. She thanked me effusively and was
starting to lapse into tears before I cut her off. For her own good.

THE S EVILLE glided onto the interstate shortly past
noon. The first half of the two-hour journey to La Vista was a southward slice
through the industrial underbelly of California. I sped past stockyards and
freight docks, mammoth auto dealerships, grimy warehouses, and factories
belching effluvia into a sky obscured by billboards. I kept the windows closed,
the air conditioning on, and Flora Purim on the tape deck.

At Irvine the terrain shifted suddenly to endless
expanses of green—fields of rich, dark soil stitched precisely with emerald
rows of tomatoes, peppers, strawberries, and corn, spasmodically bathed by
whirligig sprinklers. I opened the window and let in the good stench of manure.
A while later the highway edged closer to the ocean and the fields gave way to
the affluent suburbs of Orange County, then thinned to miles of empty scrub
enclosed by barbed chain-link fence—government land, rumored to harbor secret
nuclear testing plants.

Just past Oceanside, traffic going the other way
slowed to a crawl: the Border patrol had set up a spot check for illegal
aliens. Gray-uniformed officers in Smoky the Bear hats peered into each
vehicle, waving on the majority, pulling a few over for closer scrutiny. The
process had a ceremonial look to it, which was appropriate, for stemming the
tide of those yearning for the good life was as feasible as capturing the rain
in a thimble.

I exited a few miles later, heading east on a state
highway that slogged through blocks of fast-food joints and self-serve gas
stations before turning into two-lane blacktop.

The road rose, climbing toward mountains veiled by
lavender mist. Twenty minutes out of the junction and there wasn’t another
vehicle in sight. I passed a granite quarry where mantislike machines dipped
into the earth and brought up piles of rocks and dirt, a horse ranch, a field
of grazing Holsteins, then nothing. Dusty signs heralded the construction of “luxury
planned communities” and “townhomes,” but apart from one abandoned project—the
roofless remains of a warren of small houses crammed into a sun-baked gully—it
was empty, silent land.

As the altitude increased the scenery grew lush. Acres
of eucalyptus-shaded citrus groves and a mile of avocado preceded the
appearance of La Vista. The town sat in a valley at the foot of the mountains,
surrounded by forest, vaguely alpine. A wayward glance and I would have missed
it.

The main drag was Orange Avenue and a good part of it
was given over to a sprawling gravel yard filled with somnolent threshers,
tillers, bulldozers, and tractors. A long, low, glass-fronted structure
occupied one end of the yard and a worn wooden sign above the entrance
announced sales, rental, and repair of farm equipment and power tools.

The street was quiet and ribbed with diagonal parking
lines. Few of the spaces were occupied, those that were housed half-ton pickups
and old sedans. The posted speed limit was 15 m.p.h. I decelerated and coasted
past a dry-goods store, a market, an eight-dollar-a-visit chiropractor (“no
appointment necessary”), a barbershop complete with spinning pole, and a
windowless tavern named Erna’s.

City Hall was a two-story square of pink cinder block
midway through the town. A concrete walkway ran down the center of a
well-tended lawn, flanked by towering date palms, and leading to brass double
doors, propped open. Weathered brass rods bearing Old Glory and the flag of
California jutted out above the entrance.

I parked in front of the building, stepped out into
the dry heat, and walked to the door. A plaque commemorating La Vista’s World
War II dead and dated 1947 was inlaid in the block at eye level, just left of
the doorpost. I stepped into an entry hall containing a pair of slat-backed oak
benches and nothing else. I looked for a directory, saw none, heard the sound of
typing and walked toward it, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

There was a woman pecking at a Royal manual in a
stuffy room full of oak file cabinets. Both she and her machine were of antique
vintage. An electric fan perched atop one of the files spun and blew, causing
the ends of the woman’s hair to dance.

I cleared my throat. She looked up with alarm, then
smiled, and I asked her where the sheriff’s office could be found. She directed
me to a rear stairwell leading to the second floor.

At the top of the stairs was a tiny courtroom that
looked as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. The word SHERIFF had been
painted in glossy black on lime green plaster. Underneath it, was an arrow
pointing to the right.

La Vista law enforcement was headquartered in a small
dark room containing two wooden desks, an unmanned switchboard, and a silent
teletype machine. A map of the county covered one wall. Wanted posters and a
well-stocked gun rack rounded out the decor. At the center of the rear wall was
a metal door with a four inch wire-glass window.

The beige-uniformed man at one of the desks looked too
young to be a peace officer—pink chipmunk cheeks and guileless hazel eyes under
brown bangs. But he was the only one there and the nametag over his breast
pocket said Deputy W. Bragdon. He was reading a farm journal and when I
entered, looked up and gave me a cop’s stare: wary, analytic, and inherently
distrustful.

“I’m Dr. Delaware, come to pick up Dr. Melendez-Lynch.”

W. Bragdon stood, hitched up his holster, and
disappeared through the metal door. He returned with a man in his fifties who
could have stepped off a Remington canvas.

He was short and bow-legged, but broad shouldered and
rock-solid, and he walked with a hint of a bantam swagger. His razor-creased
trousers were of the same tan material as the deputy’s uniform, his shirt green
plaid and pearl buttoned. A crisp, wide-brimmed Stetson rested squarely atop
his long head. The suggestion of vanity was confirmed by his tailoring: the
shirt and slacks had been tapered to hug a trim physique.

The hair under the hat was dun and cropped close to
narrow temples. His facial features were prominent and somewhat avian. A thick
gray handlebar mustache flared under a strong beakish nose.

I was drawn to his hands, which were unusually thick
and large. One rested on the butt of a long-barreled Colt .45 nestling in a
hand-tooled holster, the other extended in a handshake.