Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Sexual-conduct committee,” he said. His tone told me Tessa had never mentioned it. Walter Bowlby had said Tessa's involvement with Emerson was sketchy.

“I haven't seen Tessa in a while. Which is more than I should tell you in the first place.”

“I've got a signed release from her father.”

“Tessa's over eighteen so that doesn't mean much. So what's the theory, one of the guys called up before this committee got mad and acted out?”

“With no evidence, theories abound,” I said. “The police are looking into every possible avenue.”

“A conduct committee,” he repeated. “And Tessa actually brought charges?”

“Yes.”

“Wow… it wasn't in the papers, was it?”

“No.”

“Did the process get hostile?”

“It wasn't pleasant,” I said. “But the committee didn't last long 'cause the U killed it.”

“And then someone killed Professor Devane. Weird. Sorry I can't help you, but let's just say I don't have much to offer.”

“About Tessa or her father?”

“Both,” he said. “I wouldn't… spend much time on that aspect. Now, I've got a patient ringing in the waiting room so let's cut this short while our ethics remain intact.”

So much for the conduct committee.

Back to Dr. Cruvic of the curious educational history.

That institute where he'd spent a year after he'd left Washington- Brooke-Hastings. Corte Madera- just outside San Francisco. Returning to his Northern California turf.

I called Corte Madera Information for a number. Nothing. Nothing in San Francisco or Berkeley or Oakland or Palo Alto or anywhere within a hundred-mile radius.

Next question mark: the hospital where Cruvic had resumed his training, this time as an OB-GYN.

Fidelity Medical Center in Carson.

No listing there, either.

Could the guy be a total impostor?

But UC Berkeley told me he was a member in good standing of the alumni association. Same with UC San Francisco Medical School.

So the funny stuff began after he'd received his M.D.

As I was thinking about that, Milo called. “No other murders that match, so far. Vegas is trying to get hold of Ted Barnaby, Mandy's boyfriend, to see if he can shed light on her medical history or anything else. So far it's no-go, they got him traced as far as Tahoe, then nada. ”

“The casino circuit,” I said.

“Yeah. Interestingly, they know Cruvic in Vegas. Comes a few times a year, somewhat of a high roller.”

“Just the kind of guy Mandy would gravitate toward.”

“No one remembers them together, but I sent Mandy's picture to L.A. Vice to see if she had any kind of history here, and I'm planning to visit a few clubs tonight, places on the Strip where the high-priced girls are known to party.”

“Casinos, clubs. Some lifestyle.”

“Rust never sleeps, why should I? I also received a FedEx this morning, humongous packet of alibi material on Patrick Huang from his father's law firm. Photos, menus, notarized affidavits from the maitre d', waiters, busboys, family members.”

“Nothing like a lawyer father,” I said. “Well, that's good, 'cause Deborah Brittain still seems nervous about him.”

“Why?”

“The experience unnerved her. Though she did admit he hasn't bothered her since. She adored Hope, said Hope really made a big difference in her life. I also located Tessa Bowlby and learned something interesting.”

I recounted the conversations with Walter Bowlby and Dr. Emerson.

“Major psychological problems,” he said. “Think the father's being truthful about her accusing him falsely?”

“How can you ever know? Dr. Emerson implied to me there was little value looking into it. He sounded sharp, but Tessa doesn't see him regularly, hadn't told him about her connection to Hope or the committee. Mr. Bowlby did seem forthcoming. Gave me the name of the Temple City detective who investigated the accusation. Gunderson.”

“I'll call,” he said. “False claims… so Muscadine could be telling the truth.”

“Even if he isn't, I can't see any link to Mandy Wright.”

“Leaving only Monsieur Kenny Storm, Junior, whom I'm meeting tomorrow afternoon at his dad's office. Want to come along, check out his psyche?”

“Sure. I also learned a few more things about Dr. Cruvic.”

I started with the cars in the clinic lot late at night, the armed guard. Multiple after-hours abortions at nine hundred dollars a throw.

“Something's got to pay for the Bentley,” he said.

“Wait, there's more. Cruvic's card says “practice limited to fertility' but he lacks formal training in fertility, and there are other irregularities in his bio. He left surgical residency at the University of Washington after only one year, took a leave of absence at a place called the Brooke-Hastings Institute, and switched to OB-GYN at a hospital in Carson- Fidelity Medical Center. I can't find either place.”

“A phony?”

“His B.A. and his M.D. are real and there are no claims filed against him. And it's possible both Brooke-Hastings and Fidelity closed down. But going from a high-prestige teaching hospital to an obscure private place isn't exactly a horizontal transfer. So it's possible he didn't leave because of a change in interest. Maybe he was kicked out for some sort of misconduct, cooled his heels, then applied for an inferior internship in a new area. And maybe his conduct hasn't gotten any better, since. Holding himself out as a fertility expert is certainly iffy.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Yes, it does begin to take on a certain smell. And Hope was his consultant- money games gone bad?”

“Maybe that's what Seacrest is being evasive about. Not infidelity- something financial. That would explain his making such a point about having kept his nose out of Hope's professional activities.”

“Distancing himself… could be.”

“Want me to have another go at him?”

“Prof to prof? Sure, be my guest… Dr. Heelspur… he's the only one we've caught in a lie.”

“Like him better as a suspect?”

“Let's just say I'm developing an incipient, borderline, minor-league crush on him. If I can tie him in with Mandy in any way, I'll fall head-over-fucking-heels in love with him.”

It was 7:10 and Robin was still out. Emergency repairs could get complicated. I phoned the country singer's recording studio and she said, “Sorry, hon, earthquake stuff. This is going to take some time- at least another couple of hours.”

“Eat yet?”

“No, I just want to finish up. But don't go to any trouble, I'll probably just want something simple.”

“Foie gras?”

She laughed. “Sure, go catch a goose.”

I sat there for a while, drinking coffee and thinking.

Pizza was simple.

And there was a great little place in Beverly Hills that still believed ducks belonged in the water, not on thin crust.

On the way I'd make another stop at Civic Center Drive.

This time I checked the alley first. Once again, the three parking slots behind the pink building were empty. Once again, no lights.

In front, the street was still and dark except for widely spaced streetlamps and the occasional wash of headlight. Everyone was closed up for the night. I pulled into a spot fifty yards from the pink building's entrance, kept myself alert by imagining the things an unethical doctor could do to a patient.

Cruvic's wing tips covered with blood…

Hyperactive imagination. When I was a kid it had vexed my teachers.

Headlights, up close. Beverly Hills patrol car cruised by from the police station on the other side of the tracks.

Beverly Hills cops were edgy about people sitting in cars without a good excuse. But the car drove on.