Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

The other two citations were dated two years later, also parties to finance the “compassionate, nonprofit programs” of the clinic. No mention of Weider or Boestling; by then they’d split up and dropped several social rungs.

What the two hits did offer was a roster of Women’s Wellness’s professional staff.

Alphabetized list. A name as blatant as a scar, sandwiched among M.D.s and Ph.D.s, chiropractors, counselors, art therapists, massage specialists.

Drew Daney, M.Div., Pastoral Consultant.

The growling noise behind me raised the short hairs on the back of my neck.

” ‘I do some work with nonprofits,’ ” Milo said. “Sure you do, dude. You’re a regular fucking saint.”

“Maybe he gets a kickback,” I said. “Percentage of total billings. An additional incentive to get them pregnant and terminated.”

“Additional?”

“Something like that is never just about money.”

We moved to the kitchen and I brewed coffee.

“At the very least, this guy’s abusing young girls,” said Milo. “If he’s done everything we’ve wondered about, he’s a dimestore Manson. Problem is I can’t do a damn thing about it because officially I’m not allowed to have access to the girls’ medical files. Even with the files there’s no proof Daney was responsible for the pregnancies.”

“As a psychologist, I’m obligated to report abuse,” I said. “The rules of evidence don’t apply.”

“How much proof do you need in order to report?”

“The law says suspicion of abuse. What that means is unclear. Every time I’ve tried to get clarification- from the medical board, my lawyer, the state psych association- I’ve failed. I know colleagues who’ve gotten into trouble for reporting and those who’ve been screwed because they didn’t.”

“The law’s an ass,” he said, bypassing the coffee and getting a beer from the fridge. “One thing puzzles me, Alex. Even with kickbacks, Daney getting all those girls pregnant would be dangerous. Be easier to get them birth control, or use some himself, than risk their telling someone.”

“They haven’t told yet,” I said. “Or maybe they did and no one listened.”

“The poor Ramos kid.”

I nodded. “Even if Daney didn’t murder anyone else, if he was the father of her child, he’s responsible, on some level, for her death.”

He popped his beer but didn’t drink. “So how do I find out?”

“How about this: I could try to talk to Leticia Hollings and Beth Scoggins. Couch it as a general inquiry into foster care. If they mention or hint about being exploited, I’ll have a clear obligation to notify the police.”

“Any police in particular?”

“In a pinch, you’ll do.”

He smiled weakly. “The problem is, Alex, if you approach them as a police surrogate, the confidentiality thing will still get in the way of a criminal investigation.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “I began as a police consultant but veered off to independent research.”

“Thought that was a cover story.”

“It could be real.”

He looked up. “How so?”

“I learned about Lee Ramos’s suicide working with you and got intrigued on an intellectual level.”

“Intrigued about what?”

“The relationship between foster care and suicide. The articles I published years ago on stress and abuse would make it a natural.”

“You still do research?”

“Haven’t for a while, but I’m a full professor and full professors get to do what they want.”

“When did you get promoted?”

“Last year.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“No big deal,” I said. “It’s a clinical appointment. What it boils down to is once in a while they ask me to supervise an intern or a grad student, serve on an ad hoc committee, or read a research proposal.”

“You get paid for that?”

“No,” I said. “It’s my way of giving back.” I formed a halo with my hands and held it over my head.

“What a guy,” he said. “You don’t look a day over associate professor.”

His phone beeped. “Sturgis. Oh hi… yeah, long time… you’re kidding. That’s great. Thanks a mill. I owe you big time.”

Wide smile. Long time since I’d seen that.

“That was Coroner’s Investigator Nancy Martino, R.N. She found tissue samples from Kristal Malley’s autopsy stored in a cooler. Kidney and stomach sections. Some of it looks degraded but there might be enough for analysis. They’ll hold it until I give them the word.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“For what it’s worth.” His smile died.

“Now what?”

“What’s the DNA really gonna do, Alex? Confirm what we already know from the eye color: The cowboy wasn’t Kristal’s daddy. What it won’t accomplish is get me any closer to Malley for Rand. Or to Daney for whatever bad stuff he did.”

He tapped a calypso beat against the beer bottle. “Two bad guys, no leads, life is beautiful.”

“Better than no bad guys.”

“How comforting,” he said. “You must be a therapist.”

Icopied down Leticia Hollings’s phone number in Temecula and Milo got Elisabeth Mia Scoggins’s last-known address from the DMV in Santa Monica; it matched a phone book listing for Scoggins, E.

Chucking his beer bottle, he saw himself out.

Beth Scoggins lived in an apartment on Twentieth Street near Pico. Low-rent section of the beach city, but the thought that she’d achieved some sort of independence was encouraging.

It was seven-fifteen p.m. Allison’s office was on Montana, the high-rent north end of Santa Monica. I knew she was booked with patients until nine but her usual dinner break was at eight. If I managed to set up a meeting with Beth Scoggins, maybe I’d have time to drop in later…

Mr. Halo.

A young woman picked up the phone, sounding wary.

“Ms. Scoggins?”

“This is Beth.”

I gave her my name and my title, asked if she’d be willing to talk about her experiences in foster care.

“How’d you find me?” she said.

Panic in her voice made me want to back down. But that might scare her more. “I’m doing research- ”

“Is this… is this some kind of rip-off?”

“No, I really am a psychol- ”

“ What research? What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry if- ”

“What re search ?”

“The stresses of foster care.”

Silence.

“I consult to the police and a young woman who was cared for by the same people who cared for you was found- ”

“ Cared for? Is that what you said? Cared for? What’s your name?”

I told her.

Scratching sounds; copying it down.

“Ms. Scog- ”

“You shouldn’t be calling me. This is wrong.”

Click.

I sat there feeling dirty. Plenty of time to drop in on Allison now, but I was in no mood to be social. Logging onto my med school computer account, I ran an Ovid search on suicide and foster care, found no objective studies, only suggestions that kids taken out of their homes were at risk for all kinds of problems.

Gee thanks, academia.

I thought of calling Beth Scoggins back. Couldn’t see any way that wouldn’t make things worse. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. Give her time to consider…

By eight I was starting to feel the need to eat. Not hunger, more like an obligation to keep my blood sugar up. Maybe I’d be useful to someone.

As I was contemplating canned soup versus tuna, Robin called.

The sound of her voice tightened my scalp.