The Clinic (26 page)

“No,” said Milo. “Did you ever consider taking any kind of action against Professor Devane, Kenny?”

Junior looked from his father to Bateman.

Milo tapped a foot.

“Dad?”

Senior gave him a disgusted look.

Milo said, “Shall I repeat the question?”

Bateman said, “Go ahead, Kenny.”

“We—my father and me—we talked about suing her.”

“Suing her,” said Milo.

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“For harassment.”

“Which it was,” said Senior. “The whole thing was a complete outrage.”

“It woulda served her right,” said Junior. “But we never did anything.”

“Why not?”

No answer.

“Because she was murdered?” said Milo.

“No, because Dad’s got some . . . he’s busy with business complications.”

“So we discussed it,” said Senior, loudly. “So what? Last I heard it’s still a free country, or have I missed something?”

Milo kept his eyes on the boy. “Did you ever consider taking any other kind of action against Professor Devane, Kenny?”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting back at her physically?”

“No way, man. And anyway, if I would’ve wanted to do that it wouldn’ta been her I’d pound, it would be that wuss with her. I’d never hit a lady.”

“What wuss is that?”

“The faggot with her, he really got on my case, I don’t know his name.”

“You considered getting back athim physically.”

Bateman said, “Detective, that’s not a—”

Kenny said, “I didn’tconsider it, but if Idid, he would’ve been the one. He kept going at me, like trying to . . . outfeminist her.”

“So if you would’ve planned to hurt someone it would have been him, not Professor Devane.”

Senior said, “He never said he’d hurt anyone.”

“Exactly,” said Junior. “Him, I could’ve duked it out fair and square with. Butshe was a woman.

I still opendoors for women.”

“Car doors,” said Milo. “Like for Cindy?”

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The boy’s shoulders bunched.

Milo checked the tape.

“Okay. Now let’s talk about where you were the night of the murder.”

“La Jolla.” Quick answer.

“Why?”

“I live there, I work there.”

“Work where?”

“Excalibur Real Estate, the training program. Used to, real estate’s in the dumpster.”

“So you quit.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing, now?”

“Exploring.”

“Exploring what?”

“My options.”

“I see,” said Milo. “But the day of the murder you were still in the Excalibur Real Estate training program.”

“Yeah,” said the boy. “But that day, specifically, I was with friends on the beach.” He ticked off his fingers: “Corey Vellinger, Mark Drummond, Brian Baskins.”

“Friends from La Jolla?”

“No, from here. The Omega house. They came down to see me.”

“How long were you with them?”

“From around ten to five. Then they drove back up to L.A.”

“What did you do at five?”

“Went driving for a while, got a video at Blockbuster, then I think the Wherehouse for some CD’s.”

“You bought CD’s?”

“No, I just looked.”

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“Do you have the receipt for the video?”

“Nope.”

“You pay for it with a credit card?”

“Nope, I was overdue on my card so I left them a deposit, paid cash.”

“What’d you rent?”

“Terminator 2.”

“You go home and watch it?”

“First I went for dinner.”

“Where?”

“Burger King.”

“Is there anyone who can remember you there?”

“Nope, it was drive-through.”

“Where’d you eat?”

“At my place.”

“An apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“The Coral Motel, off Torrey Pines.”

“Anyone see you there?”

“Don’t think so, but maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t know anyone, it’s just this dinky-shit single he was renting for me while I was in the program.”

“Who’s he?”

“Dad.”

Senior smoked and looked at the wall. “Month-to-month rent,” he said.

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“So you returned with your video and your dinner to your room. What time was this?”

“Six or seven.”

“Then what?”

“I watched TV.”

“What’d you watch?”

“MTV, I think.”

“What was on?”

Kenny laughed. “I dunno, videos, all kinds of shit.”

“Did you go out again that night?”

“Nope.”

“Quiet night, huh?”

“Yeah. I got sunburned at the beach, didn’t feel so good.” Smiling, but an uneasiness ruffled the last few words.

“You do anything that night besides watch TV?” said Milo.

Pause. “Nope.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

The boy glanced at his father.

“Kenny?” said Milo.

“Basically that was it.”

“Basically?”

Senior turned to his son and scowled.

“Basically?” Milo repeated.

Kenny touched the pimple on his neck.

“Don’t pick at it,” said Senior.

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“What else did you do that night?” said Milo.

Junior’s answer was nearly inaudible. “Beer.”

“You had a beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Just one?”

“A couple.”

“How many?”

Another glance at Dad. “A couple.”

“Meaning two?” said Milo.

“Maybe three.”

“Or four?”

“Maybe.”

“You get high, son?”

“Nope.” The small eyes were active, now.

“Do anything besides beer?”

“No!”

“Four beers,” said Milo. “Maybe a six-pack?”

“No, there were two left over.”

“So definitely four.”

“Probably.”

“Probably.”

“Maybe I had another in the morning.”

Senior stared at his son, shook his head very slowly.

“Breakfast of champions,” said Milo.

The boy didn’t answer.

“Dinner, TV,” said Milo. “Then four beers. What time did you drink the fourth beer?”

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“I dunno, maybe eight.”

Leaving enough time for the two-hour ride to L.A. and an hour of stalking. But the dog had turned ill earlier in the evening.

“Then what?” said Milo.

“Then nothing.”

“You went to sleep at eight?”

“No, I . . . more TV.”

“TV all night?”

“Basically.”

“Be nice to have someone who saw you there, son.”

“It’s a small room,” said Kenny, as if that explained it.

“Make any phone calls?”

“Um . . . I dunno.”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s easy to get a look at your phone records.”

The boy glanced at Bateman.

Bateman said, “We’ll have to explore that, Detective.”

“Explore away,” said Milo. “But with no alibi and Kenny’s hostile exchange with Professor Devane I’ll have no trouble getting a warrant.”

The boy sat higher, then his shoulders fell and he blurted, “I—can I talk to you in private, sir?”

“Kenny?” said his father.

“Sure,” said Milo.

“No way,” said his father. “Pierre?”

“Kenny,” said the lawyer, “if there’s something you need to—”

The boy shot to his feet, waving his fists.“I need privacy!”

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“I’m here to safeguard your privacy and your—”

“I mean real privacy, not legal bullshi—”

“Ken!” barked Senior.

“This is amurder, Dad, they can do what theywant !”

“Shutup !”

“It’s no bigdeal, Dad! I just want some fuckingprivacy, okay!”

Bateman said, “Kenny, there are obviously some things you and I need to—”

“No!”shouted the boy. “I’m not saying Ikilled her or anythingcrazy like that! I just made aphone call, okay? A fucking phone call but they’re gonna find out so can I have someprivacy ?”

Silence.

Finally, Senior said, “What the hell did you do, call a whore?”

The boy blanched, sat down heavily, covered his face.

“Great,” said his father. “Great judgment, Kenny.”

The boy began sobbing. Talking between gasps: “All . . . I . . . wanted . . . fucking . . . pri . . .

vacy.”

Senior ground out his cigar. “With all the diseases going around. Jesus . . .”

“That’s why I didn’t want totell you!”

“Great,” said his father. “Very smart.”

Kenny lowered his hand. His lips trembled.

Senior said, “If you were so concerned about what I’d think, why’d you do it in the first place?”

“I used askin !”

Senior shook his head.

Milo said, “What you do on your own time doesn’t concern me, Kenny. In fact, it could help you. Who exactly did you call?”

“Some service.”

“Name?”

“I don’t remember.” Despondent, soft voice.

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“Had you used it before?”

Silence.

Senior turned away.

“Kenny?” said Milo.

“Once.”

“Once before?”

Nod.

“But you don’t remember the name?”

“Starr Escorts. Twor ’s.”

“Where’d you find out about them?”

“The phone book. They’re all in the Yellow Pages.”

“What was the girl’s name?”

“I don’t—Hailey, I think.”

“You think?”

“We didn’t exactly talk much.”

“Both times it was Hailey?”

“No, just the second time.”

“Describe her.”

“Mexican, short, long black hair. Not bad face. Good bo . . . nice-looking.”

“How old?”

“Maybe twenty-five.”

“How much did she charge?”

“Fifty.”

“How’d you pay her?”

“Cash.”

“What time did you call Starr Escorts?”

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“Around ten.”

“And what time did Hailey arrive?”

“Maybe ten-thirty, eleven.”

“How long did she stay?”

“Half hour. Maybe longer. After—she watched some TV with me, we had the last two beers.”

“Then?”

“Then she left and I went to sleep. Next day I turn on the news and they’re talking about her—Devane. Saying somebody offed her and I’m thinking, whoa, while she was getting killed, I was . . .” He looked at his father, sat up straighter. “Right around the time she was dying I was having a good time. Freaky, but kind of . . . like some kind of revenge, know what I mean?”

“Christ,” said Senior. “Can we end this?”

“So I’m covered, right? Alibied?” the boy asked Milo. “She was killed around midnight and I was getting—with Hailey, so I couldn’t do it, right?”

He took a deep breath and let the air out. “I’m glad it’s out. Big deal, Dad. I didn’t kill anybody. Aren’t you happy?”

“I’m overjoyed,” said Senior.

“Starr Escorts,” said Milo.

“Look it up in the book. I’ll take a fucking lie-detector test, if you want.”

“Shut your mouth!” said his father. “No more gutter talk!” He turned quickly to Milo: “Are you happy, now? Have you squeezed enough blood out of the rock? Why don’t you just leave us alone and go out and catch some gang members?”

Milo looked at the boy. “What about Mandy Wright?”

Genuine confusion on the stolid face. “Who?”

“Christ,” said Senior. “Lay off!”

“Ken,” said Bateman.

“Ken,” Senior repeated, as if the sound of his own name disgusted him. Pointing his hand to the door, he said, “Out. All of you. This is still my office andI want privacy.”

21

Back at the unmarked, I said, “Believe him?”

“The hooker thing,” he said, “is exactly what a dumb, lonely kid would do. And he probablyisn’t smart enough to plan. If I can find the massage girl and she alibis him and I don’t get the feeling Daddy’s paid her off, there’s another one off the list.”

“And he seemed genuinely unfamiliar with Mandy’s name.”

He pulled out a cigarillo and looked at it. A warm breeze was drifting from the San Gabriels and the palm trees planted close to the building were doing a line dance.

“So, bye-bye, committee. Hope was probably killed because of something in her private life—those bruises on her arm are bringing me back to Seacrest. And/or Cruvic, ’causehe was probably fooling around with her. Problem is, I can’t get close to either of them . . . and I can’t get a clear picture of Hope. Just polarized opinions—she was Womanhood’s Great Savior, or she was a man-hating manipulator. Nothing about her . . . core.”

“One of the problems,” I said, “is that there’s no family other than Seacrest. No one to talk about her development—her childhood, what she was like outside of her professional role.”

“All I know about her childhood is she grew up in that aggie town—Higginsville. Parents dead, no sibs. And if she’s got distant relatives, they must be damned distant, because after the murder, no one ever stepped forward.”

He got in the car.

“Still,” I said, “no family doesn’t mean no family history. I could go up to Higginsville, ask around. In a small town, someone might remember her.”

“Sure,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I’ll call the local police and let them know you’re coming, see if they can get you access to records. When do you want to go?”

“No reason it can’t be tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Dress for the heat, we’re talking farmland. Don’t they grow artichokes up there, or something?”

That night, Robin and I went out to dinner. By eight, she was soaking in a bath and I was stretched out on a sofa in my office rereading the conduct-committee transcripts.

Uncharacteristically, Spike had chosen to stay with me. Probably the lingering smell of steak.

Now, his big, knobby head rested in my lap and he snored. The rhythm was soporific and the bitter dialogue began to blur.

I learned nothing, felt myself grow drowsy, knew it was time to stop.

Just as I put the transcripts down, the phone rang. Spike snapped upright, bounded off, and ran
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to the offending machine, baying.

“Doctor, this is Joyce at your service. There’s a woman on the line sounds pretty distraught. A Mary Farney?”