Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Stabbed the same way?”

“No, strangled. In the alley, four in the morning, after closing. Girl named Kathy DiNapoli. Left behind the dumpster, legs spread, blouse ripped, panties down. But no sexual entry. Maybe it was a sex thing and the guy got interrupted or couldn't get it up. Or maybe someone was trying to make it look like a sex thing. I know the M.O.'s different and that part of Sunset has its share of crime. But four days? Bartender couldn't say if Kathy served Mandy, but she was on shift when he thinks he saw Mandy.”

“So Kathy could have been eliminated because she saw Mandy with someone. But then, the fact that she was murdered first means the killer knew what he was going to do well before.”

“Exactly,” he said. “A planner.”

“Not Darrell.”

He laughed. “The club's definitely not Darrell's venue. We're talking studs and studettes, lots of hair and teeth. On the other hand, with what I've got so far I'd be laughed out of the D.A.'s office trying to make a case for DiNapoli as part of the package. And we do have motive on the little schmuck, plus he threatened Cruvic with a knife.”

“Same kind of knife used on Hope and Mandy?”

“It looked about the right size- buck with a nice sharp edge- but there are lots of those, we'll see what the wound-worms have to say. Hopefully the boys from Central Division got to Darrell's fleabag and secured it. Maybe something'll come up there.”

“Still want me to go to Higginsville?” I said.

“Sure, why not? 'Cause this sterilization thing's another one of those little boxes, and I'd like to know why Hope was Ms. Control Your Own Body in public but willing to serve as Cruvic's sterilization buddy. What do you think, did Chenise know what they were doing to her?”

“Maybe on some fuzzy level- if she was told. Though with her intelligence true consent would be shaky. And having her sign the consent form was sleazy because she's illiterate.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Even so,” I said. “Was Mrs. Farney evil in pushing through the procedure? Let the talking heads at the think tanks have fun with it. Like she said, we don't have kids and she's the one living with Chenise's promiscuity. There's no doubt Cruvic and Hope should have known better, but there was plenty of incentive. Nine hundred bucks for the abortion, nine more for the ligation, plus Hope's fee and other charges.”

“Over two grand for an hour's work. Not bad.”

“And he probably did several other procedures that night.”

“Maybe the two of them were partners and Hope was really getting a bigger cut- serving as his backup for slicing up minors. With all her book income she could have buried the payoffs.”

“And what if Mandy was connected to it somehow…” I said. “Maybe Cruvic was her doctor and they got friendly. Maybe she brought him other patients- call girls, showgirls. Lots of potential abortions, there.”

“Lots of potential enemies. So why was Mandy killed?”

“She learned something she wasn't supposed to or she messed someone up.”

“But, then again, why're she and Hope dead and Cruvic's back home icing his hand?”

I had no answer.

“Whatever the specifics,” I said, “we've got definite evidence that Cruvic was skirting the rules. Maybe that's what got him kicked out of the U of Washington. So who knows what else he's done that might have made someone angry.”

“Like what?”

“Botching someone up? Someone smarter than Darrell. He and Hope together. And in some way, Mandy was part of it.”

“But the same hitch: They're dead and he's… tell me, did he look scared to you tonight?”

“No, but maybe he's got too much self-esteem for his own good. Or he really doesn't realize there's someone out there waiting for the right time to pick him off- the grand prize.”

“Patient killer?”

“If you're right about Kathy DiNapoli,” I said, “very patient.”

He pinched his lips between thumb and forefinger.

“What?” I said.

“The shape this is taking. Waiting, stalking, long-term plans. Those wounds. Goddamn choreography.”

“Artichokes?” said the pump jockey. “Idn't that Castroville, way over the hell up by Monterey?”

He was bowlegged and potbellied, bald on top with a manila-colored braid and matching teeth. Chuckling, he said, “Artichokes,” again, wiped the windshield, and took my twenty.

I'd pulled off Route 5 for a fill-up just past the Grapevine, where the traffic suddenly swells like a clogged hose and fifty-car pileups are the rule when the fog sets in. This morning it was hot and hazy but visibility was okay.

I got back on the highway and continued north. My map said Higginsville was just west of Bakersfield and due south of Buena Vista Lake. A hundred miles out of L.A. and twenty degrees hotter. The land was Midwest-flat, green fields behind windbreaks of giant blue gum trees. Strawberries, broccoli, alfalfa, lettuce, all struggling to make it in the gasoline-drenched air.

A turn on a double-lane road took me up into highlands crowded with small ranches and shuttered roadside stands. Then down into a dry basin and a sign that read HIGGINSVILLE, POP. 1,234, over a rusting Rotary emblem. The lettering was nearly rubbed out and the sheet-metal lemon on top was corroded.

I passed a short stand of live oak and crossed a silt-filled creek bed. Then a shut-down recreational vehicle lot and a half-collapsed barn with a cracked WESTERN ATTIRE sign on the roof. One empty lot later was a two-block main drag called Lemon Boulevard filled with one-story buildings: grocery/cafe, five-and-dime, a bar, a storefront church.

Milo had called this morning and told me the local law was a sheriff named Botula. The sheriff's station was at the end of the street, pink cinder block, with an old green Ford cruiser out in front.

Inside, a heavy, pretty, dishwater-blond girl who looked too young to vote sat behind a waist-high counter, facing a static switchboard and reading intently. Behind her, a very dark-skinned Hispanic man in a khaki uniform bent over a metal desk. A book was spread in front of him, too. He didn't look much older than the girl.

A bell over the door tinkled, they both looked up, and he stood to six feet. He had unlined nutmeg skin and a wide Aztec mouth. His black hair was straight, thin, clipped at the sides, neatly parted, his eyes burnt almonds, eager to observe.

“Dr. Delaware? Sheriff Botula.” He came to the counter, unlatched a swinging door, and proffered a warm, firm hand. “This is Judy, our deputy, administrator, and dispatcher.”

The girl gave him a you've-got-to-be-kidding look and he grinned. “And also my wife.”

“Judy Botula.” She closed the book and came over.

I read the title on the cover. Fundamentals of Evidence Collection.

Botula said, “Come on in, we've done a little prelim work in advance of your arrival- Judy has, actually.”

Judy Botula said, “Nothing earth-shattering.”

He said, “We're new to this place, still acclimating.”

I walked behind the counter and took a chair alongside the desk. “How new?”

“Two months,” said Botula. “We're each half-time, share the job.”

A mop leaned against the wall and he put it behind a file cabinet. The walls were clean and bare, free of the usual wanted posters and bulletins, and the floor was spotless, though scarred.

Judy brought her chair over and settled. She was almost as tall as her husband, with broad shoulders and a heavy bosom, the extra weight as much muscle as fat. She had on a white knit blouse, jeans, and running shoes, and a badge on her belt. Her eyes were deep blue, dramatic, a bit disapproving.

“We both graduated from the Criminal Justice program at Fresno State,” she said. “We want to enter the FBI Academy but it's real competitive right now, so we figured a year or so of experience wouldn't hurt. Not that it's too exciting around here.”