The Clinic (2 page)

Silent Partner

At a party for a controversial Los Angeles sex therapist, Alex encounters a face from his own
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past—Sharon Ramson, an exquisite, alluring lover who left him abruptly more that a decade earlier. Sharon now hints that she desperately needs help, but Alex evades her. The next day she is dead, an apparent suicide.

Driven by guilt and sadness, Alex plunges into the maze of Sharon’s life—a journey that will take him through the pleasure palaces of California’s ultra-rich, into the alleyways of the mind, where childhood terrors still hold sway.

The Butcher’s Theater

They call the ancient hills of Jerusalem the butcher’s theater. Here, upon this bloodstained stage, a faceless killer performs his violent specialty. The first to die brutally is a girl. She is drained of blood, then carefully bathed and shrouded in white. Precisely one week later, a second victim is found.

From the sacred Wailing Wall to monasteries where dark secrets are cloistered, from black-clad Bedouin enclaves to labyrinthine midnight alleys, veteran police inspector Daniel Sharavi and his crack team plunge deep into a city simmering with religious and political passions to hunt for a murderer whose insatiable taste for bloodshed could destroy the delicate balance on which Jerusalem’s very survival depends.

Over the Edge

When six young prostitutes are found strangled in Los Angeles, an investigation begins that takes the reader on a wild ride involving powerful families and close friends. Child psychologist Alex Delaware has received a garbled, middle-of-the-night crisis call from an ex-patient. As Dr.

Delaware becomes involved, he stumbles on a deep secret, one that has existed for over forty years. Along with detective Milo Sturgis, Delaware is about to find himself on a journey into an unforgettably brutal world of madness and murderous passion.

Blood Test

It is a case unlike any psychologist Dr. Alex Delaware has ever encountered. Five-year-old Woody Swope is ill, but the real problem is his parents. They refuse to agree to the one treatment that could save this boy’s life.

Alex sets out to convince Mr. and Mrs. Swope—only to find that the parents have left the hospital and taken their son with them. Worse, the sleazy motel room where the Swopes were staying is empty—except for the ominous bloodstain. The Swopes and their son have vanished into the sordid shadows of the city.

Now Alex and his friend, homicide detective Milo Sturgis, have no choice but to push the law to the breaking point. They’ve entered an amoral underworld where drugs, dreams, and sex are all for sale . . . where fantasies are fulfilled at any price—even at the cost of a young boy’s life.

When the Bough Breaks

Dr. Morton Handler practiced a strange brand of psychiatry. Among his specialties were fraud, extortion, and sexual manipulation. Handler paid for his sins when he was brutally murdered in his luxurious Pacific Palisades apartment. The police have no leads, but they do have one possible witness: seven-year-old Melody Quinn.

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It’s psychologist Dr. Alex Delaware’s job to try to unlock the terrible secret buried in Melody’s memory. But as the sinister shadows in the girl’s mind begin to take shape, Alex discovers that the mystery touches a shocking incident in his own past.

This connection is only the beginning, a single link in a forty-year-old conspiracy. And behind it lies an unspeakable evil that Alex Delaware must expose before it claims another innocent victim: Melody Quinn.

Few murder streets are lovely. This one was.

Elm-shaded, a softly curving stroll to the University, lined with generous haciendas and California colonials above lawns as unblemished as fresh billiard felt.

Giant elms. Hope Devane had bled to death under one of them, a block from her home, on the southwest corner.

I looked at the spot again, barely exposed by a reluctant moon. The night-quiet was broken only by crickets and the occasional late-model well-tuned car.

Locals returning home. Months past the curious-onlooker stage.

Milo lit up a cigarillo and blew smoke out the window.

Cranking my window down, I continued to stare at the elm.

A twisting trunk as thick as a freeway pylon supported sixty feet of opaque foliage. Stout, grasping branches appeared frosted in the moonlight, some so laden they brushed the ground.

Five years since the city had last pruned street trees. Property-tax shortfall. The theory was that the killer had hidden under the canopy, though no hint of presence other than bicycle tracks, a few feet away, was ever found.

Three months later, theory was all that remained and not much of that.

Milo’s unmarked Ford shared the block with two other cars, both Mercedeses, both with parking permits on their windshields.

After the murder, the city had promised to trim the elms. No follow-through yet.

Milo had told me about it with some bitterness, cursing politicians but really damning the cold case.

“A couple of news stories, thennada. ”

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“Current events as fast food,” I’d said. “Quick, greasy, forgettable.”

“Aren’twe the cynic.”

“Professional training: aiming for rapport with the patient.”

That had gotten a laugh out of him. Now he frowned, brushed hair off his forehead, and blew wobbly smoke rings.

Edging the car up the block, he parked again. “That’s her house.” He pointed to one of the colonials, smallish, but well-kept. White board front, four columns, dark shutters, shiny fittings on a shiny door. Three steps up from the sidewalk a flagstone path cut through the lawn. A picket gate blocked the driveway.

Two upstairs windows were amber behind pale curtains.

“Someone home?” I said.

“That’s his Volvo in the driveway.”

Light-colored station wagon.

“He’s always home,” said Milo. “Once he gets in he never leaves.”

“Still mourning?”

He shrugged. “She drove a little red Mustang. She was a lot younger than him.”

“How much younger?”

“Fifteen years.”

“What about him interests you?”

“The way he acts when I talk to him.”

“Nervous?”

“Unhelpful. Paz and Fellows thought so, too. For what that’s worth.”

He didn’t think much of the first detectives on the case and the common ground probably bothered him as much as anything.

“Well,” I said, “isn’t the husband always the first suspect? Though stabbing her out on the street doesn’t sound typical.”

“True.” He rubbed his eyes. “Braining her in the bedroom would have been moremarital. But it happens.” Twirling the cigar. “Live long enough, everything happens.”

“Where exactly were the bicycle tracks?”

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“Just north of the body but I wouldn’t make much of those. Lab guys say they could have been anywhere from one to ten days old. A neighbor kid, a student, a fitness freak, anyone. And no one I talked to when I did the door-to-door noticed an unusual biker that whole week.”

“What’s an unusual biker?”

“Someone who didn’t fit in.”

“Someone nonwhite?”

“Whatever works.”

“Quiet neighborhood like this,” I said, “it’s surprising no one saw or heard anything at elevenP.M. ”

“Coroner said it’s possible she didn’t scream. No defense wounds, no tentatives, so she probably didn’t struggle much.”

“True.” I’d read the autopsy findings. Read the entire file, starting with Paz and Fellows’s initial report and ending with the pathologist’s dictated drone and the packet of postmortem photos.

How many such pictures had I seen over the years? It never got easier.

“No scream,” I said, “because of the heart wound?”

“Coroner said it could have collapsed the heart, put her into instant shock.”

He snapped thick fingers softly, then ran his hand over his face, as if washing without water.

What I could see of his profile was heavy as a walrus’s, pocked and fatigued.

He smoked some more. I thought again of the preautopsy photos, Hope Devane’s body ice-white under the coroner’s lights. Three deep purple stab wounds in close-up: chest, crotch, just above the left kidney.

The forensic scenario was that she’d been taken by surprise and dispatched quickly by the blow that exploded her heart, then slashed a second time above the vagina, and finally laid facedown on the sidewalk and stabbed in the back.

“A husband doing that,” I said. “I know you’ve seen worse but it seems so calculated.”

“This husband’s an intellectual, right? A thinker.” Smoke escaped the car in wisps, decaying instantly at the touch of night air. “Truth is, Alex, I want it to be Seacrest for selfish reasons.

’Cause if it’s not him, it’s a goddamn logisticalnightmare. ”

“Too many suspects.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, almost singing it. “Lots of people who could’ve hated her.”

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A self-help book changed Hope Devane’s life.

Wolves and Sheepwasn’t the first thing she published: a psychology monograph and three dozen journal articles had earned her a full professorship at thirty-eight, two years before her death.

Tenure had given her job security and the freedom to enter the public eye with a book the tenure committee wouldn’t have liked.

Wolvesmade the best-seller lists for a month, earning her center ring in the media circus and more money than she could have accumulated in ten years as a professor.

She was suited to the public eye, blessed with the kind of refined, blond good looks that played well on the small screen. That, and a soft, modulated voice that came across confident and reasonable over the radio, meant she had no trouble getting publicity bookings. And she made the most of each one. For despiteWolves ’s subtitle,Why Men Inevitably Hurt Women and What Women Can Do to Avoid It, and its indicting tone, her public persona was that of an intelligent, articulate, thoughtful,pleasant woman entering the public arena with reluctance but performing graciously.

I knew all that but had little understanding of the person she’d been.

Milo had left me three LAPD evidence boxes to review: her resume, audio- and videotapes, some newspaper coverage, the book. All passed along by Paz and Fellows. They’d never studied any of it.

He’d told me about inheriting the case the night before, sitting across the table from Robin and me at a seafood place in Santa Monica. The bar was crowded but half the booths were empty and we sat in a corner, away from sports on big-screen and frightened people trying to connect with strangers. Midway through the meal Robin left for the ladies’ room and Milo said, “Guess what I got for Christmas?”

“Christmas is months away.”

“Maybe that’s why this is no gift. Cold case. Three months cold: Hope Devane.”

“Why now?”

“ ’Cause it’s dead.”

“The new lieutenant?”

He dipped a shrimp in sauce and put the whole thing in his mouth. As he chewed, his jaw bunched. He kept looking around the room even though there was nothing to see.

New lieutenant, same old pattern.

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He was the only acknowledged gay detective in the LAPD, would never be fully accepted. His twenty-year climb to Detective III had been marked by humiliation, sabotage, periods of benign neglect, near-violence. His solve record was excellent and sometimes that helped keep the hostility under the surface. His quality of life depended upon the attitude of the superior-of-the-moment. The new one was baffled and nervous, but too preoccupied with a dispirited postriot department to pay too much attention to Milo.

“He gave it to you because he thinks it’s a low-probability solve?”

He smiled, as if savoring a private joke.

“Also,” he said, “he figures Devane might have been a lesbian. “Should be right up your . . .

ahem ahem. . . alley,Sturgis.’ ”

Another shrimp disappeared. His lumpy face remained static and he folded his napkin double, then unfolded it. His necktie was a horrid brown-and-ochre paisley fighting a duel with his gray houndstooth jacket. His black hair, now flecked with white, had been chopped nearly to the skin at the sides, but the top had been left long and the sideburns were still long—and completely snowy.

“Is there any indication she was gay?” I said.

“Nope. But she had tough things to say about men, so ergo,ipso facto. ”

Robin returned. She’d reapplied her lipstick and had fluffed her hair. The royal-blue dress intensified the auburn, the silk accentuated every movement. We’d spent some time on a Pacific island and her olive skin had held on to the tan.

I’d killed a man there. Clear self-defense—saving Robin’s life as well as mine. Sometimes I still had nightmares.

“You two look serious,” she said, slipping into the booth. Our knees touched.

“Doing my homework,” said Milo. “I know how much this guy enjoyed school, so I thought I’d share it.”

“He just got the Hope Devane murder,” I said.

“I thought they’d given up on that.”

“They have.”

“What a terrifying thing.”

Something in her voice made me look at her.

“More terrifying,” I said, “than any other murder?”

“In some ways, Alex. Good neighborhood like that, you go for a walk right outside your house and someone jumps out and cuts you?”

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I placed my hand on top of hers. She didn’t seem to notice.

“The first thing I thought of,” she said, “was she was killed because of her views. And that would make itterrorism. But even if it was just some nut picking her at random, it’s still terrorism in a sense. Personal freedom in this city kicked another notch lower.”

Our knees moved apart. Her fingers were delicate icicles.

“Well,” she said, “at leastyou’re on it, Milo. Anything so far?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Situation like this, what you do is start fresh. Let’s hope for the best.”

In the kindest of times optimism was a strain for him. The words sounded so out-of-character he could have been auditioning for summer stock.

“Also,” he said, “I thought Alex might be able to help me. Dr. Devane being a psychologist.”