Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

"Grun! it is. Thanks, Judy. I really appreciate it."

"Oh yes," she said, "I'm quite the saint."

WESTWOOD VILLAGE, AS those who live nearby are quick to point out, used to be a nice place.

Once a high-end shopping district for a high-end residential area, a twist of charmingly curving streets lined with single-story brick buildings, the Village has devolved into a confused tangle of neon and chrome, weekends pulsating with noise, fast-food joints ejaculating gusts of grease and sugar.

Some of that was inevitable. Dominating the north end of the Village is the land-grant sprawl of the U., perched like a hungry bear. The encroachment stretches beyond campus borders, as the university pounces on vacant offices and builds parking lots. Student sensibilities means multiplex theaters, U-print T-shirt shops, discount record stores, jeans emporiums. Student budgets means burgers, not beluga. When a grizzly lolls near a trout stream, guess who gets eaten?

But there are other beasts at work. Developers, aiming to squeeze every dollar out of dirt. Building up, up, up, beyond, beyond, beyond. Lunching and boozing and bribing their way past zoning restrictions. People like Richard.

As token appeasements to the neighbors, some of the high-rise barons bring in pricey restaurants. Grun! was one of those, set on the top floor of a heartless black glass rhomboid on the north end of Glendon. The latest creation of a German celebrity chef with his own brand of frozen dinners.

I'd been there once, the lunch guest of an overeager personal-injury lawyer. Allegedly healthful dining formed of unlikely ethnic melds, prices that kept out the middle class. Waiters in pink shirts and khakis who launched into a world-weary, robotic recitation of the daily specials as if it were another audition. What happened to all the kids who didn't break into pictures?

I drove down Hilgard, passing sorority houses to the west, the U.'s botanical garden to the east, made it to the restaurant in ten minutes. I live close to the Village, but I rarely venture into the cacophony.

A red-jacketed valet lounged by the curb. I squeezed in between two Porsche Boxsters, and the attendant examined the Seville as if it were a museum piece.

I was inside by eight-thirty on the nose. The hostess was a hollow-cheeked, lank-haired brunette working hard on a Morticia Addams act. Judy Manitow hadn't arrived. It took a while to get Tish's attention and figure out that the JTJ in the reservation book stood for Judy the Judge. Tish directed me to the bar. I looked over her shoulder at the half-empty dining room and gave my best boyish grin. She sighed and fluttered her lashes and allowed me to trail her to a corner table.

Half-empty but noisy, sound waves caroming against bleached wood walls, ostentatiously distressed plank floors and mock-wormwood ceiling beams. Where plaster had been applied, it was an unhealthy sunburn pink. Iron tables covered in rose linen, chairs sheathed in dark green suedette.

Tish stopped midway in our trek. Sighed again. Turned. Rotated her neck, as if warming up for a work-out. "I just love the way the light hits the room from this spot."

"Fantastic." Lights, camera, action. Cut.

The table was barely big enough for solitaire. A couple of waiters loitered nearby but neither made a move toward me. Finally, a Hispanic busboy came over and asked if I wanted something to drink. I said I'd wait and he thanked me and brought water.

Ten minutes later, Judy breezed in looking harried. She wore a formfitting, plum-colored knit suit, the skirt ending two inches above her knees, and matching pumps with precarious heels. Her cream-colored handbag had a sparkly clasp that functioned like a headlight, and as she approached at power-walk speed I thought of a little hot rod.

She looked even thinner than I remembered, facial bones expressing themselves sharply under an ash-blond, tennis-friendly cap of hair. Sparkles flashed at her neck, too, and on both hands. As she got closer, she saw me, wiggled two fingers, and picked up speed, playing a castanet solo on the plank floor, hips swiveling, calves defined. The waiters exchanged appreciative glances as they followed her and I wondered if they thought they had her figured out.

Good-looking, wealthy woman out for a night on the town. Little chance she'd be pegged as a presiding Superior Court judge.

I stood to greet her and she pecked my cheek. When I held her chair, she acted as if she was used to it.

"Good to see you again, Alex. Though I'm sure we'd both rather it be under different circumstances."

One of the loitering waiters came over, smiled at Judy, opened his mouth. Before he could speak, she said, "Gin and tonic. Sapphire gin. And no bruising. Please."

He pouted and his eyes found their way over to me. "Sir?"

"Iced tea."

"Very good."

As he walked away, Judy said, "Veddy good. I'm so glad the children approve." She laughed. Too loud, too much edge. "I don't know why I suggested this place, Bob and I never come anymore… Pardon me, Alex, I'm feeling mean, need time to wind down and get human. That's one good thing about the drive from downtown. If you don't succumb to road rage, there's plenty of time to decompress."

"Rough day in court?" I said.

"Is it ever sweetness and light? No, nothing extraordinary, just the usual parade of people with unsolvable problems. When things are fairly calm on the outside, I have no problem with any of it. But today…" She fingered a diamond ring on her left hand. Big, round solitaire in a platinum setting. Her right hand sported a cocktail piece-yellow diamonds and sapphires formed into a marigold. "I still can't believe this mess with Richard. Did you have a chance to see Eric and Stacy after they took him away?"

"I saw them briefly at the station but didn't have a chance to talk to them. Richard's lawyer-Joseph Safer- called me this morning and told me he expected to get Richard out by today and that Richard would be calling me to talk. I'm still waiting."

It had been a day for waiting. And guesswork. If a hypothesis is formed in the forest and no one's there to… After returning from the library, I'd gone over Fusco's file again, no new insights. No new messages from anyone. I hadn't run for a couple of days, forced myself to do it, ended up in the mountains for a long time, got home still wired, did some push-ups, showered, drank water.

At six, despite the dinner appointment with Judy, I broiled two steaks and baked a couple of Idahos. Steak with Robin. I figured on a salad with Judy. Light and healthful me, what a social butterfly.

The drinks came. Judy raised her glass, inspected the contents and sipped. "Joe Safer is a prince-I'm not being sarcastic. The ideal defense attorney: kindly demeanor combined with the single-mindedness of a psychopath. If I were in trouble, I'd want him to talk for me." Her blue eyes clouded for a moment. She drank some more and they seemed to clear.

"Ah," she said. "This hits the spot. I don't ingest enough poison."

"Too temperate?"

"Too weight-conscious."

"You?"

She smiled. "When I was sixteen I weighed a hundred and ninety-seven pounds. In high school, I was a total slug. To be accurate, I was repugnant. Walking two steps exhausted me." Another sip. "I guess that's why I could empathize with Joanne… up to a point."

"Up to a point?" I said.

"Only up to a point." Angry squint. "Let's just say that where she ended up was a whole different planet." She drank more, licked her lips.

"It's hard to imagine someone deciding to eat herself into a stupor."

"Oh," she said, "Joanne was full of surprises."

"Such as?"

Another squint. "Just that. And unlike me, she started off thin."

Her voice had filled with anger and I decided to veer away. When in doubt, show personal interest.