Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“How do you know?”

“Because he hated Dr. Devane's guts. Dr. Cruvic too. For what they did.”

“Chenise's abortion?”

“Tonight he came in all hot and crazy and stoned on something, yelling, taking Chenise with him. He said he's going over there to get him!”

“Dr. Cruvic?”

“Yeah, and he's got Chen-”

“Did he go to the clinic?”

“No, no, he said he was already there, they was closed, that made him madder-”

“Where'd he go, Mrs. Farney?”

“Dr. Cruvic's other office. In Beverly Hills. I tried to stop him from taking Chenise but he pushed me away- I think he's got a knife 'cause I saw it. But Chenise don't have-”

I put her on hold, called 911, told them the problem was in Beverly Hills, and got transferred.

“Civic Center Drive?” said the Beverly Hills operator. “That's right near us. We could walk there.”

“Better run,” I said, hanging up and trying Milo at home. Machine. I called the station, then the cell phone, where I reached him.

“Just left the Club None,” he said, “and guess what-”

“Emergency,” I said, telling him about Darrell Ballitser. “She says he hated Hope and Cruvic for Chenise's abortion. Probably his baby they terminated.”

“BHPD on its way?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, me, too… Wouldn't that be something. All our theorizing and it's some crazy kid.”

“She said he'd already been to the clinic but you might want to alert Santa Monica PD, anyway. Cruvic works nights there, could be on his way over.”

“Will do. Meanwhile, get this lady's phone number and address, find out any details while she's still eager to help.”

“Sure,” I said. But when I got back on the line, it was dead.

I tried my service to see if Mary Farney had left a number. She hadn't. The West L.A. directory yielded only one Farney: first initial M, on Brooks Avenue in Venice. That sounded like a good bet, but no answer. Either she'd phoned me from somewhere else or she'd left.

Copying down the number, I put on street clothes, went into the bathroom, where Robin was still soaking, told her I'd be going out and why.

“Be careful, honey.”

“No sweat,” I said, leaning down to peck her cheek. “Walking distance from the police station.”

BHPD had sent three squad cars the two blocks and I could see their blinking lights from Santa Monica Boulevard. The western entrance to Civic Center Drive was blocked by a sawhorse and a uniform waved me away at the east end near Foothill, but just as I turned, Milo stepped out of the darkness and told the cop to let me through.

I parked twenty yards down from Cruvic's building. Before I got out, a vehicle pulled up beside me. Big white news van from one of the network affiliates. A frantic-looking platinum-haired woman jumped out as if parachuting from a moving plane, stopped, looked around, beckoned to a sound man and a camera operator. I stayed in the Seville as the three of them sprinted toward Cruvic's building, the reporter gesticulating. When they saw Milo they stopped again.

He shook his head and thumbed them on, then came over to me. He had on the same gray suit he'd worn at Kenneth Storm's office, had replaced the shirt and tie with a gray T-shirt. His idea of an L.A. bar-crawl getup. Red lights from the nearest cruiser gave him an intermittent blush and his eyes looked hungry.

“What's happening?” I said.

“Suspect in custody.”

“That was quick.”

“The ominous Darrell turns out to be a skinny kid with poor reflexes. Caught Cruvic driving out of that garage next to the building, stuck a knife through the window, and ordered him out. Cruvic kicked the door, which knocked Darrell down, then he took the knife and was in the process of pounding the shit out of the kid when BH cops showed up.”

“What about Chenise?”

“If she's a teeny little blond thing in a red blouse she was standing on the sidewalk screaming and they took her to the station, along with Darrell. I told BH he's a suspect in the Devane murder, to keep things quiet, but obviously someone found out. They said I can talk to him soon as they clear their paper. What about the mom?”

“Couldn't keep her on the line. She probably lives in Venice.”

Another news van pulled in. And another.

“Vulture-fest,” said Milo. “C'mon, let's get over there and see how our hero's doing.”

The sliding metal door of the garage was open and the silver Bentley Turbo was positioned half-in, half on the sidewalk. The driver's door was still open and the dome light illuminated black leather seats, chrome knobs, polished wood.

But no driver. Cruvic was standing nearby, wearing a black suit and black turtleneck, talking to a uniform and rubbing his knuckles. A black-and-white backed out and turned left, hooking around the municipal parking lot.

The cop smiled at Cruvic, who smiled back, flexed his foot, and pointed to the Bentley. The officer trotted over, got in the big car, drove it to the corner, and let it idle. When he came back to Cruvic, the doctor shook his hand, then that of a second cop. Male-bonding smiles all around. Then Cruvic saw the press and said something to the uniforms.

As the cops held the microphones at bay, Cruvic jogged, head-down, to the Bentley. Milo and I made it over just as he touched the door handle.

“Evening, Doc,” said Milo.

Cruvic turned sharply, as if ready to defend himself again. The black sweater was skintight over a broad chest. Rubbing his knuckles again, he said, “Why, hello, Detective Sturgis.”

“Quite an evening, sir.”

Cruvic looked at his hand and grinned.

“Sore?” said Milo.

“It smarts, but a little ice and some anti-inflammatories should do the trick. Good thing I don't have any surgery scheduled tomorrow.”

He got in the Bentley. Milo positioned himself between the open door and the car.

“Nice wheels, sir.”

Cruvic shrugged. “Four years old. Finicky, but overall it runs pretty well.”

“Can we talk a bit, sir?”

“About what? I already gave my statement to the Beverly Hills police.”

“I realize that, Doctor, but if you don't mind-”

“Actually, I do.” Smile. “It was a tough day to begin with and this was the capper.” He looked at his hand and put it in his pocket. “Got to ice up before it balloons.”

“Sir-”

Shaking his head, Cruvic said, “I'm sorry, I've got to take care of my hand.”

He turned a gold ignition key and the Bentley started up almost inaudibly. Country-rock music boomed from lots of speakers. Travis Tritt singing about T-R-O-U-B-L-E. Cruvic turned the volume up even higher and put the Bentley in drive.

Milo stood there. The camera crew was headed toward us.

Cruvic lifted his foot off the brake and the car began rolling, the door pressing against Milo's back. He stepped away quickly and Cruvic closed the door.

“When can we talk, sir?”

Cruvic's slanted eyes tightened. “Call me tomorrow.”

As the Bentley glided past smoothly, the police cleared a way for its escape.

Darrell Ballitser was indeed skinny. Five-ten, 117 pounds according to the booking officer. Nineteen years old, born in Hawaiian Gardens, his current address was an SRO hotel near Skid Row.

He sat in the Beverly Hills PD interrogation room holding a paper cup of Mountain Dew. Third refill. His face was long and narrow, his shaved head topped with bumps. A blond mustache and goatee weren't much more than dandelion fluff. Bloodshot blue eyes that couldn't decide if they were tough or scared looked nowhere.

A blue Harley-Davidson tattoo marked the spot where the back of his neck met his shoulder blades. Another inscription proclaiming PARTY! was a magenta smear on his right bicep. L-I-F-E on the fingers of his right hand. D-E-A-T-H on the right. A blue-and-red Gothic CHENISE across his neck. His baggy white tank top was soiled, as were low-rider jeans barely held up by a wide black leather belt. Two hoop earrings in one ear, three in the other. A nose ring. Nature had provided additional decoration: angry patches of acne, random as buckshot wounds, on his face, back, and shoulders. Cruvic had contributed a black eye, split lip, bruised chin, lumpy jaw.