Blood Test (26 page)

Richard Moody had ended his tormented life in a blaze
of twisted passion.

Milo whistled and told Hardy the Delaware-as-victim
scenario. Hardy found merit to it, which did nothing to improve my state of
mind.

They thanked me for the coffee and stood. Hardy left
the house and Milo lingered behind.

“You can stay here if you want,” he said, “because
most of the forensic work will go on outside. But if you want to go somewhere
else, that’s okay, too.” It was intended more as advice than the granting of
permission.

The glen was filled with blinking lights, footsteps,
and muted human conversation. Safe, for now. But the police wouldn’t be there
forever.

“I’ll move out for a couple of days.”

“If you wanna stay at my place, the offer’s still
open. Rick’ll be on call next couple days, it’ll be quiet.”

I thought for a moment.

“Thanks, but I really want to be alone.”

He said he understood, drained his coffee mug, and
came closer.

“I see that gleam in your eyes and it worries me, pal.”

“I’m fine.”

“So far. I’d like to see it stay that way.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Milo. Really.”

“It’s the kid, isn’t it? You haven’t let go of it.”

I was silent.

“Look, Alex, if what happened tonight has anything to
do with the Swopes, that’s all the more reason for you to stay out of it. I’m
not saying cut off your feelings, just cover your ass.”

He touched my bad jaw gently. “Last time you were
lucky. Don’t push it.”

I packed an overnight bag and drove around awhile
before deciding on the Bel-Air Hotel as a good place to recuperate. And hide.
It was just minutes away, quiet and secluded behind high stucco walls and
towering subtropical shrubbery. The ambience— pink exterior, forest green
interiors, swaying coconut palms, and a pond in which flamingos floated—had
always reminded me of the old mythical Hollywood—romance, sweet fantasy, and
happy endings. All of which seemed in short supply.

I headed west on Sunset, turned north at Stone Canyon
Road, and drove past immense gated estates until coming to the hotel’s
entrance. No one was parking cars at one forty in the morning; I slipped the
Seville between a Lamborghini and a Maserati and left it looking like a dowager
escorted by two gigolos.

The night clerk was a brooding Swede who didn’t look
up when I paid in advance with cash and registered as Carl Jung. Then I noticed
he’d recorded it as Karl Young.

A tired-looking bellman took me to a bungalow
overlooking a pool, which was lit up like an aquamarine. The room was
understated and comfortable, with a big soft bed and heavy dark forties
furniture.

I slid my body between cool sheets and remembered the
last time I’d been there: the previous July, on Robin’s twenty-eighth birthday.
We’d heard the philharmonic do Mozart at the Music Center and followed the
concert with a late supper at the Bel-Air.

The dining room had been dark and quiet, our booth
private and next to a picture window. Between the oysters and the veal a
stately older woman in a formal gown had glided regally across the palm court.

“Alex,” Robin had whispered, “look—no it couldn’t be…”

But it was. Bette Davis. We couldn’t have
custom-ordered it.

Thinking of that perfect night helped keep the
ghastliness of this quite imperfect one at bay.

* * *

I slept until eleven, dialed room service and ordered
fresh raspberries, an herb omelette, bran muffins, and coffee. The food came on
china and silver and was superb. I chased images of death from my mind and ate
heartily. Soon, I started to feel like a human being again.

I slept some more, woke, and called West L.A. Division
at two. Milo had flown to Washington so I checked in with Del Hardy. He
informed me that Conley was out as a suspect. While Moody was being blown
apart, he’d been on location in Saugus for a night shoot on a new TV series. I
took the news with equanimity, never having seen him as a calculating killer.
Besides, I’d already convinced myself I was the sniper’s intended victim.
Accepting the role didn’t make for tranquillity but at least I’d be vigilant.

I went for a swim at four, more for exercise than
pleasure, returned to my room, and called for the evening paper and a Grolsch.
The flu seemed to have surrendered. I sank into an armchair to read and drink.

The news of Valcroix’s death was a two-inch filler
piece on page twenty-eight entitled DOCTOR LOSES LIFE IN AUTO CRASH. From it I
learned the genre, if not the make, of the car the Canadian had driven (“foreign
compact”) before crashing it into an abutment near the Wilmington harbor. He’d
been pronounced dead at the scene and relatives in Montreal had been notified.

Wilmington is midway between L.A. and San Diego if you
take the coastal route, a drab section of warehouses and shipyards. I wondered
what he’d been doing there and which direction he’d been headed before the
collision. He’d visited La Vista before. Was he returning from there when he
crashed?

I thought of his boasts to Beverly about having an ace
up his sleeve with regard to the Swopes. More questions reverberated
relentlessly: was the crash an accident, the result of drug-numbed reflexes, or
had he tried to play that ace and lost his life in the process? And what was
the secret he’d considered his salvation? Could it solve the murder of the
Swopes? Or help locate their children?

I turned it over, again and again, until my head hurt,
sitting tensely on the edge of the chair, groping haphazardly like a blind man
in a maze.

It wasn’t until I realized what was missing that I was
able to focus on what had to be done. Had I looked at it
clinically
, as
a psychologist, clarity of purpose might have come sooner.

I’d been trained in the art of psychotherapy, the
excavation of the past as a means of untangling the present and rendering it
livable. It’s detective work of sorts, crouching stealthily in the blind alleys
of the unconscious. And it begins with the taking of a careful and detailed
history.

Four people had perished unnaturally. If their deaths
seemed a jumble of unrelated horrors, I knew it was because such a history was
missing. Because insufficient respect had been paid to the past.

That had to be remedied. It was more than an academic
exercise. There were lives at stake.

I refused to compute the odds on the Swope children
being alive. For the time being, it was sufficient that they were greater than
zero. I thought, for the hundredth time, of the boy in the plastic room,
helpless, dependent, potentially curable but harboring an internal time bomb…
He had to be found or he’d die in pain.

Seized with anger at my helplessness, I shifted from
altruism to self-preservation. Milo had urged me to be careful but sitting
still could be the most dangerous act of all.

Someone had hunted me. The news of my survival would
eventually emerge. The hunter would return to claim his prey, taking his time
so as to do it right. I wouldn’t, couldn’t play that waiting game, living like
a man on death row.

There was work to be done. Exploration. Exhumation.

The compass pointed south.

TO TRUST someone is to take the greatest risk of all.
Without trust nothing ever happens.

The issue, at this juncture, wasn’t whether or not to
take the risk. It was who could be trusted.

There was Del Hardy of course, but I didn’t see him,
or the police in general, as being much help. They were professionals who dealt
with facts. All I had to offer were vague suspicions and intuitive dread. Hardy
would hear me out politely, thank me for my input, tell me not to worry, and
that would be it.

The answers I needed had to come from an insider; only
someone who had known the Swopes in life could shed light on their deaths.

Sheriff Houten had seemed straight. But like many a
large frog in a small pond, he’d over identified with his role. He
was
the law in La Vista and crime was a personal affront. I recalled his anger at
my suggestion that Woody and Nona might be somewhere in town. Such things
simply didn’t happen on
his
turf.

That kind of paternalism bred a make-nice approach
exemplified by the formal coexistence between the town and the Touch. On the
positive side it could lead to tolerance, on the negative, tunnel vision.

I couldn’t turn to Houten for help. He wouldn’t
welcome inquiries by outsiders under any circumstances and the hassles with
Raoul were certain to have firmed his defenses. Neither could I waltz into town
and strike up conversations with strangers. For a moment it seemed hopeless, La
Vista a locked box.

Then I thought of Ezra Maimon.

There’d been a simple dignity and independence of
spirit about the man that had impressed me. He’d walked into a mess and cleaned
it up within minutes. Representing an outside trouble-maker’s interests against
those of the sheriff could have proved intimidating to a less resolute man.
Maimon had taken the job seriously and had done it damn well. He had spine and
smarts.

Equally important, he was all I had.

I got his number from information and dialed it.

He answered the phone “Rare Fruit and Seed Company” in
the same quiet voice I remembered.

“Mr. Maimon, Alex Delaware. We met at the sheriff’s
station.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Delaware. How is Dr.
Melendez-Lynch?”

“I haven’t seen him since that day. He was pretty
depressed.”

“Yes. Such a tragic state of affairs.”

“That’s why I called you.”

“Oh?”

I told him of Valcroix’s death, the attempt on my
life, and my conviction that the situation would never be resolved without
delving into the history of the Swopes, finishing with a straight-out plea for
help.

There was silence on the other end and I knew he was
deliberating, just as he had after Houten presented his case. I could almost
hear the wheels turning.

“You’ve got a personal stake in this,” he said
finally.

“That’s a big part of it. But there’s more. Woody
Swope’s disease is curable. There’s no reason for him to die. If he’s alive I
want him found and treated.”

More silent cerebration.

“I’m not sure I know anything that will help you.”

“Neither am I. But it’s worth a try.”

“Very well.”

I thanked him profusely. We agreed that meeting in La
Vista was out of the question. For both our sakes.

“There’s a restaurant in Oceanside named Anita’s where
I dine regularly,” he said. “I’m a vegetarian and they serve fine meatless
cuisine. Can you meet me there at nine tonight?”

It was five forty. Given even the heaviest traffic, I’d
make it with time to spare.

“I’ll be there.”

“All right, then, let me tell you how to find the
place.”

The directions he gave were as expected: simple,
straight-forward, precise.

I paid for another two nights at the Bel Air, returned
to my room and called Mal Worthy. He was out of the office but his secretary
volunteered his home number.

He picked up on the first ring, sounding weary and
drained.

“Alex, I’ve tried to get you all day.”

“I’m in seclusion.”

“Hiding? Why? He’s dead.”

“It’s a long story. Listen, Mal, I called for a couple
of reasons. First, how did the children take it?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. To get
your advice. What a goddamned mess. Darlene didn’t want to tell them but I told
her she had to. I spoke to her afterward, and she said April cried a lot, asked
questions, wouldn’t let go of her skirt. She couldn’t get Ricky to talk. Kid
clammed up, went into his room and wouldn’t come out. She had lots of questions
and I tried my best to answer them but it’s not my area of expertise. Do those
reactions sound normal?”

“Normal or abnormal isn’t the issue. Those kids have
had to deal with more trauma than most people encounter in a lifetime. When I
examined them in your office I felt they needed help and said so. Now it’s
absolutely necessary. Make sure they get it. In the meantime keep an eye on
Ricky. He identified strongly with his father. Imitative suicide isn’t out of
the question. Neither is arson. If there are guns in the house get rid of them.
Tell Darlene to watch him closely—keep him away from matches, knives, ropes,
pills. At least until she gets him into therapy. After that she should do what
the therapist says. And if the kid starts expressing his anger she should make
sure not to clamp down. Even if it gets abusive.”

“I’ll pass it on. I’d like you to see them once they
get back to L.A.”

“I can’t, Mal. I’m too close to the whole thing.” I
gave him the names of two other psychologists.

“All right,” he said, with some reluctance. “I’ll give
her the referrals, make sure she calls one of them.” He paused. “I’m staring
out the window. Place looks like a barbecue pit. Firemen sprayed it with
something that’s supposed to make the smell go away but it still stinks. I keep
wondering if it could have turned out differently.”