Rage (35 page)

“How
about this: I could try to talk to Leticia Hollings and Beth Scoggins. Couch it
as a general inquiry into foster care. If they mention or hint about being
exploited, I’ll have a clear obligation to notify the police.”

“Any
police in particular?”

“In a
pinch, you’ll do.”

He
smiled weakly. “The problem is, Alex, if you approach them as a police
surrogate, the confidentiality thing will still get in the way of a criminal
investigation.”

“Not
necessarily,” I said. “I began as a police consultant but veered off to independent
research.”

“Thought
that was a cover story.”

“It
could be real.”

He
looked up. “How so?”

“I
learned about Lee Ramos’s suicide working with you and got intrigued on an
intellectual level.”

“Intrigued
about what?”

“The
relationship between foster care and suicide. The articles I published years
ago on stress and abuse would make it a natural.”

“You
still do research?”

“Haven’t
for a while, but I’m a full professor and full professors get to do what they
want.”

“When
did you get promoted?”

“Last
year.”

“You
never mentioned it.”

“No
big deal,” I said. “It’s a clinical appointment. What it boils down to is once
in a while they ask me to supervise an intern or a grad student, serve on an ad
hoc committee, or read a research proposal.”

“You
get paid for that?”

“No,”
I said. “It’s my way of giving back.” I formed a halo with my hands and held it
over my head.

“What
a guy,” he said. “You don’t look a day over associate professor.”

His
phone beeped. “Sturgis. Oh hi . . . yeah, long
time . . . you’re kidding. That’s great. Thanks a mill. I owe
you big time.”

Wide
smile. Long time since I’d seen that.

“That
was Coroner’s Investigator Nancy Martino, R.N. She found tissue samples from
Kristal Malley’s autopsy stored in a cooler. Kidney and stomach sections. Some
of it looks degraded but there might be enough for analysis. They’ll hold it
until I give them the word.”

“Congratulations,”
I said.

“For
what it’s worth.” His smile died.

“Now
what?”

“What’s
the DNA really gonna do, Alex? Confirm what we already know from the eye color:
The cowboy wasn’t Kristal’s daddy. What it
won’t
accomplish is get me
any closer to Malley for Rand. Or to Daney for whatever bad stuff he did.”

He
tapped a calypso beat against the beer bottle. “Two bad guys, no leads, life is
beautiful.”

“Better
than no bad guys.”

“How
comforting,” he said. “You must be a therapist.”

I
copied down Leticia Hollings’s phone number in
Temecula and Milo got Elisabeth Mia Scoggins’s last-known address from the DMV
in Santa Monica; it matched a phone book listing for Scoggins, E.

Chucking
his beer bottle, he saw himself out.

Beth
Scoggins lived in an apartment on Twentieth Street near Pico. Low-rent section
of the beach city, but the thought that she’d achieved some sort of
independence was encouraging.

It
was seven-fifteen p.m. Allison’s office was on Montana, the high-rent north end
of Santa Monica. I knew she was booked with patients until nine but her usual
dinner break was at eight. If I managed to set up a meeting with Beth Scoggins,
maybe I’d have time to drop in later. . . .

Mr.
Halo.

* * *

A
young woman picked up the phone, sounding wary.

“Ms.
Scoggins?”

“This
is Beth.”

I
gave her my name and my title, asked if she’d be willing to talk about her
experiences in foster care.

“How’d
you
find
me?” she said.

Panic
in her voice made me want to back down. But that might scare her more. “I’m doing
research— ”

“Is
this . . . is this some kind of rip-off?”

“No,
I really am a psychol— ”

“
What
research? What are you
talking
about?”

“I’m
sorry if— ”

“What
re
search
?”

“The
stresses of foster care.”

Silence.

“I
consult to the police and a young woman who was cared for by the same people
who cared for you was found— ”

“
Cared
for? Is that what you said?
Cared
for? What’s your name?”

I
told her.

Scratching
sounds; copying it down.

“Ms.
Scog— ”

“You
shouldn’t be calling me. This is wrong.”

Click.

* * *

I sat
there feeling dirty. Plenty of time to drop in on Allison now, but I was in no
mood to be social. Logging onto my med school computer account, I ran an Ovid
search on suicide and foster care, found no objective studies, only suggestions
that kids taken out of their homes were at risk for all kinds of problems.

Gee
thanks, academia.

I
thought of calling Beth Scoggins back. Couldn’t see any way that wouldn’t make
things worse. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. Give her time to
consider . . .

By
eight I was starting to feel the need to eat. Not hunger, more like an
obligation to keep my blood sugar up. Maybe I’d be useful to someone.

As I
was contemplating canned soup versus tuna, Robin called.

The
sound of her voice tightened my scalp.

“Hey,”
I said. Eloquent.

“Am I
interrupting something?”

“Not
at all.”

“Okay,”
she said. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Alex, but I felt it was the
right thing to do. Spike’s not doing so great.”

“What’s
the matter?”

“Age.
He’s got arthritis in his hind legs— you remember the left one was always a
little dysplastic? Now it’s really weak. Also, his thyroid function’s low and
his energy level’s flagging, I have to put medicine in his eyes, and his night
vision’s just about gone. All the other tests are normal except for a slight
enlargement of his heart. The vet says it’s understandable, given his age. For
a Frenchie, he’s a real old guy.”

The
last time I’d seen Spike, he’d hurled his twenty-six pounds three feet in the
air and come down insouciant. “Poor little guy.”

“He’s
not the same dog you’d remember, Alex. Lies around most of the day and he’s
gotten pretty passive. With everyone, even strange men.”

“That’s
a switch.”

“I
just thought you should know. He’s getting good care, but . . .
no buts. That’s it. I thought you should know.”

“Appreciate
it,” I said. “Glad you found a good vet up there.”

“I’m
talking about Dr. Rich.”

“You’re
back in L.A.?”

“Have
been,” she said. “For a month.”

“Permanently?”

“Maybe . . .
I don’t want to get into that. I can’t honestly say how much longer Spike’s
got. This seems better than calling you one day with bad news and have you not
prepared.”

“Thanks,”
I said. “I mean it.”

“If
you’d like, you can come see him. Or I can bring him over sometime.” Pause. “If
Allison doesn’t mind.”

“Allison
wouldn’t mind.”

“No,
she’s sweet.”

“How
are you doing?” I said.

“Not
great.” A beat. “Tim and I are over.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“It’s
for the best,” she said. “But this really isn’t about that, it’s about Spike,
so if you do want to see him . . .”

“I’d
like to if you think it would be helpful for him. Last time I dropped by he was
pretty eager to have you to himself.”

“That
was ages ago, Alex. He’s really not the same dog. And deep down he loves you. I
think competing with you for my attention gave him a reason to get up in the
morning. The challenge of another alpha male.”

“That
and food,” I said.

“I
wish
he still stuffed his face. Now I have to coax him . . . the
funny thing is, he never paid much attention to Tim one way or the
other . . . no hostility, just ignored him.
Anyway . . .”

“I’ll
get by soon,” I said. “Where are you living?”

“Same
place,” she said. “In the physical sense. Bye, Alex. Be well.”

* * *

Eeny
meeny miny mo made it canned soup. Chicken noodle. The decision shouldn’t have
taken fifteen minutes. I was opening the can when the phone rang.

Allison
said, “Hi, it’s me. Got a problem.”

“Busy?
I was thinking we could get together, but tomorrow’s fine.”

“We
have
to get together,” she said. “Now.
That’s
the problem.”

* * *

I was
at her waiting room twenty minutes later. The space was empty and softly lit. I
pushed the red button next to the sign that said
Dr. Gwynn
and she
emerged.

No
hug, no kiss, no smile— and I knew why. Her hair was tied up and the day had
eaten most of her makeup. She ushered me to the small side office usually
occupied by her assistant.

Perching
on the edge of the desk, she twisted a gold bracelet. “She says she’s ready.”

“Your
patient,” I said. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Believe
it,” she said. “Five months of therapy.”

“Can
you tell me how she came to you?”

“I
can tell you everything,” she said. “She gave me carte blanche. Not that I’ll
use it, because in her present state she can’t be trusted to make optimal
decisions.”

“I’m
sorry, Ali— ”

“She
was referred by one of the volunteer counselors at the Holy Grace Tabernacle.
She’d been searching for therapy, took some wrong turns, finally found someone
with the good sense to refer out. She’s a resilient kid and on the surface
she’s been doing okay. A research study would rate her as doing
great
because
there’s no substance abuse and she’s gainfully employed— works at The Gap. She
owns a fifteen-year-old clunker that usually starts and shares a one-bedroom
apartment with three other girls.”

“You
see her pro bono?”

“There’s
no such thing as free,” she said. “I don’t sell delusions.”

Allison
volunteered once a week at a hospice. Was one of the few busy Westside
therapists who saw patients at deep discount.

That,
I supposed, made Beth Scoggins’s presence a bit more than coincidence.

“The
first three months were spent earning her trust. Then we started dancing around
the issues. The history of abandonment was obviously crucial but she was
resistant. Wouldn’t talk about foster care either, other than to say it hadn’t
been fun. I’d gotten more directive the last few weeks but it’s been a
drawn-out process. Her next appointment wasn’t for four days but an hour ago
she put in an emergency call. Agitated, crying, I’ve never heard her like that,
she’s always been a restrained girl. When I finally calmed her down, she told
me someone claiming to be a psychologist had called her out of the blue, a
research project on foster care. It confused her and scared her, she didn’t
know what to think. Then she told me the caller’s name.”

She
crossed her leg. “She broke speed limits to get here, Alex. Began to unload
before she sat down.”

“What
a mess. I’m sorry, Ali— ”

“On
balance, maybe it’ll turn out to be positive.” Her eyes met mine. Blue, cool,
direct. “Are you really conducting research?”

“Of
sorts.”

“Of
sorts as in Milo stuff?”

I
nodded.

She
said, “That’s what I was afraid of. You felt deception was absolutely
necessary?”

I
told her what we’d come to suspect about Drew Daney. Lee Ramos’s pregnancy,
abortion, and suicide. The trail of deceit and betrayal that had led me to Beth
Scoggins.

“I’m
sure that made it seem exigent,” she said. “Right now I’ve got an extremely
vulnerable nineteen-year-old in my office. Ready?”

“Do
you think that’s a good idea?”

“You
assumed it was a
great
idea before you knew she was my patient.”

“Allison—
”

“Let’s
not deal with that now, Alex. She’s waiting and I’ve got another patient in
forty minutes. Even if I
didn’t
think it was a good idea, at this point
I can’t dissuade her. You opened up some kind of Pandora’s box and she’s a very
persistent young woman. To the point of obsession, at times. I haven’t tried to
quash that because at this stage of her life persistence might be adaptive.”