Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

Dugger rubbed his thinning hair. His eyes were feverish. “She had terrific potential, Detective. This is a just a god-awful waste .”

“Did she ever tell you about any other jobs she’d held?”

“That would be on her personnel form.”

“It never came up in conversation?”

“No.”

“I’d like to see her personnel form, sir. As well as any other data on Lauren you have at hand.”

Dugger sighed. “I’ll try to have them ready for you tomorrow. Come by the Newport office after eleven.”

Milo walked back to where I sat, remained on his feet. “Thank you, sir… Apart from filling out the form, did Lauren say anything about her professional background?”

“Professional?” said Dugger. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Dr. Dugger, can you think of anything that might help us? Anyone at all who resented Lauren or would’ve had reason to harm her?”

“No,” said Dugger. “All of us liked her.” To me: “How did you connect me with Lauren anyway?”

“Your name was among her effects,” said Milo.

“Her effects.” Dugger’s eyes closed for a second. “So… pathetic.”

Milo thanked him again, and we walked to the door. Before Dugger could get to the knob, Milo took hold of it. Held it in place. “Are you married, Dr. Dugger?”

“Divorced.”

“Recently?”

“Five years ago.”

“Children?”

“Luckily, no.”

“Luckily?”

“Divorce scars children,” said Dugger. “Would you like to know my blood type as well?”

Milo grinned. “Not at this point, sir. Oh – one more thing: the experiment – how long has it been running?”

“This particular phase has lasted around a year,” said Dugger.

“How many phases have there been?”

“Several,” said Dugger. “It’s a long-term interest of ours.”

“Interpersonal space.”

“That’s right.”

“We found some notes in Lauren’s effects,” said Milo. “Your name and number and something about intimacy. Is that the same study?”

Dugger smiled. “So that’s it. No, it’s nothing sexy, Detective. And yes, it’s the same study. Intimacy – in a psychosocial sense – is a component of interpersonal space, sir. In fact, the ad Lauren answered used the term intimacy .”

“In order to…”

“As an eye-catcher, yes,” said Dugger.

“For marketing purposes,” said Milo.

“You could put it that way.”

“Okay, then.” Milo turned the knob. “So you have absolutely no knowledge of Ms. Teague’s prior work history?”

“You keep coming back to that.”

Milo turned to me. “Guess she wouldn’t have brought it up with someone like Dr. Dugger.”

“What are you getting at?” said Dugger.

“Your being her teacher and all that, sir. Someone she looked up to. You’d be the last person she’d tell.”

He opened the door.

“Tell what?” said Dugger.

Milo’s big face took on the burden of so many sad Irish centuries. “Well, sir, you’re likely to read about it in the paper, so there’s no sense avoiding it. Before Lauren showed up at your door – before she became a student – she had a history of exotic dancing and prostitution.”

A shudder ran down Dugger’s body. “You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I’m afraid I am, sir.”

“Oh, my,” said Dugger, reaching for the doorpost. “You’re right… She never mentioned that. That’s very… tragic.”

“Her death or working as a prostitute?”

Dugger turned away, faced the glass.

“All of it,” he said. “Everything.”

ON THE WAY OUT, Milo bellowed a cheery “Bye-bye” to Gerald the doorman.

We drove up Ocean. Night had settled in, streetlights were hazed, the ocean was reduced to a slash of reflection.

“He blushed the first time you used the word sexy , and he was sweating,” I said. “Did plenty of his own eye calisthenics, mostly when you suggested something personal between him and Lauren.”

“Yeah, but he looked genuinely shocked when he found out Lauren was dead.”

“Yes, he did,” I admitted. “I thought he was going to fall down. Still, that’s a strong reaction for an employer, wouldn’t you say?”

He guided the wheel with one finger. “So maybe he was screwing her – or wanted to. Doesn’t mean he killed her.”

“True. Then again, he could be characterized as an intellectual with bucks – nice penthouse. Be interesting to get a look at his bankbook, see if there are any withdrawals that match Lauren’s deposits.”

“No way to do that,” he said. “Not at this point. The guy’s not even close to warrant material – at this point he’s done nothing to even justify a reinterview. But after I have a look at Lauren’s time cards tomorrow, I’ll check out some of those coffee shops he mentioned. If anyone saw hanky-panky between him and Lauren, I’ll start talking to the D.A.”

“Want me there?”

He chewed his cheek. “No, I think I’d better do this alone. Got to be careful procedurally.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“Well,” he said, smiling, “I don’t know how anyone couldn’t like you, but right now I’m shining in comparison. Let me ask you about that experiment of his. Sound kosher?”

“Hard to say. I wonder who his client is.”

“What if Lauren did get to know one of the subjects – put two people in a room and who knows what can happen. Or suppose a subject got turned on to her, decided to pursue it, and it turned ugly.”

“Or what you suggested: A subject found out he’d been conned, didn’t like that one bit. He claims confidentiality, but how hard would it be for a guy to sit and wait for Lauren to come out.”

“I’d love to have his subject list, but unless he decides to cooperate voluntarily, forget it. Maybe I’ll appeal to his sense of morality – he strikes me as someone who likes to think of himself as upstanding, buying stuff for poor kids. He’s already been tenderized – maybe he’ll bleed some.”

He turned right on Wilshire, cruised past the Third Street Promenade, glanced at shoppers strolling, panhandlers trolling.

“What about his ex-wife?” I said. “If anyone’s gonna debeatify him, who better?”

He smiled. “You want to knock him off his pedestal.”

“Maybe I do,” I said. “I guess something about him bugs me – too good to be true.”

“Tsk, tsk, such cynicism.”

“Comes from spending too much time with you.”

“About time you learned,” he said.

Lauren’s murder rated three back-page Metro paragraphs in the next morning’s Times . The story listed her as a student.

I’d woken up thinking Benjamin Dugger. And Shawna Yeager.

The fact that Dugger’s intimacy ad had run during the weeks before both women’s disappearances – Milo was right about there being no logical connection, but rationality was his province; I was free to be foolish.

I turned it over for a while, decided to look for Adam Green, the student journalist who’d covered Shawna’s story.

Back to the phone book, the four Green, Adams. In 310; Lord knew how many others existed in the panoply of area codes that blanketed L.A. I began calling, got two wrong numbers, a disconnected line, then a phone message that sounded promising:

“This is Adam Green. I may be out seeking inspiration or slaving away at my word processor or just pursuing pleasure. Either way, if you don’t think life sucks, leave a message.”

Nasal baritone. Boy to man.

I said, “Mr. Green, this is Alex Delaware. I’m a psychologist working with the L.A. Police Department and would like to talk to you about Shawna Yeag-”