Killer (11 page)

He flipped pages. Read. The identical note every week: “Patient doing well.”

He said, “That’s bullshit, man. I’m fucked
up
.” He laughed. And remained jocular for the rest of the session.

When he arrived looking settled, we talked in my office. When he was antsy, we moved to the garden where he got a huge kick out of feeding the fish and threatened to come back with a hook and line to “catch their asses for dinner.”

When he flagged he asked for juice. Soon, he began thanking me for “keeping it nice and cold, man. You got beer?”

“Not for you.”

“
Awww.
”

“How about vodka?”

“Really?”

“No.”

A couple of times sitting anywhere wouldn’t do and we walked. Leaving the property and getting as far as the Glen before returning. Once we spotted hawks circling and I had to disabuse him of the notion that they were those “vultans that eat dead stuff.”

I learned about him. The TV he watched, the movies he liked, the foods he enjoyed. A girl in his class that had “like tits out to here, man, and prolly a real hairy pussy.”

The subject of his father never came up. Same for his gang heritage. Not a word about the drive-bys in his Boyle Heights neighborhood, including two fatal attacks reported in the papers that I looked up in my Thomas Guide and found to be walking distance from his house.

Same for diabetes.

On the twelfth session, I took the risk.

“Let me ask you something, Effo.”

“What?”

“You’re a smart guy—more than smart, you’re sharp, perceptive—you see things clearly—”

“I know what that means, man.” Grin. “Like a college perceptor.”

“On top of being smart, you like yourself. Which is good, that’s a sign of strength. You also understand all about diabetes. The scientific part.”

“All that shit? Keep the sugar smooth, man.”

“Exactly,” I said. “So how come when they sent you to me you weren’t keeping it smooth? I’m asking ’cause I’m curious.”

Shifting sideways, he stretched prone on the couch. “Know what I’m doing, lying down?”

“What?”

“I saw it on TV, they say that’s the way you spose to do the head-doc shit.”

I smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and I figured he’d sleep, or fake it, to avoid answering.

He said, “Why’d I do it?”

The eyes opened. He turned sideways. Winked. “It’s the diabetes, man. That shit don’t fit my
lifestyle
.”

I thought:
Lifestyle? You dumb kid, you’re lucky you still have a life
.

I said, “Okay, makes sense.”

Detective Millie Rivera said, “Looks like you chose the right patient. I never figured Effo could be right about anything but being wrong. When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Years ago.”

“What’d you treat him for?”

I shook my head.

She said, “I hope it wasn’t for his antisocial tendencies. If so, it didn’t work, Doctor. He’s a serious gangster, climbed higher in the gang after his father died. In Pelican Bay. Know anything about that place?”

“Worst of the worst.”

“It’s probably where Effo will end up one day, Doctor. Who knows, he might even inherit Poppy’s cell.”

Heat had come into her voice. Her left wrist rolled up and down a chunky thigh. Working gang detail is an infinite process with infrequent satisfaction.

Rivera turned to Milo. “Big-time killer, now he’s a good citizen, go figure.”

I said, “You’re North Hollywood. Did Effo change his turf from East L.A.?”

Milo said, “He’s got a business in North Hollywood.”

“Alleged business,” said Rivera. “Car stereo place. Where bangers go for boom. We think it’s a front. You haven’t seen him in a long time?”

“He was my patient when he was a teenager.”

“He’s twenty-seven, now,” she said. “So, ten years?”

“Give or take.”

“No contact since then? Even on the phone?”

I said, “I have no ongoing relationship with him or anyone else in the gang.”

“Well, looks like
Effo
thinks you have a relationship. If he didn’t, Doctor, you wouldn’t be part of this conversation. Because Effo’s not shy about homicide. Like I said, he’s suspected in five and I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of stuff we don’t know about.”

“In those five was he the triggerman or a contractor?”

“Does it matter, Doctor? The point is when he decides people are going to die, they tend to do just that. We’ve been trying to nail him for a long time. He’s integral to the organization and taking him down will be a big deal. Unfortunately, because of
your
situation we have to treat him like he’s a good person and that means backing off. Until we resolve
your
situation.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Next time I’ll try to be saved by Batman or the Green Lantern.”

She blinked.

Milo hid a smile behind a hand.

I said, “How
are
we going to resolve my situation?”

Rivera said, “By wiping the slate clean of Dr. Sykes.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Milo said, “You do nothing, Alex. We’re here to protect and serve.”

Rivera said, “This—us notifying you—is part of the protecting. But
you don’t talk to anyone about this, okay? Specifically, you
don’t
contact Efren Casagrande.”

I smiled. “Not even to maintain clinical support?”

Milo said, “His ego’s doing just fine. Charming little weasel that he is.”

Rivera said, “Doctor, you need to take this seriously: Everything stays buttoned up until Sykes is taken care of. Speaking of which, you need to educate us: Is she crazy, or what?”

I summed up my impressions.

“I’m hearing cold bitch rather than outright loony-tuney,” said Rivera.

I had a grab bag of diagnostic labels to dip into. Said, “Fair enough.”

“She one of those compulsives, Doctor? One try fails, she doesn’t give up?”

I said, “When did she solicit Guzman?”

Milo said, “Four days ago.”

“Six days after she showed up here.”

He nodded.

Rivera was puzzled by the exchange.

Milo said, “Woman takes her time, Millie. Premeditation, not impulse.”

She said, “Smart criminals. Hate ’em.”

I said, “She’s about organization and planning, so sure, she could persevere. What’s the plan?”

Milo said, “Far as Sykes knows—far as Ramon Guzman’s telling her—the hit’s on and ready to go. We’re gonna work with that.”

“Guzman’s cooperating.”

Rivera said, “Guzman, there’s another winner. Sociopath like Effo but minus fifty IQ points. Yes, Doctor, he’s
cooperating
but only because he has no choice. We can bust him for conspiracy anytime we choose but we’re holding off because his arrest could tip off Sykes and
leave her untouchable—the word of a lowlife against a rich doctor. Instead, we had Effo bring Guzman to a meeting and then we popped in. At which time Effo informed Guzman he needed to play nice.”

She ground her teeth. The fist on her thigh gathered fabric and maybe some skin. “Not that we routinely take the word of people like your prize patient. But we needed Guzman totally submissive and Effo had him over-the-top terrified. Genuine fear, Ramon’s too stupid to put on a convincing performance. But stupid can cause problems so everything needs to be kept strictly under wraps.”

I said, “After Sykes threatened me, I warned Judge Maestro.”

Rivera frowned. “You did that because …”

“She wrote the order dismissing Connie Sykes’s suit. I figured she might be in jeopardy.”

“You informed her, but not the police.”

“It didn’t seem to reach the level of—”

“It reached a level where you warned a judge.”

“I played it as I saw it, Detective.”

“And the judge’s response was …”

“I spoke to her bailiff. He said he’d handle it.”

“Well,” said Rivera, “right now
you’re
the prime target so let’s take care of
your
situation and everyone else will benefit.”

I said, “Effo wires up, meets with Sykes, you’re listening in?”

Rivera slashed air with one hand. “Effo meets with no one. His participation is officially over, no way we’ll get that cozy with him, last thing we need is he goes to trial and his lawyer tries to cash in big-time brownie points for heroic law enforcement cooperation.”

She scooted forward on her chair. “You need to be clear about this, Doctor: Your situation has created an inconvenience for us but no matter what he’s done for
you
, we
will
get him.”

Milo said, “Yeah, we’re stinging her, but using our own. I borrowed Raul Biro from Hollywood.”

I said, “Raul doesn’t come across gangster.”

“Give him credit, Alex. He’s quick on his feet and he can play cold-blooded.”

“When’s it happening?”

Rivera said, “When we’re ready.”

“I want to be there.”

Rivera laughed.

Milo didn’t.

She said, “El Tee?”

I said, “This woman tried to kill me. I want to watch her go down.”

Milo said, “Nice to know you’ve got the revenge gene like the rest of us.”

Rivera said, “Well, I need to talk to
my
lieutenant.”

“Bill White’s a good man, Millie. I’ll handle it.”

“Fine, your responsibility.” She stood. “Nice meeting you, Doctor. Try to stay healthy.”

Milo got up, as well, but he left the attaché case on the floor and he didn’t follow Rivera.

She stopped. “Something else, El Tee?”

“Gonna stick around a bit. Educate the doctor a little more.”

“Ah … good luck with that.”

We walked Rivera out, remained on the terrace, watched as she sped away.

Milo said, “You’re gonna have to chauffeur me back to the station.”

“After you educate me?”

He laughed. “Like Millie said, good luck.”

I said, “You think I screwed up by not reporting it?”

“My protective instincts say yeah, it’s more of your usual denial. But the truth is, she really didn’t threaten you, she just acted nasty. So
there’s nothing I could’ve done other than to warn her away. And I don’t know her well enough to predict how that would turn out.”

“I thought about telling you, figured if you did step in and she complained it could get sticky department-wise.”

“No doubt.” He smiled. “What a pal.”

“So what’s Rivera’s problem? I got on her bad side without really trying.”

“It ain’t you, Alex. She’s going through a rough patch.”

“Gang work burnout?”

“Probably that, too,” he said. “But the main thing is an ugly divorce. Her ex is an arson D from Van Nuys. Not a bad guy but he and Millie are going at it. One kid and they’re ripping at each other. So Millie’s not too high on men, nowadays.”

“She told you about it?”

“I have my sources.”

Returning to the house, he headed for the kitchen.

Two roast-beef-and-coleslaw sandwiches and half a pint of milk later, he said, “How you doing with it?”

“With what?” Stupidest answer in the world but I couldn’t find anything else to say.

“With the pollen count—what do you think?”

I shrugged.

He washed his dish and his glass, returned to the table. “You were pretty much Dr. Sphinx with ol’ Millie and I’m sure you had your reasons. But now it’s just us Boy Scouts, so feel free to emote.”

“I’m all right.”

He let that ride. Returned to the fridge and scrounged for dessert.

I repeated that to myself:
I’m all right
. Punishment for the lie arrived a split second later in the form of a wave of nausea that surged below my sternum and scuttled up to my gullet. My breathing caught,
my vision fogged, nausea switched to vertigo, and I braced myself with two hands on the table.

That didn’t work, so lowering my head to my arms I closed my eyes, worked at slowing my breathing.

I heard Milo say, “Alex?” As if from far, far away.

My skin turned clammy. My pulse clanged in my ears. My head felt like a chunk of pig iron, barely secured by a rubber spine.

I needed to settle down before the next challenge: updating Robin.

The fridge closed. Heavy footsteps grew louder. I got my pulse down to a fast trot but the vertigo lingered and I kept my head down.

Milo and I have been friends for a long time and all those cases we’ve worked have probably shaped the way we think because sometimes we seem to be sharing the same brain.

This was one of those moments.

He said, “She back there, working? You sit and relax, I’ll deal with it.”

A big hand patted my back. Heavy footsteps diminished. The kitchen door closed softly.

Six p.m., the commodious parking lot behind Rubin Rojo’s Mexican Hacienda, Lankershim Boulevard, North Hollywood
.

Fifty-two hours after Milo and Millie Rivera’s visit. My new way of keeping time.

Robin and I had spent most of that period in Santa Barbara, bunking down in a bed-and-breakfast off upper State Street, filling our days with enforced recreation: leisurely mountain walks, strolls along the beach, ocean kayaking off Stearns Wharf, even a spin on the carousel on Cabrillo Boulevard.

Just another couple apparently enjoying one of the loveliest places on the globe.

Robin had taken the news well, though she was quieter than usual. I felt guilty about the whole mess and said so and, of course, she reassured me and moved us on to the next distraction. Sleeping for more than a couple of hours in a row would’ve been nice, but I made do with minutes at a time.

Now we were back in L.A., Robin visiting a friend in Echo Park, me sitting in the back of Milo’s unmarked, with him at the wheel, Rivera riding shotgun.

The restaurant was one of those oversized stucco rhomboids erected decades ago when land was cheap and signage despised subtlety. A proprietor smart enough to own, not rent, had helped it avoid the wrecking ball.

Now ninety years old, Rubin keeps the place for fun, using reasonable prices and mammoth portions to surround himself with smiling people.