The Murder Book

CHAPTER 15

Leisure was the last thing I needed. The moment the door closed, I reached for the phone.

Larry Daschoff and I have known each other since grad school. After our internships, I took a professorship at the med school crosstown and worked the cancer wards at Western Pediatric Medical Center, and he went straight into private practice. I stayed single and he married his high school sweetheart, sired six kids, made a good living, converted his square-meal-in-a-round-can defensive-guard physique to middle-aged fat, watched his wife go back to law school, took up golf. Now, he was a young grandfather, living on investment income, wintering in Palm Desert.

I reached him at his condo, there. It had been some time since we'd spoken, and I asked him about the wife and kids.

"Everyone's great."

"Especially the Ultimate Grandchild."

"Well, as long as you asked, yes Samuel Jason Daschoff is clearly the messenger of the Second Coming- another Jewish savior. Little guy just turned two and has evolved from sweetness and light to age-appropriate obnoxiousness. Let me tell you, Alex, there's no revenge sweeter than watching your own kids contend with the crap they shoveled at you."

"I'll bet," I said, wondering if I'd ever know.

"So," said Larry, "how've you been doing?"

"Keeping busy. I'm actually calling you about a case."

"I figured as much."

"Oh?"

"You were always task-oriented, Alex."

"You're saying I can't be purely sociable?"

"Like I can be purely skinny. What kind of case, therapy or the bad stuff you do with the constabulary?"

"The bad stuff."

"Still subjecting yourself to that."

"Still."

"I guess I can understand the motivation," he said. "It's a helluva lot more exciting than breathing in angst all day, and you were never one to sit still. So how can I help you?"

I described Caroline Cossack, without mentioning names. Asked him to guess where a teen that troubled might've been schooled twenty years back.

"Dosing Rover with cyanide?" he said. "Impolite. How come she didn't end up in trouble?"

"Maybe family connections," I said, as I realized incarceration would be an excellent reason not to have a social security card, and neither Milo nor I had thought of checking prison records. Both of us thrown off kilter.

"A rich, not-nice kid," said Larry. "Well, back then there was no real place for a run-of-the-mill dangerous delinquent other than the state hospital system- Camarillo. But I suppose a rich family could've placed her somewhere cushy."

"I was thinking Achievement House or Valley Educational, or their out-of-state counterparts."

"Definitely not Valley Educational, Alex. I consulted there, and they stayed away from delinquents, concentrated on learning probs. Even back then they were getting fifteen-grand tuition, had a two-year waiting list, so they could afford to be picky. Unless the family covered up the extent of the girl's pathology, but that kind of violent tendency would be hard to suppress for very long. As far as Achievement House, I never had any direct experience with them, but I know someone who did. Right around that time period, too, now that I think about it- nineteen, twenty years ago. Not a pretty situation."

"For the students?"

"For the someone I know. Remember when I used to do mentoring for the department- undergrads considering psych as a career? One of my mentorees was a freshman girl, precocious, barely seventeen. She got herself a volunteer placement at Achievement House."

"What problems did she have there?"

"The director got… overtly Freudian with her."

"Sexual harassment?"

"Back then it was just called mashing and groping. Despite her age, the girl was a clearheaded feminist way ahead of her time, complained to the board of directors, who promptly gave her the boot. She talked to me about pursuing it- she was really traumatized- and I offered to back her up if she wanted to take it further, but in the end she decided not to. She knew it was his word against hers, he was the respected health administrator, and she was a good-looking teenager who wore her skirts too short. I supported the decision. What would she have gained other than a mess?"

"Was there ever any suggestion the director was molesting students?"

"Not that I heard."

"Remember his name?"

"Alex, I really don't want my mentoree drawn into it."

"I promise she won't be."

"Larner. Michael Larner."

"Psychologist or psychiatrist?"

"Business type- administrator."

"Are you still in touch with the mentoree?"

"Occasionally. Mostly for cross-referrals. She stayed on track, graduated summa, got her Ph.D. at Penn, did a fellowship at Michigan, moved back here. She's got a nice Westside practice."

"Is there any way to ask her if she'd talk to me?"

Silence. "You think this is important."

"Honestly, I don't know, Larry. If asking her will put you in a difficult position, forget it."

"Let me think about it," he said. "I'll let you know."

"That would be great."

"Great?" he said.

"Extremely helpful."

"You know," he said, "right as we speak, I've got my feet up and my belt loosened and I'm looking out at miles of clean white sand. Just finished a plate of chile rellenos con mucho cerveza. Just let out a sonic-boom belch and no one's around to give me a funny look. To me, that's great."

I heard from him an hour later. "Her name's Allison Gwynn, and you can call her. But she definitely doesn't want to get involved in any police business."

"No problem," I said.

"So," he said. "How's everything else?"

"Everything's fine."

"We should get together for dinner. With the women. Next time we come into town."

"Good idea," I said. "Call me, Larry. Thanks."

"Everything's really okay?"

"Sure. Why do you ask?"

"Don't know… you sound a bit… tentative. But maybe it's just that I haven't talked to you in a while."

I called Dr. Allison Gwynn at her Santa Monica exchange.

A you-have-reached-the-office tape answered, but when I mentioned my name, a soft-around-the-edges female voice broke in.

"This is Allison. It's funny, Larry calling out of the blue and asking if I'd talk to you. I've been reading some articles on pain control, and a couple were yours. I do some work at St. Agnes Hospice."

"Those articles are ancient history."

"Not really," she said. "People and their pain don't change that much, most of what you said still holds true. Anyway, Larry says you want to know about Achievement House. It's been a long time- nearly twenty years- since I had anything to do with that place."

"That's exactly the time period I'm interested in."

"What do you need to know?"

I gave her the same anonymous description of Caroline Cossack.

"I see," she said. "Larry assures me you'll be discreet."

"Absolutely."

"That's essential, Dr. Delaware. Look, I can't talk now, have a patient in two minutes and after that I'm running a group at the hospice. This evening, I'll be teaching, but in between I will be eating dinner- fiveish, or so. If you want to stop by, that's fine. I usually go to Café Maurice on Broadway near Sixth, because it's close to St. Agnes."

"I'll be there," I said. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem," she said. "I hope."

I endured the afternoon by running too fast for too long. Trudged up my front steps winded and dehydrated and checked the phone machine. Two hang-ups and a canned solicitation for discount home loans. I pressed *69 and traced the hang-ups to a harried woman in East L.A. who spoke only Spanish and had dialed a very wrong number, and a Montana Avenue boutique wondering if Robin Castagna would be interested in some new silk fashions from India.

"I guess I should've left a message," said the nasal girl on the other end, "but the owner likes us to make personal contact. So do you think Robin might be interested? According to our records, she bought a bunch of cool stuff last year."

"When I talk to her, I'll ask her."

"Oh, okay… you could come in yourself, you know. Do like a gift thing? If she doesn't like it, we'll give her full store credit on return. Women love to be surprised."

"Do they?"

"Oh, sure. Totally."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"You really should. Women love when guys like surprise them."

"Like a trip to Paris," I said.

"Paris?" She laughed. "You can surprise me with that- don't tell Robin I said that, okay?"

At 4 P.M., I stepped out the kitchen door to the rear patio, crossed the garden to Robin's studio, unlocked the cool vaulted room, and walked around smelling wood dust and lacquer and Chanel No. 19 and listening to the echos of my footsteps. She'd swept the floor clean, packed her tools, put everything in its place.

Afternoon sun streamed through the windows. Beautiful space in perfect order. It felt like a crypt.

I returned to the house and skimmed the morning paper. The world hadn't changed much; why did I feel so altered? At four-thirty, I showered, got dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, clean blue jeans, brown suede loafers. At ten after five, I walked into Café Maurice.

The restaurant was compact and dark, with a copper-topped bar and a half dozen tables set with white linen. The walls were raised walnut panels, the ceiling repousse tin. Inoffensive music on low volume competed with low conversation among three white-aproned waiters old enough to be my father. I couldn't help but think of the Left Bank bistro where Robin had told me of her plans.

I buttoned my jacket and allowed my eyes to acclimate. The sole patron was a dark-haired woman at a center table peering into a glass of burgundy. She wore a form-fitted, whiskey-colored tweed jacket over a cream silk blouse, a long, oatmeal-colored skirt with a slit up the side, beige calfskin boots with substantial heels. A big leather bag sat on the chair next to her. She looked up as I approached and gave a tentative smile.

"Dr. Gwynn? Alex Delaware."

"Allison." She placed her bag on the floor and held out a slender white hand. We shook, and I sat.

She was a long-stemmed beauty out of John Singer Sargent. Ivory face, soft but assertive cheekbones highlighted with blush, a wide strong mouth shaded coral. Huge, judiciously lined deep blue eyes under strong, arching brows studied me. Warm scrutiny, no intrusiveness; her patients would appreciate that. Her hair was a sheet of true black that hung midway down her back. Circling one wrist was a diamond tennis bracelet; the other sported a gold watch. Baroque pearls dotted each earlobe, and a gold link cameo necklace rested on her breastbone.

Her hand returned to her wineglass. Good manicure, French-tipped nails left just long enough to avoid frivolousness. I knew she was thirty-six or -seven but despite the tailored clothes, the baubles, the cosmetics, she looked ten years younger.

"Thanks for your time," I said.

"I wasn't sure if you were a punctual person," she said, "so I ordered for myself. I only have an hour till class." Same gentle voice as over the phone. She waved, and one of the ancient waiters tore himself away from the staff confab, brought a menu, and hovered.

"What do you recommend?" I asked.

"The entrecôte is great. I like it rare and bloody, but they've got a pretty good selection of more virtuous stuff if you're not into red meat."

The waiter tapped his foot. "What're you drinking, sir? We've got a good selection of microbrews." I'd expected a Gallic accent, but his drawl was pure California- surfer boy grown old- and I found myself musing about a future where grandmothers would be named Amber and Heather and Tawny and Misty.

"Grolsch," I said. "And I'll have the entrecôte, medium rare."

He left and Allison Gwynn smoothed already-smooth hair and twirled her wineglass. She avoided my eyes.

"What kind of work do you do at St. Agnes?" I said.

"You know the place."

"I know of it."

"Just some volunteer work," she said. "Mostly helping the staff cope. Do you still work in oncology?"

"No, not for a while."

She nodded. "It can be tough." She drank some wine.

"Where do you teach?" I said.

"The U., adult extension. This quarter I'm doing Personality Theory and Human Relations."

"All that and a practice. Sounds like a busy schedule," I said.

"I'm a workaholic," she said, with sudden cheer. "Hyperactivity channeled in a socially appropriate manner."

My beer arrived. We both drank. I was about to get down to substance, when she said, "The girl you described. Would that be Caroline Cossack?"

I put down my mug. "You knew Caroline?"

"So it was her."

"How did you know?"

"From your description."

"She stood out?"

"Oh, yes."

"What can you tell me about her?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. She stood out because of how they labeled her. There was a pink tab on her chart, the only one I'd seen. And I'd seen most of the charts, was a gofer that summer, running errands, picking up and delivering files. They used a color-coding system to alert the staff if a kid had a medical problem. Yellow for juvenile diabetes, blue for asthma, that kind of thing. Caroline Cossack's tab was pink and when I asked someone what that meant, they said it was a behavioral warning. High risk for acting out. That and your saying it might be a police case helped me put it together."

"So Caroline was high risk for violence."

"Someone thought so, back then."

"What specifically were they worried about?" I said.

"I don't know. She never did anything wrong during the month I was there."

"But she was the only one labeled like that."

"Yes," she said. "There weren't a lot of kids, period. Maybe thirty. Back then Achievement House was exactly what it is today: a repository for rich kids who fail to perform to their parents' expectations. Chronically truant, drug-abusing, noncompliant, children of the dream."

I thought: Take away the dream and you had Janie and Melinda.

"But," she went on, "they were basically harmless kids. Other than the obvious sneaky doping and drinking, nothing seriously antisocial went on that I saw."

"Harmless kids locked up," I said.

"It wasn't that draconian," she said. "More carrot than stick. High-priced baby-sitting. They locked the doors at night, but it didn't feel like a prison."

"What else can you tell me about Caroline?"

"She didn't seem scary, at all. I recall her as quiet and passive. That's why the behavioral warning surprised me."

She licked her lips, moved her wineglass aside. "That's really all I can tell you. I was a student volunteer, fresh out of high school, didn't ask questions." Her face tilted to the left. The enormous blue eyes didn't blink. "Bringing up that place is… not the most fun thing I've done all week. Larry told you about my experience there with Larner."

I nodded.

"If the same thing happened today," she said, "you can bet I'd be a lot more proactive. Probably page Gloria Allred, close that place down, and walk away with a settlement. But I'm not blaming myself for how I handled it. So… have you worked with the police for a while?"

"A few years."

"Do you find it difficult?"

"Difficult in what way?" I said.

"All the authoritarian personalities, for starts."

"Mostly, I deal with one detective," I said. "He's a good friend."

"Oh," she said. "So you find it fulfilling."

"It can be."

"What aspect?"

"Trying to explain the unexplainable."

One of her hands covered the other. Jewelry everywhere else, but no rings on her fingers. Why had I noticed that?

I said, "If you don't mind, I have a few more questions about Caroline."

She grinned. "Go ahead."

"Did you have much personal contact with her?"

"Nothing direct, but I was allowed to sit in on some therapy groups, and she was in one of them. General purpose rap session. The leader tried to draw her out, but Caroline never talked, would just stare at the floor and pretend not to hear. I could tell she was taking it in, though. When she got upset, her facial muscles twitched."

"What upset her?"

"Any personal probing."

"What was she like physically?" I said.

"All this interest twenty years later?" she said. "You can't tell me what she did?"

"She may have done nothing," I said. "Sorry to be evasive, but this is all very preliminary." Unofficial, too. "A lot of my work is random archaeology."

Both her hands cupped her wineglass. "No gory details? Aw shucks." She laughed, showed perfect teeth. "I'm not sure I'd really want to know, anyway. Okay, Caroline, physically… this is all through the perspective of my seventeen-year-old eyes. She was short, kind of mousy… a little chubby- unkempt. Stringy hair… mousy brown, she wore it to here." She leveled a hand at her own shoulder. "It always looked unwashed. She had acne… what else? She had a defeated posture, as if something heavy sat on her shoulders. The kids were allowed to dress any way they wanted, but Caroline always wore the same shapeless dresses- old lady's housedresses. I wonder where she found them."

"Dressing down," I said. "She sounds depressed."

"Definitely."

"Did she hang around with the other kids?"

"No, she was a loner. Shleppy, withdrawn. I guess today I'd look at her and be thinking schizoid."

"But they saw her as potentially aggressive."

"They did."

"How'd she spend her time?"

"Mostly she sat in her room by herself, dragged herself to meals, returned alone. When I'd pass her in the hall, I'd smile and say hello. But I kept my distance because of the pink tab. A couple of times I think she nodded back, but mostly she shuffled on, keeping her eyes down."

"Was she medicated?"

"I never read her chart. Now that I think about it, it's possible."

"The group leader who tried to draw her out. Do you remember a name?"

"Jody Lavery," she said. "She was a clinical social worker- very nice to me when I had my problem with Larner. Years later I ran into her at a convention, and we ended up becoming friends, did some cross-referring. But forget about talking to her. She died two years ago. And she and I never talked about Caroline. Caroline was more of a nonentity than an entity. If not for the pink tab, I probably wouldn't have paid her any attention, at all. In fact, the only-"

"Sir, madam," said the waiter. Our dishes were set in place, and we cut into our steaks.

"Excellent," I said, after the first bite.

"Glad you like it." She speared a french fry.

"You were about to say something."

"Was I?"

"You were talking about Caroline not being memorable. Then you said 'In fact, the only- ' "

"Hmm- oh yes, I was saying the only person I ever saw her talk to was one of the maintenance men. Willie something… a black guy… Willie Burns. I remember his name because it was the same as Robert Burns and I recall thinking there was nothing Scottish about him."

"He paid special attention to Caroline?"

"I suppose you could say that. Once or twice I came across him and Caroline chatting in the hall, and they moved apart very quickly and Willie resumed working. And one time I did see Willie coming out of Caroline's room, carrying a mop and broom. When he saw me, he said she'd been sick, he was cleaning up. Volunteering an explanation. It was kind of furtive. Whatever the situation, Burns didn't stick around long. One week, he was there, then he was gone and Caroline went back to being alone."

"A week," I said.

"It seemed like a short period."

"Do you remember what month this was?"

"Had to be August. I was only there during August."

Janie Ingalls had been murdered in early June.

"How old was Willy Burns?"

"Not much older than Caroline- maybe twenty, twenty-one. I thought it was nice, someone paying attention to her. Do you know something about him?"

I shook my head. "You didn't read the chart, but did you ever hear why Caroline was sent to Achievement House?"

"I assumed the same reason every other kid was: unable to jump high hurdles. I know that world, Alex. Grew up in Beverly Hills, my dad was an assistant attorney general. I thought I wanted something simple, would never return to California."

"Larry said you went to Penn for grad school."

"Went to Penn and loved it. Then I spent a couple of years at Ann Arbor, came back to Penn and took an assistant professorship. If it had been up to me, I'd have stayed back East. But I married a Wharton guy and he got a fantastic job offer at Union Oil here in L.A. and all of a sudden we were living in a condo on the Wilshire Corridor and I was cramming for the California boards."

"Sounds like things have worked out," I said.

She'd speared steak on her fork and dipped it in bearnaise. The meat remained suspended for a moment, then she placed the fork down on her plate. "Life was rolling along quite nicely, then three summers ago, my father woke up at 4 A.M. with chest pains and my mom called us in a panic. Grant- my husband- and I rushed over and the three of us took Dad to the hospital and while they were working him up, Grant wandered off. I was so caught up supporting Mom and waiting for the verdict on Dad that I didn't pay much attention. Finally, just as they told us Dad was fine- gastric reflux- and we could take him home, Grant showed up and from the look on his face, I knew something was wrong. We didn't talk until after we dropped Mom and Dad off. Then he told me he hadn't been feeling well for a while- bad stomachaches. He'd figured it was job stress, kept thinking the pain would go away, was eating antacids like candy, hadn't wanted to alarm me. But then the pain got unbearable. So while we were at the hospital, he got hold of a doctor he knew- a Penn golfing buddy- and had x rays taken. And they found spots all over. A rare bile-duct tumor that had spread. Five weeks later, I was the mourning widow, living back with Mom and Dad."

"I'm sorry."

She nudged her plate away. "It's rude of me to unload like this." Another tentative smile. "I'll blame it on your being too good a listener."

Without thinking, I reached out and patted her hand. She squeezed my fingers, then spider-walked away, took hold of her wineglass, drank while staring past me.

I took a healthy swallow of beer.

"Want to hear something funny?" she said. "Tonight I'm lecturing about post-traumatic stress. Listen, Alex, it's been nice meeting you, and good luck with whatever you're trying to do, but I've really got to run."

She summoned the waiter, and, over her objections, I paid the check. She removed a gold compact and lipstick from her bag, freshened her mouth, touched a long, black eyelash, checked her face in the mirror. We got up from the table. I'd figured her for tall, but in three-inch heels she wasn't more than five-five. Another little looker. Just like Robin.

We left the restaurant together. Her car was a ten-year-old black Jaguar XJS convertible that she stepped into with agility and revved hard. I watched her drive away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the road.