Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Tied up for her own good. Jesus.”

“She convinced herself it was for her own good, Milo. Grew up and reverted to what she knew.”

“Bound and hurt- so who bruised her, Seacrest or Cruvic or some boyfriend- hell, why not Locking?”

“Why not,” I said. “Talk to Cruvic today?”

“No, he's avoiding me, big-time. Answering machine at the place on Mulholland- the house is his, but he rents, doesn't own. And when I called his office, old Nurse Anna came on real cold and referred me to his lawyer. Guess who?”

“Robert Barone.”

“ Bing, you get the washer-dryer. How'd you know?”

“Big Micky was a porn merchant in San Francisco.”

“From that to my-son-the-doctor,” he said. “How does he spell his last name?”

I told him.

“I'll see what S.F. knows about him. I did find out about that hospital in Carson where Sonny went after leaving Seattle. One of those for-profit chains, ran into financial problems and sold out to a bigger chain. The comptroller said Fidelity was one of their less profitable outlets so it got canned. Couldn't pin him down but my impression was it hadn't exactly been the Mayo Clinic. So you're right about it being a come-down for Little Micky. The burrowing bastard.”

“The incident with Ballitser put him in the public eye,” I said, “and he's got lots of things he doesn't want scrutinized: the way he practices medicine, his checkered academic history. Gangster heritage. And maybe Hope's murder. Anything turn up at Darrell Ballitser's place?”

“Dope- meth, that's probably what got him hyped up. But absolutely nothing to tie him to Hope, so unless he confesses, Kasanjian will be able to get him out on bail. And if Cruvic keeps low, the D.A. probably won't be interested in prosecuting the attempted battery. Which doesn't bother me, I never saw Darrell as Mr. Stalker. Herr Doktor Cruvic's looking better and better for that. It's the best explanation for her being dead and his walking around. Something real bad must have happened that Hope wanted no part of. Cruvic was worried she'd squawk, so he quieted her.”

“And Mandy Wright,” I said. “Who Cruvic could easily have met through Daddy's business.”

“You got it. Club None's exactly the kind of place a gangster's kid would hang. And Mandy just may turn out to be the wedge that pries the shithead out from behind Barone's custom suit. Because Vegas came through, bless their souls, and located Ted Barnaby, the boyfriend. Still dealing blackjack, but not in Nevada. Right here in Palm Springs, one of those Indian-reservation casinos. I'm heading out soon as I clear some paper, gonna do a surprise shake and see what tumbles out.”

“Want company?”

“No plans tonight?”

“Robin's out for the evening. Were you planning to stay over?”

“Nah, no reason to, I don't golf. Or tan. Rick took the Explorer so I've got the Porsche, which means an hour and a quarter each way and who the hell's gonna give me a speeding ticket?”

L.A. to Palm Springs is 120 miles of a single monster interstate, the 10.

The first half of the trip takes you through downtown, Boyle Heights, and the eastern exurbs- Azusa, Claremont, Upland, Rancho Cucamonga- and into San Bernardino County, where the air varies from sweet to toxic depending on wind and God's whim, and the view from the freeway is a lulling homogeny of marts and malls and car lots and the kind of housing you'd expect to find hugging the freeway. Then comes agriculture and rail yards near Fontana and just after Yucaipa most of the traffic drops off and the air gets dry and healthy. By the time you pass the cherry groves of Beaumont, you're rolling through a platter of gray dirt and white rock, Joshua trees and mesquite, the San Bernardino Mountains off to the right, capped with snow.

The empty road's an invitation to speed and most people RSVP yes. During spring break, golden kids tank up on beer and weed and delusions of immortality, whooping and high-fiving on truck beds, hanging over the sides of little convertibles, flashing sexual greetings. Most make it to downtown Palm Springs, some end up roadkill. The highway patrol stays furtive and watchful and does its best to keep the death toll within acceptable limits.

Milo got stopped only once, just before the San Gorgonio Pass, well after darkness had set in. He'd pushed ninety since Riverside, the Porsche barely working. It's a white 928, five years old, in perfect condition, and the young CHP officer looked at it with admiration, then inspected Milo's credentials, blinking only once when Milo said he was working a homicide case and he needed to catch a material witness by surprise.

Handing back the papers, the Chippie recited a warning about nuts on the road and the need to keep an eye out, Detective, then he watched as we rolled out.

We cruised into Palm Springs at 10:00 P.M., passing block after block of low-rent condos and entering the outer edges of the business district. Unlike Bakersfield, here little had changed. The same seedy mix of secondhand shops posing as antique dealers, motels, white-belt clothing boutiques, dreadful art. All the big money was in Palm Desert and Rancho Mirage, along with the streets named after Dinah Shore and Bob Hope.

“Look for Palm Grove Way,” said Milo. “The Sun Palace Casino.”

“This doesn't look like an Indian reservation.”

“What'd you expect, tepees and totem poles? These are the lucky Indians: booted into the desert but their patch just happened to leak shiny black stuff so they got rich, learned about loopholes, figured they were a nation to themselves and sued for the right to run games. The state finally gave 'em bingo but remained penny-ante about the immorality of gambling.”

“Then the state started running the lottery,” I said, “so that argument became a little inconsistent.”

“Exactly. Indians all around the state are catching on. There's a new casino up in Santa Ynez. State continues to screw around, taking its sweet time to grant permits, not allowing the Indians to manufacture slot machines or bring them in from out-of-state. Which is a big deal because slots are the number one moneymakers. So they smuggle the suckers in on produce trucks and once they're on the reservation, nothing anyone can do about it.”

“Detective,” I said, “sounds like you're condoning law-breaking.”

“There's laws and there's laws.”

“Palm Grove,” I said, pointing to the next block.

He turned left onto another commercial street. More motels, a laundromat, a run-down spa, fast-food joints crowded with people soaking up grease and the hot night air. Then up ahead, bright, blinking turquoise and yellow lights in the shape of a cowboy hat, crowning a fifty-foot tower.

“Tasteful, huh?”

“So all of downtown's a reservation?” I said.

“Nope, it varies from lot to lot. The key is to search land records, find some square footage once owned by an Indian, go into partnership. Here we are.”

He zipped into the massive dirt parking lot surrounding the casino. Behind the hat tower was a surprisingly small one-story building trimmed with more blue and yellow lights and huge, upslanting letters that shouted SUN PALACE in orange neon surrounded by radiating fingers of scarlet.

Between the tower and the building was a brightly lit car drop-off. A brand-new purple Camaro was parked up against the building, a pink ribbon wrapped around its hood. The sign on the windshield said FOUR BLACKJACKS IN A ROW WINS THIS CAR!

Another sign leaning against the hat tower promised VALET PARKING! but no one was around and Milo found a space in the lot. Just as we got out, a husky, brown-skinned boy in a white polo shirt and black slacks trotted toward us.