Dr. Death

CHAPTER 11

ROY HAISELDEN WAS living better than his prime client, but he was no sultan.

His house was a peach-colored, one-story plain-wrap on Camden Avenue, west of Westwood, south of Wilshire. Mown lawn but no shrubs, empty driveway. Alarm-company sign staked in the grass. Milo rang the bell, knocked on the door-dead-bolted with a sturdy Quikset-pushed open the mail slot and sighted down.

"Just some throwaway flyers," he said. "No mail. So he left recently."

He rang and knocked again. Tried to peer through the white drapes that sheathed the front windows, muttered that it just looked like a goddamn house. A check in back of the house revealed more grass and a small oval swimming pool set in a brick deck, the water starting to green, the gunite spotted with algae.

"If he had a pool man," I said, "looks like he canceled a while back. Maybe he's been gone for a while and put on a mail stop."

"Korn and Demetri checked for that. And the gardener's been here."

The garage was a double, locked. Milo managed to pry the door upward several inches and he peered in. "No car, old bicycle, hoses, the usual junk."

He inspected every side of the house. Most of the windows were barred and bolted and the back door was secured by an identical dead bolt. The kitchen window was undraped but narrow and high, and he boosted me up for a look.

"Dishes in the sink, but they look clean… no food… another alarm sticker high on the window, but I don't see any alarm leads."

"Probably a fake-out job," he said. "One of those clever boys who thinks appearance is everything."

"Overconfident," I said. "Just like Mate."

He let me down. "Okay, let's see what the neighbors have to offer."

Both of the adjacent houses were empty. Milo scrawled requests to call on the back of his business cards and left them in the mailboxes. In the second house to the south, a young black man answered. Clean-shaven, full-faced, barefoot, wearing a gray athletic shirt with the U. logo and red cotton shorts. Under his arm was a book. A yellow underlining pen was clenched between his teeth. He removed it, shifted the book so I could see the title: Organizational Structure: An Advanced Text. The room behind him was set up with two bright-blue beanbag chairs and not much else. Soda cans, potato chip bags, an extra-large pizza box mottled with grease on the thin khaki rug.

He greeted Milo pleasantly, but the sight of the badge caused his face to tighten.

"Yes?" The unspoken overtone: What now? I wondered how many times he'd been stopped for driving in Westwood.

Milo stepped back, bent his knee in a relaxed pose. "I was wondering, sir, if you've seen your neighbor Mr. Haiselden recently."

"Who-oh him. No, not for a few days.

Could you say how many days, Mr…

Chambers," said the young man. "Curtis Chambers. I think I saw him drive away five, six days ago. Whether he's been back since, I can't say, 'cause I've been holed up here studying. Why?"

"Do you recall what time of day it was when you saw him, Mr. Chambers?"

"Morning. Before nine. I was going to meet with a prof and he needed to do it by nine. I think it was Tuesday. What's going on?"

Milo smiled and held up a delaying finger. "What kind of car was Mr. Haiselden driving?"

"Some kind of van. Silver, with a blue stripe down the side."

"That his only vehicle?

Only one I've seen him in.

Anyone else live there with him?

Not that I know," said Curtis Chambers. "Could you please tell me what's up?"

"We're trying to contact Mr. Haiselden about a case-"

"Dr. Death's murder?"

"You've seen him with Dr. Mate?"

"No, but everyone knew he was Dr. Death's lawyer. People in the neighborhood talk about it. He's a jerk, Haiselden. Last year, we had a party-there are four of us living here, grad students. Nothing wild, we're all grinds, all we had was that single party the entire year to celebrate semester-end. We tried to be considerate, even sent notes around to the neighbors. One woman -Mrs.Kaplan next door- sent us a bottle of wine. No one had a problem with it except Haiselden. He called the cops on us. Twenty after eleven and believe me, it was nothing wild, just some music, maybe it got a little loud. What an uptight hypocrite. After all the disruption he brought to the neighborhood."

"What kind of disruption?"

"Reporters, media, all that garbage."

"Recently?"

"No, a few years ago," said Chambers. "I never saw it, wasn't living here back then, but one of my roommates was-he said the whole street was a zoo. This was back when Mate was still getting arrested. He and Haiselden threw press conferences right here. TV crews would show up-lights, cameras, the works. Blocked driveways, cigarettes and garbage left on the lawns. Some of the neighbors finally complained to Haiselden, but he ignored them. So after all that, he goes and calls the cops on us. A jerk, always had this irritated look on his face. So why do you want him? Did he kill his buddy?"

"Why would you say that, Mr. Chambers?"

Chambers grinned. "Because I don't like the man… and the fact that he split. You'd think, his being Mate's mouthpiece, that he'd stick around, grab some more PR. 'Cause that's what it was all about, right? That's the only problem I have with what Mate did."

"What do you mean?" said Milo.

"The tackiness, making a spectacle out of other people's pain. You want to put a sick person out of their misery, fine. But shouldn't it be private? From what my roommate told me about the way Haiselden used to behave, he loved playing for the cameras. So you'd think he'd be doing the same thing now. Though I guess there's nothing for him to comment on anymore, with Mate gone."

"Guess not," said Milo. "Is there anything else you want to tell me about him?"

"Nope-listen, if you leave me your number and I see him, I'll call you. Siccing the cops on our party. What a jerk."

Driving back to the station, Milo said, "First Mrs. Mate, now him. Insights from the man on the street. Everyone seems to have figured things out except me."

"A lawyer who drives a van."

"Yeah, yeah, psycho killer's transport of choice. Wouldn't that be something? One serial killer representing another in court. And winning."

"Only thing he did win," I said. "He couldn't make a living practicing law, so he turned to coin-ops. Zoghbie said it was because of Mate, but maybe he was struggling before and Mate was his salvation. He latches on to the whole travel thing, rides the coattails, enjoys the glory. Then he and Mate have some kind of rift. Or, as you said, Haiselden starts yearning for more."

"Up the suspect ladder he goes. Time for a pass by his office."

"Where's that?"

"Miracle Mile, the old part, east of Museum Row. He leases some space over a Persian restaurant. Him and some other low-rent outfits. The place has a moldy feel to it, like out of an old movie."

"No secretary?"

"I've been there twice, Korn and Demetri another two times. The door's always locked and no one answers. Time to find the landlord. No sense wasting your time. Go home to Robin and Fido."

I didn't argue. I was tired. And Stacy Doss was coming in tomorrow; I needed to review her file.

"So who're you concentrating on?" I said. "Haiselden or Donny Mate?"

"Do I have to choose between Door Number One and Door Number Two, Monty? Can I take Number Three? Better yet, I'll concentrate on both of them. If Donny's our street wacko, it may take a while to find him. I wanna find out if he was released clean or placed on parole. Maybe he's got a P.O. I can talk to. If he was the bum Mrs. Krohnfeld saw, maybe he's still hanging in Hollywood. That would also fit with your idea about stalking Mate."

"Stalking Daddy."

"Who's off in his own world and thinks he's immortal… I think I'll touch base with Petra, she's as clued in to the streets as anyone."

Petra Connor was a Hollywood Division homicide detective, young, bright, intense, recently promoted to D-II because of some help she'd given Milo on a series of killings of handicapped people. Just after that, she and her partner had solved the Lisa Ramsey case-ex-wife of a TV actor, found hacked up in Griffith Park. She'd referred me a case, a twelve-year-old boy who'd witnessed the crime while living in the park, a brilliant, complex child, one of the most fascinating patients I'd ever encountered. Rumors were that her partner, Stu Bishop, was in line for a major administrative job and that she'd be a D-III by year's end, then groomed by the new chief for something conspicuous.

"Give her my best," I said.

"Sure," he said, but his tone was detached and his eyes were somewhere off in the distance.

Staring into his own world. At that moment, I was happy not to be sharing.