Breakdown

Chapter 33

Alone in my office, I thought about Zina Rutherford, born to rejection and hostility, rendered helpless soon after. I could only imagine her childhood. But somehow, she’d survived.

Coming to L.A. to reinvent herself, floundering, failing. As her big sister made the scene in Malibu, Beverly Hills, Bel Air.

A sister who despised her enough to ruin her?

Now Zelda, dead at the same woman’s hands.

Broken-down mother, broken-down daughter?

The next generation, a son I couldn’t locate.

Knowing what had happened to Ovid felt far out of reach, one of those moving targets you chase endlessly in dreams that don’t end up well.

Then I thought of something. The Ursula Corey case, again. Her husband’s divorce lawyer was a Beverly Hills octogenarian named Earl Cohen who’d broken confidentiality and helped break the case. Explaining the ethical lapse as a terminally ill old man doing what was right.

Skeletal, frail. They give me months, not years.

A year had passed. Scratch that.

I sat there awhile longer, found Cohen’s number in my book and was ready to call when my service rang with an urgent message from Judith Meers.

I phoned BrightMornings, Hollywood. She said, “Hi, Dr. Delaware. Chet Brett is here right now, and he says he’ll talk to you about Zelda Chase. But you know how it is, that could change any second. Are you close?”

“Forty minutes away. I’m leaving now.”

“Ooh,” she said. “I’ll try to keep him here — he’s always hungry, maybe snacks will help.”

I made it in thirty-four. Judy was behind the desk, working on her laptop. A couple of empty-eyed men sat in armchairs at the rear of the lobby, neither of them five-foot-tall Norwegians.

She said, “Sorry, he wouldn’t stay inside, went back to his car. Five minutes ago, he was still there, parked up that way.” Pointing east. “Approach him slowly and try not to alarm him. He may not remember your name.”

I hurried outside. The car had been in full sight but I’d walked right by. Pea-green Plymouth Valiant as old as my Seville but far less pampered. The rear compartment was piled to the roof with folded clothing and slices of cardboard. A man sat in the driver’s seat. I edged forward slowly. He was holding half of an Oreo in each hand and licking crème from the good side.

Warm day, but the windows were shut. I walked up to the front passenger window, waited to see if he’d turn. When he didn’t, I rapped softly. He curled his tongue back in his mouth and gave another lick. I waved to get his attention. Rapped again before he turned and studied me.

Homeless-ageless, anywhere from fifties to eighties, with a tiny, withered face under hair that looked like cotton wool. Yellow perforated Lakers jersey far too large for him. Magenta sweatpants.

I’d been told he was a small man but he sat in the driver’s seat as high as I did.

He kept staring at me while tonguing the cookie. I said, “Alex Delaware,” just loud enough for him to hear.

He pointed to the passenger door and mouthed a word. Open.

The car was hot, humid, ripe as a dumpster full of old produce. As I settled, another wave of aromas hit me. Vintage laundry basket, Lysol, a touch of fermenting cantaloupe. His legs proportional to the rest of his body, everything in miniature. Two cushions under his butt propped him. The pedals near his sneakers had been mechanically extended, a surprising touch of high-tech.

In his lap were packets of cheese crackers, licorice sticks, another set of Oreos.

“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Brett.”

“The full name is Carlsson Mathiass Brekken, two pairs of S’s, one pair of K’s. Double letters are good luck to the Chinese.” High-pitched voice, suggesting prepubescence.

“Thanks, Mr. Brek—”

“Eh eh eh eh eh eh, don’t get formal. To the world I’m the esteemed Chetley Bretley, aka Chet Brett aka me.” Deeply puckered lips spread, revealing a toothless maw. “I’m telling you to educate you. Don’t want to be Brekken anyone’s heart.”

My laugh was genuine.

He said, “That’s me, still crazy after all these years. You’re a doctor. You know Zelda.”

No sense complicating things with past tense. “I do.”

He began singing softly, in a surprisingly good alto. “If you knew Zelda, like I knew Zelda, oh, oh, oh, what a gal... so what’s going on with her?”

I hesitated for an instant but that was enough.

“Something bad,” he said. “No one comes to me with good news. Even the Chinese.”

“The worst, I’m afraid.”

“Really?” he said. “Really? That’s not good. When?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

“Really? How?”

“She ate something poisonous.”

“That makes no sense,” said Brett. “She was a slim girl, had no appetite for food, let alone poison.”

He nibbled the frosted Oreo half, chipping off bits with his gums until it was gone.

“Actresses,” he said. “Always watching their weight. I was a film director back in Oslo, made art movies. Made Citizen Kane but that didn’t work out so I switched to documentary movies on symptoms of depression among the palace royalty. I needed serious money so I resoled shoes in Gottenborg, that’s Sweden. After that, I worked in Copenhagen — you know that Little Mermaid sculpture by the harbor? I made it.”

Not a trace of Nordic accent.

I said, “Wow.”

“I’ve been known to wow.” He studied the remaining half cookie. Rotated it and said, “This could be the sun on an alien planet. I used to be an astronomer. Then I switched to engineering.” Tapping his right foot on the extended gas pedal. “Made these in Cal Tech, everyone wants one but I keep the formula to myself.”

I sat there as he worked on the other cookie half. Focused, meticulous, not a single falling crumb.

When he finished, I said, “So you and Zelda were friends.”

“Acquaintances,” said Brett. “Two ships passing on the street. How’s her boy? Judith said you knew the boy, your interest is the boy.”

“I saw him five years ago, would love to know he’s okay.”

“She felt bad about giving him up but I told her it was the right thing to do. Why wouldn’t he be okay?”

“With Zelda living on the street and now, deceased—”

“No problem,” said Chet Brett. “She gave him up before she hit the street.”

“Really.”

“Really really really really really. I met her soon after she hit the street. He wasn’t with her, I never saw him.”

“Where was he?”

“All she said was she missed him, was thinking of getting him so she could be with him. I told her not to, it wouldn’t work out, kids need TV and she had nowhere to plug in.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Time,” he said. “That’s also a magazine. It was... when she was out on the street. Near a flop on Fourth and L.A., I was eating beans out of a can, cut my finger opening it, blood was getting into the beans, everyone thought it was ketchup.”

“Near a flop.”

“Not inside,” said Chet Brett. “You could get a room with bugs if you saved up. I did. Zelda never did but I was outside anyway, eating red red beans. She showed up looking like a slim actress and put a blanket down next to my sleeping bag. Wrong thing for her to do, she was too young and clean for the adventurous life. When I found out she was an actress, I told her to go on auditions. You never know. Maybe she did. She’d be gone for days, come back looking like she’d lost something.”

“You have no idea when—”

“Let’s estimate. That’s how I built these.” Tapping the pedal. “Sometime between the world wars. Up in Scandinavia, all those northern lights, we use a different system of calendar computing. Not Gregorian, not Julian, we use Olafian. It makes predictions more difficult but also more relaxed.”

“Ah.”

“Ah so,” said Brett. “That’s Chinese for ‘there you go, Shogun. Give me a double letter.’ ”

He reached for a packet of cheese crackers, opened it carefully.

“So you never met Zelda’s son.”

“Never. But he’s okay. I feel it right here.” Patting the empty Oreo packet. “Way the cookie crumbles.”

“Did Zelda ever talk about Ovid?”

“That was his name?” said Chet Brett. “She just called him ‘my son.’ What else does a mother need to know? Sometimes she’d cry. Then she’d cry some more. One time I told her she needed to tell me what was bothering her so she could relax. She said she’d given him up because she had no money to take care of him but she wanted him back. I told her she did the right thing, why make a child starve? It didn’t make her feel better. But she listened.”

He scratched his head for a long time, reached down and crinkled the snacks in his lap. “Usually I can make people feel better. Next year, I’m going to be a psychiatrist. Maybe that’ll help.”

He began work on a cracker.

“Did Zelda ever talk about her mother?”

“She had one? No.”

“A sister?”

“Nope.”

“Did she mention anyone in her family—”

“She wasn’t into mentioning. Just lots of crying. Maybe she wore herself out. Emotionally. You can’t lubricate for that.”

“True. Anything else you want to tell me?”

“I like your shirt. Goes with your complexion.”

“Thanks.”

“That’ll be twenty bucks.”

I reached for my wallet.

Chet Brett said, “Just kidding, I can’t take payment. Not until I pass my boards. Next year, it’s going to cost you.”

I drove away wanting to feel reassured but knowing what I’d just heard was as reliable as a campaign promise.

Time to try Earl Cohen.

“Crazy man, probable dead man. What’s next.”

I realized I’d thought out loud. Talking to myself. As long as you didn’t move your lips — or held a cellphone to your mouth — you were fine.

At the next red light, I punched numbers.

“Earl Cohen’s office.”

“Dr. Alex Delaware calling for Mr. Cohen.”

“He’s in a meeting. Would you like his voicemail?”

“Please. So he’s okay?”

“Pardon — oh, that.” She laughed. “He’s fine.”

Cohen’s recorded voice, stronger than a year ago, declared: “This is Earl. Speak.”

I spoke.