Breakdown

Chapter 18

As I walked in my front door, my mobile chirped. True to her word, Karen Jackson.

I said, “That was quick.”

“But unfortunately not too helpful, Dr. Delaware. Joel and Greer have no inkling about Zelda’s personal life. Greer did say that Zelda being ‘different’ was the reason she cast her as Corinna.”

“Corinna was an especially eccentric character?”

“Considering the type of show it was? No, not really. Corinna was basically a slut with a low I.Q. Greer’s point was that Zelda had a talent for getting weird on demand, probably because she was odd in the first place. So they decided to capitalize on that. I know it sounds exploitative, but that’s the way it is, Dr. Delaware. Like you said, cattle.”

“Appreciate your trying, Karen.”

“One more thing, I couldn’t find Zelda’s contract but I did come across her health insurance application and on it she listed her agent as Stan Guest. I’ve never heard of him and he doesn’t come up in any of our records, so he may no longer be in the industry. Greer didn’t remember him at all and Joel has a vague memory of his being ‘a minor-league old guy.’ But maybe you can locate him and he’ll be able to tell you something.”

“Again, Karen, thanks.”

“One more thing, talk about a warning sign,” she said. “The form asks for family members and Zelda listed ‘father of my only son.’ She put down his name as Joseph Bethlehem, living at her address. I searched, just in case, but of course it wasn’t real. Guess she saw herself as the Virgin Mary.”

And eventually, God.

“She was so ill, Doctor. Nobody noticed.”

Twenty-three Stan or Stanley Guests floating in cyberspace. Of the three in California, Stanley Z., seventy-one, at a Northridge address kicked out by a real estate site, seemed the most likely. Number listed in the directory; maybe he was still trolling for business.

The man who picked up said, “Guest residence, Jamal.”

“Mr. Guest, please.”

“What about?”

“This is Dr. Alex Delaware. I’m looking for a Stan Guest who represented a patient. Was Mr. Guest once a TV agent?”

A beat. “Yeah, so?”

“The patient just passed away and—”

“Sir. Stan can’t tell you anything, he’s got Alzheimer’s end stage.”

“Sorry to hear that. Are there family members I could talk to?”

“The guy who was his partner bailed after the first six months.”

“And you—”

“I’m a home-hospice worker.”

“So Mr. Guest is nonverbal.”

“Sir. He’s non-everything.”

Joseph Bethlehem.

Lou Sherman had missed the extent of Zelda’s disease and I’d returned a five-year-old to her custody.

Don Quixote whispered in my ear: “Give it up, fool. You’re only going to feel worse.”

I called in for messages. Two from lawyers, whose questions I took care of quickly. Saving the best for last: Milo, a few minutes ago.

He said, “There’s someone you’ll want to meet. Can you be in Culver City in, say, thirty?”

“I was just there.” I started to summarize the talk with Karen Jackson.

He said, “This might be worth a return trip.”

Dr. William Bernstein, senior pathologist at the crypt, was midfifties, built strong and blocky, with a wide pug-nosed face crowned by kinky gray-blond hair. Square steel-rimmed bifocals were a bad cosmetic choice but they did the job, magnifying pale-blue eyes that remained skeptical when at rest.

He sat at a sidewalk table in front of a gourmet sandwich shop named Lauren’s. Four blocks east of where I’d met Karen Jackson.

Lauren was Bernstein’s wife, a pretty brunette twenty years his junior. She owned the place and worked the counter with a young Latin guy. Bernstein was here because her car was in the shop and he’d quit work early to drive her home.

“Wild Bill beckons, you obey,” Milo had explained. “He’s got no patience for bullshit or anything else.”

Bernstein acknowledged both of us with what would’ve been a minimal nod if he were in the mood to burn calories. A tall beer and a pressed sandwich sat in front of him. Impressive creation, the sandwich, a twelve-inch roll teeming with meat and cheese, pickles and peppers. Half eaten, but Bernstein hadn’t unfolded his napkin. His black suit, white shirt, and red tie were spotless.

He looked at me and said, “The psychologist,” turned to Milo and said, “You.”

Milo eyed the sandwich. “Cuban?”

“Cuban expatriate, it started as a Florida thing, feeding the cigar rollers. She’s taken it to a new level, this is her upgrade of mixto, veal instead of ham, sliced sweetbreads instead of tongue. Fifteen bucks. Buy one, it’s worth it.”

Milo said, “Sure,” and went to comply.

Bernstein cocked an eyebrow at me.

I said, “Just had lunch.”

“Your loss.” He got up, told the counter-boy something, returned, took two surgical bites, and said, “She’s a genius.”

Seconds after Milo’s return, the counter-boy hurried over with his sandwich, glancing nervously at Bernstein. Bernstein ignored him, Milo said, “Thanks,” and the kid scurried off.

“New hire,” said the pathologist. “We’ll see.” To Milo: “Eat.”

Wild Bill commands, you ingest.

As Milo got to work chomping, Bernstein finished his food and his beer, flicked the napkin open the way a magician unfurls a silk handkerchief, and set about dabbing his mouth for no apparent purpose.

Milo put down his sandwich.

“Don’t stop on my account,” said Bernstein. “Knowing you, you’ll probably want another.” His smile was stingy, knowing, sour. “No discounts for bulk purchase. Heh.”

Refolding the napkin into a square as equilateral as his glasses, he said, “Colchicine. Get your pad out, I’ll spell it for you.”