Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“Okay,” I said, feeling vaguely foolish. “I'm essentially an antisocial guy, don't trust groups, so I'm not itching to join any new ones… My research was on- how about sex-role stereotypes and child-rearing patterns? I did some work on that in grad school, then I switched to hospital work and never published, so there's no connection in writing.”

Sharavi wrote something down.

“Fine,” said Milo. “Go on.”

“I ran out of money, the department wouldn't support me because I refused to play the game and-”

“What game?” said Sharavi.

“Interdepartmental politics. That's also something I can talk about with authority.”

“When did all this happen?” said Milo.

“Ten years ago?”

“What school?”

“How about an unaccredited program- one that's gone out of business? During the eighties there were plenty of them.”

“I like that,” said Sharavi. He glanced at Milo, who grunted assent. “I'll find one and create some paper for you.”

“Seeing as your print shop's that good,” said Milo, “how about some twenty-dollar bills?”

Sharavi waved at the dismal little room. “How do you think I finance such luxury.”

Milo chuckled, turned serious. “Speaking of financing, how've you supported yourself since dropping out, Mr. All But Dissertation?”

“Family money?” I said. “A small inheritance? Just enough to get by, but no luxuries. Yet another reason for my frustration. I'm brilliant, too good for my station in life.”

“Do you work?”

“Nope. Still searching for something fulfilling. Your basic L.A. slacker.”

They both nodded.

“So what's my name?” I said. “How close should I get?”

“Close enough to make it easy to remember,” said Milo, “but not so close that you use the real one by mistake.”

“Allan?” I said. “Allan Del something- Delvecchio? I could pass for Italian.”

“No,” said Milo. “Let's keep ethnicity out of this. They may not like ethnics of any kind and I don't want you to have to fake some conversation about Mama's gnocchi recipe.”

“How about Delbert? Delham- or just plain Dell.”

“Allan Dell?” he said. “Sounds phony. And too close.”

“Arthur Dell? Albert, Andrew?” I said. “Andy?”

“What about Desmond?” said Milo. “Like the old biddy in Sunset Boulevard. Andy Desmond- can you live with it?”

I repeated it to myself several times. “Sure, but now I expect a big house, Daniel.”

“Sorry,” said Sharavi. “There are limits.”

“Andrew Desmond,” said Milo. “Would-be psychologist- Mr. Would Be. So can we get papers tomorrow?”

“We could but I suggest we hold off for a few days.”

“Why?”

“To give Alex a chance to get comfortable with the role. And to let that beard grow- do you wear contact lenses?”

“No.”

“Good. I can supply glasses with clear lenses, it's surprising how effective they can be. And you might consider a haircut. A short one. Those curls are a little… conspicuous.”

“A buzz. Robin's gonna love that,” said Milo.

“If it's a problem-”

“It's no problem,” I said.

Silence.

“Fine, then,” said Sharavi. “Let's hear more about you, Andrew- tell me about your childhood.”

A glance at Milo. “I always wanted to say that to a psychologist.”

The next morning I told Robin.

She said nothing. Then: “And it has to be you.”

“If you really don't-”

“No,” she said. “If I stopped you it would be… if something else happened that could have been prevented I'd never forget that- you're sure they can keep you safe?”

“It's just a visit to a bookstore.”

“Just a visit. Browsing the shelves, huh?”

“Robin-”

She gripped my arm. “Be careful- I guess I'm saying it more for myself than for you.”

Her fingers loosened. She kissed me and went to the studio.

I called my service, told them I'd be out of town for a week on vacation, would call in regularly.

“Somewhere nice, I hope, Dr. Delaware?” said the operator.

“Somewhere very private.”

That evening, Daniel Sharavi called and asked if he could bring over some of my new ID at ten.

“Does Milo know?”

“I just spoke to him. He's briefing the other detectives on Melvin Myers. He'll come by while I'm there.”

“Fine.”

When he showed up carrying a black vinyl satchel, Robin and I were in the living room playing hearts and she got up to get the door. We rarely played cards; her idea.

I made the introductions. Robin knew about the break-in and the bugging, but she smiled evenly and shook Sharavi's hand.

I heard the dog door slam shut, then Spike's mini-gallop across the kitchen floor. He raced into the living room, snorting and panting. Stopping several feet from Sharavi, he tightened his neck muscles and growled.

Robin stooped and tried to calm him. Spike barked and wouldn't stop. “What's the matter, handsome?”

“He doesn't like me,” said Sharavi. “I don't blame him. When I was here, I had to put him in the bathroom for a few minutes.”

Robin's smile withered.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Castagna. I used to have a dog of my own.”

“C'mon, handsome, we'll let them do business.” Spike followed her back into the kitchen.

“You're still willing to do this?” he said.

“Any reason I shouldn't be?”

“Sometimes people get enthusiastic, then they reconsider. And Ms. Castagna-”

“She's fine with it.”

We sat down and he placed the satchel on the table. “I've learned more about the New York lawyer, Farley Sanger. His last trip to Los Angeles was two weeks before Irit's murder. He stayed at the Beverly Hills Hotel and as far as we can tell, conducted business for his firm. So far, we've got no records of his being back since, but those kinds of things can be hidden.”

He removed papers. “Still no trace of Meta. After the publicity from Sanger's article, the group either dissolved or went underground. When it was active, the meetings were held in a building on Fifth Avenue. A very exclusive building and this particular suite houses the Loomis Foundation- a charitable group started by a wealthy Louisiana farming family over one hundred years ago. A relatively small foundation, from what we can tell. Last year they gave out less than three hundred thousand dollars. One-third went to a psychological study of twins in Illinois, another third to agricultural research, and the rest to various scientists conducting genetic studies.”

“Did the twin research have a genetic bent, also?”

“The researcher's a professor of comparative biology at a small college. These are the data.” He handed me a stapled reprint.

The journal was Proceedings of the Loomis Foundation, the title: Homogeneity of Traits and Longitudinal Patterns of Encoded Behavior in Monozygotic Twins Separated at Birth.

“Loomis… sounds familiar. What do they farm?”

“Tobacco, alfalfa, cotton. The Loomis family prided itself on its geneology- links to European nobility, that kind of thing.”

“Prided?” I said. “They're no longer around?”

“The family name died out but a few cousins remain and they run the business and the foundation. No new cash has been added to the principal for years.”

“Is there any record of their funding Meta?”

“Not so far, but the fact that Meta used their office says something.”

“And controversy from Sanger's article could attract unwanted attention.”

“Exactly. So maybe that's why the group was disbanded.”

“Or moved to L.A.,” I said. “Loomis- one sec.” I went into my office and pulled The Brain Drain from a shelf.