Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Maribel- the nurse. Gotta go.”

“Would you mind giving me your address and phone number?”

“What for?”

“In case the police want to talk to you.”

“No way, forget it, I don't want to get involved.”

I held out my card.

“What's this for?”

“If you think of something.”

“I won't,” she said, but she put the card in her purse.

“Thanks. And if you need a referral for Chenise, I can find one.”

“Nah, what's the use? She wraps people around her finger. No one catches on.”

I drove away.

Surgery. Given Chenise Farney's promiscuity, it wasn't hard to imagine what kind.

Cruvic and Hope working together on abortions.

Cruvic calling for a psychological consult because he cared? Or another reason?

Promiscuous teenager with low intelligence. Minor patient below the age of consent. Maybe too dull to give informed consent? Cruvic covering his rear?

Cruvic and Hope…

Holly Bondurant had assumed the two of them had something going and Marge Showalsky's angry dismissal of the issue confirmed it.

I realized Cruvic had lied to us- implying he'd met Hope at the fund-raiser when Holly was certain they'd known each other previously.

Milo's hunch confirmed.

More than a business relationship.

But in light of Mandy Wright's murder, so what? The Vegas case pointed to a stranger homicide.

A psychopath, still out there, stalking, watching, planning. Waiting to perform a knife sonata under the cover of big, beautiful trees.

I was at Overland when I spotted a coffee shop with a lunch counter and pulled over. I bought a morning paper, read it while I had a hickoryburger and a Coke, then pulled out the list of students involved in the sexual-conduct board.

Might as well finish up.

Three who hadn't been interviewed yet- four, really, because the encounter with panicked Tessa Bowlby didn't qualify.

I called the number for Deborah Brittain in Sherman Oaks. A machine told me to wait for the beep. I decided not to.

Reed Muscadine had dropped out of school, so his class schedule was no longer relevant.

I called him. His tape said, “Hello, this is Reed. I'm either not here or I'm working out and unwilling to interrupt the burn. But I do want to talk to you, especially if you're my golden opportunity- pant pant. So please please please leave your name and number. Starving actors need love, too.”

Cheerful, mellow, modulated. The kind of voice that knew it sounded good.

If he was HIV-positive it hadn't dampened his spirit or his attempts to stay fit. Or he hadn't changed the tape.

Starving actor… even after getting the soap-opera job?

Had something gotten in the way of the job?

His address was on Fourth Street. If I was lucky, I'd catch him after the burn faded and learn about his health and his feelings about Hope Devane and the conduct committee.

If my luck really held, perhaps I could find out what was scaring the hell out of Tessa Bowlby.

His address matched a white stucco cottage with castle pretensions: two turrets, one oversized over the front door, the other a vestigial nipple atop the right corner. An old woman wearing a wide straw hat stooped on the sidewalk, removing weeds by hand. By the time I cut the Seville's engine, she was upright with her hands on her hips. She wore brown canvas gardening pants with rubber kneepads and had sueded skin and judgmental eyes.

“Hi, I'm looking for Reed Muscadine.”

“He lives in back.” Then she stiffened, as if regretting telling me that much. “Who're you?”

I got out of the car and showed her my police ID.

“Ph.D.?”

“I'm a psychologist. I work with the police.” I looked down the driveway. An apartment sat on top of the garage, accessed by steep, skinny front steps.

“He's not in,” she said. “I'm Mrs. Green. I own the place. What's going on?”

“We're questioning him with regard to a crime. Not as a suspect, just someone who knew the victim.”

“Who's the victim?”

“A professor at the University.”

“And he knew her?”

I nodded.

“I lived here forty-four years,” she said, “never knew a victim. Now you can't step outside without getting nervous. A friend of mine's nephew's a policeman in Glendale. He tells her there's nothing the police can do til you're hurt or killed. Told her to buy a gun, carry it around, and if they catch you it's like a traffic ticket. So I did. I've also got Sammy.”

She whistled twice, I heard something slam shut, and a big, thick-set, fawn-colored dog with a sad black face ambled around from the back of the house. Bullish face- cousin to Spike? But this creature weighed at least one hundred pounds and its eyes were all business.

Mrs. Green held out a palm and the dog stopped.

“Mastiff?” I said.

“Bull mastiff. Only breed ever designed specifically to bring down people- they raised ' em in England to catch game poachers. Come here, baby.”

The dog sniffed, lowered its head, and walked over slowly, shoulders rotating, massive limbs moving in fluid concert. Drool dripped down its dewlaps. Its eyes were small, nearly black, and they hadn't left my face.

“Hey, Sammy,” I said.

“Samantha. The females are the really protective ones- c'mere, puddin'.”

The dog made its way over, examined my knees, looked at Mrs. Green.

“Yeah, okay, kiss him,” she said.

A big mouth nuzzled my hand.

“Sweet,” I said.

“If you're right, she is. If you're wrong, well…” Her laugh was as dry as her skin. The dog rubbed against her thigh and she petted it.

“Any idea when Reed will be back?”

“No, he's an actor.”

“Irregular hours?”

“Right now it's night hours, he's waiting tables out in the Valley.”

From soap opera to that? I said, “No luck in the acting department?”

“Don't fault him,” she said. “It's a tough business, believe me, I know. I did some work back a ways, mostly bit parts, but I did have a walk-on in Night After Night- that's a Mae West film. Classic. They made her out to be some wild hussy but she was smarter than all of them. I should've bought real estate when she did. Instead I got married.”

She brushed her pants and kneaded the dog's thick neck.

“So some professor got killed. And you're talking to all the students?”

“We're trying to be as thorough as possible.”

“Well, like I said, Reed's an okay kid. Pays the rent pretty much on time and always lets me know if he can't. I give him a break because he's big and strong and handy and fixes things. Real good with Sammy, too, so when I go away to my sister in Palm Springs I've got someone to take care of her. Tell the truth, he reminds me of my husband- Stan was a movie grip, know what that is?”

“They move sets around.”

“They move everything around. Stan was all muscle. Did stunt work til he broke his collarbone working for Keaton. My daughter's in the business, too, reads scripts for CAA. So I have a soft spot for anyone dreamy enough to still want to be part of it. That's why I rented to Reed with just a first month down. Usually I get first and last. And he's been a good tenant. Even when he got laid up, he didn't laze around too long.”

“Laid up how?”

“Few months ago. He slipped a disc, lifting those weights he's got- well, looky here, you can talk to him yourself.”

A battered yellow Volkswagen pulled into the driveway. Rust fringed the wheel wells.

No Porsche, yet.

The man who got out was older than I expected- thirty or so- and huge. Six-five, tanned deeply, with very pale gray eyes and long, thick black hair brushed back and flowing over a yard of shoulder. His features were strong, square, perfect for the camera. The cleft in his chin was Kirk Douglas-caliber. He wore a heavy gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to expose side-of-beef biceps, very brief black shorts, and sandals without socks. I tried to picture him with Tessa Bowlby.