Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

“I was a fool, Alex, because he never promised me anything, never lied to me or told me he was anything other than what he was. It was me. I chose to see him as some noble knight. Maybe he came along at a time when I was ready to believe anything, I don’t know. We slept together for six months. Meanwhile he was making it with every woman he could find — nurses, lady docs, mothers.

“I know what you’re thinking. He’s an unethical creep. I doubt I can convince you of this, but he’s not a bad man, just a weak one. He was always loving and gentle. And open. When I confronted him with the stories I was hearing he said sure, he was giving pleasure and receiving it in return. What could be wrong with that, especially with all the pain and suffering and death we had to deal with. He was so convincing I didn’t stop seeing him even then. It took me a long time to get my head straight.

“I thought I’d gotten over it until a week ago when I saw him with Nona. I was out on a date — a fix-up, a real disaster — at an intimate little Mexican place not far from the hospital. The two of them were across the room, tucked away in a dark little booth. I could barely see them. They were all over each other. Drinking margaritas and laughing. Tongue-dueling , for God’s sake. Like a couple of reptiles.”

She stopped, caught her breath.

“It hurt bad, Alex. She was so confident, so beautiful. The jealousy went through me like a knife. I’d never felt that kind of jealousy before — I was bleeding. Their eyes were horribly orange from the candlelight. Two vampires. There I was, stuck with some dull creep, dying for the evening to be over, and they were just about fucking on the table. It was obscene.”

Her shoulders shook. She shivered and hugged herself.

“So you can see why I was so torn about telling anyone about it. I’d be seen as the woman scorned, doing it out of spite. That’s a degrading role and I’ve been degraded enough for a lifetime.”

Her eyes implored me to understand.

“Everyone takes a bite out of me and I’m fucking disappearing, Alex. I want to forget him, her, everyone. But I can’t. Because of that little boy.”

This time she accepted my comfort and put her head on my shoulder, her hand in mine.

“You’ve got to get some distance from it,” I said, “so you can start to see straight again. He may have been gentle and ‘honest’ in some perverse way but he’s no hero. The guy’s got problems and you’re best off without him. He’s a druggie, isn’t he?”

“Yes. How’d you know that?”

I decided not to cite Raoul’s suspicions. Mention of his name would set her off. Besides, I had suspicions of my own.

“I talked to him last night. He was sniffing the whole time. At first it looked like a cold but later I started wondering about coke.”

“He’s into coke pretty heavily. Grass and downers, on the side. Sometimes speed when he’s on call. He talked about dropping acid in med school but I don’t think he does that anymore. He does booze, too. I started drinking heavily when I was with him and kept it up ever since. I know I have to stop.”

I gave her a squeeze.

“You deserve a lot better, hon.”

“It’s nice to hear that,” she said in a small voice.

“I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re intelligent, you’re attractive, and you have a good heart. That’s why you’re hurting so badly. Get the hell away from all the death and misery. It’ll destroy you. I know.”

“Oh, Alex,” she sobbed into my shoulder, “I’m so cold.”

I gave her my jacket. When the tears stopped I walked her back to her car.

Neither the Swopes’ disappearance nor Richard Moody’s rat fell under Milo’s jurisdiction. Out of friendship he’d helped me with both and I was reluctant to bother him so soon with the information on Valcroix.

But what Beverly had told me the night before was disturbing. As Raoul had claimed, the Canadian was unethical and a drunk, and his familiarity with the Touch visitors fleshed out the suspicion of a conspiracy to remove Woody Swope from treatment. I felt some obligation to let him know what was going on, but I didn’t look forward to it because he was sure to flip out. Before the pyrotechnics began I wanted to consult a professional.

Milo, bless his soul, sounded genuinely glad to hear from me.

“No sweat. I was gonna call you anyway. Fordebrand went out to the Bedabye to breathe on Moody but when he got there the asshole was gone. Left behind a room full of b.o. — it would have been a battle of the stinkers — and candy wrappers. Foothill will keep an eye out for him and I’ll have the boys here do the same, but be careful. Also, I got a call back from that Carmichael character — the one who messengered with the Swope girl. Normally I might have just talked to him on the phone but this guy sounded very uptight. Like he’s sitting on something. He’s also got a record — busted for prostitution a couple of years ago. So I’m gonna head out and do a face to face. Now what’s on your mind?”

“I’ll go with you to Carmichael’s and tell you in the car.”

He absorbed the information on Valcroix while speeding along the Santa Monica Freeway.

“What is he, some kind of stud?”

“Far from it. An old, ersatz hippie. Saggy face, flabby body, kind of a slob really.”

“No accounting for taste. Maybe he’s hung like a horse.”

“I doubt the appeal’s strictly physical. He’s a scavenger, Milo. Moves in on women when they’re under stress, plays Mr. Sensitive, gives them what passes for love and understanding.”

He put a finger to his nose and sniffed.

“And a little blow, too?”

“Could be.”

“I’ll tell you what, after we’re finished with Carmichael we’ll head out to the hospital and interview him. I’ve got a little slack because the gang thing resolved nicely — confessions all around. The shooters were fourteen years old. They’ll end up at the Youth Authority. The liquor store cutting’s due to close any day — Del Hardy’s interviewing a snitch who looks promising. The main thing pending is the stomach-shitter. We’re praying to the computer on that.”

He exited at Fourth Avenue, headed south to Pico, took Pico to Pacific, and continued southward into Venice. We passed Robin’s studio, an unmarked storefront with the windows painted opaque white, but neither of us mentioned it. The neighborhood changed from sleazy to slick as we approached the Marina.

Doug Carmichael’s house was on a walk-street west of Pacific, half a block from the beach. It resembled a landlocked cabin cruiser, all peaks and portholes, narrow and high, and wedged into a lot no wider than thirty feet. The exterior was teal blue wood siding and white trim. Fish-scale shingles graced the gablelike peak above the door. A planter brimming with nail-polish pink geraniums hung from the sill of the front window. A white picket fence ringed the dwarf lawn. The door was inlaid with a stained-glass window. Everything looked clean and well tended.

This close to the beach the place had to cost a pretty piece of change.

“Fulfilling fantasies must be paying well,” I said.

“Hasn’t it always?”

Milo rang the doorbell. It opened quickly and a tall muscular man in a red-and-black plaid shirt, faded jeans, and topsiders flashed us a smile saturated with fear, introduced himself (“Hi, I’m Doug”), and asked us in.

He was about my age. I’d been expecting someone younger and was surprised. He had thick blond hair, layered and blow-dried to look dashingly mussed, a full but neatly trimmed reddish-blond beard, sky blue eyes, artist’s model features, and poreless golden skin. An aging beachboy who’d preserved well.