Killer

CHAPTER 17

I drove to the West L.A. station, wondering what Efren would be like. Thinking back to the session following his lifestyle comment when he’d showed up jumpy and distracted, only to sink down and hang his head drowsily.

That day I said, “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah … maybe a little … I don’t know.”

“Confused?”

He shook his head. I got him juice, anyway.

“I’m okay — been thinking about a new engine.”

“For the Chevy?”

“Yeah. I get it when I’m sixteen.”

“Congratulations.”

“Yeah but it’s slooooow.”

For the next quarter hour I listened to car-talk and watched him perk up. The crate engine he wanted for the low-rider, new speakers to “like shake up your head, man.”

Maybe he’d keep the Aztec eagle, maybe he’d replace it with “something more bad.”

I said, “Car have hydraulics?”

“Yeah but shit. I’m gonna make it like this.” Separating his hands with a three-foot gap.

I said, “Going for the big-time bounce.”

“Yeah … I said something last time. Lifestyle. You prolly don remember.”

“Diabetes doesn’t fit your lifestyle.”

“Yeah, yeah. So what the fuck was that?” Slapping his forehead hard. “I mean what was that, man? Like it’s it’s it’s … like a thing, man? Like it’s gonna go away, man? Fuck that. Fuck that bitch’s ass. Her. The bitch.”

“Diabetes.”

He clawed his fingers. “She’s like a lyin’ naggin’ bitch. Goin’ at me, ruh ruh ruh ruh ruh.”

“Trying to control you.”

“Fuck that.” He punched a palm. “Fuck her. Fuck all a them. I make her my bitch.”

“It’s your body,” I said.

“Damn fuckin right — I’m like the blood is good, man. The blood is red, mi sangre, it’s like alive, man, you know? Get a little sweet, fuck, I change it, you know? With that insulin shit, it’s fuckin’ bullshit, y’know? It’s just sugar.”

I nodded.

“Fuck them,” he said. “I do it my fuckin’ way.”

The following week, he said, “Can’t do every week no more. Like maybe two a month, y’know?”

I figured he was getting ready to terminate. Maybe premature, maybe not, but no sense arguing. I had to remain the adult who made no attempt to control him.

I was wrong. When it came to Efren, I got used to being wrong. For the next thirteen months, he showed up faithfully, never a minute late, never forgetting to bring cash payment. During that time, his mother called five times, a gracious, soft-spoken woman who’d married a psychopath and had possibly birthed a psychopath. Wanting me to know he’d had great checkups, the smoothest blood sugar his doctor had ever seen.

The fifth time she phoned her voice swelled with emotion. She told me I was a miracle worker, she was saying prayers for me every Sunday Mass, could she send a pot of menudo with Efren, did I know what that was?

“Know it, like it, appreciate the gift, Mrs. Casagrande. But please don’t feel it’s necessary.”

“No gift, Doctor. A thanks.”

“Seeing Efren has been a pleasure.”

Silence. “Really?”

“He’s a very bright boy.”

“I know, I know, so how come he’s so stupid?”

I didn’t answer.

She said, “Anyway, he’s doing good. First I thank God, then you.”

I wrote my third follow-up report to his endocrinologist. As with the first two, I never heard back. I knew the doctor as anxious and overextended, barely coping with the patient load the hospital shoved at him. He did send me three new referrals and they proved simple, compared with Efren.

The menudo was delicious, perfect for a chilly November night.

Robin said, “You should mold your practice, darling: patients with moms with culinary skills.”

After the last session of the thirteenth month, Efren announced he was moving from L.A., couldn’t come anymore.

“Where you going?”

He shifted on the sofa.

I said, “Big secret, huh?”

“Nah … Oakland, okay? Anyway, thanks, man. For listening to my bullshit.”

“Actually,” I said, “you put out very little bullshit.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I mean it. You were straight.”

A sunken chest heaved. A flimsy-looking hand moved swiftly to one eye, then the other. He worried a big zit nippling his underbuilt chin.

Back to the eyes, now. “Got some shit in here, like dirt.”

“Smog,” I said. “That’s L.A.”

“Yeah … you been to Oakland?”

“Took my licensing test there years ago but not since.” Before that I’d trained at Langley Porter, UC San Francisco, supplementing my fellowship’s pittance by working as a research assistant on a gang study. Braving some of Oakland’s more murderous streets. Blocks that saw more blood than some butcher shops.

Efren said, “License? Like for driving? Why you go up there for that?”

“My psychologist’s license,” I said.

“Huh?”

I pointed to the framed certificate behind my desk. “That says it’s legal for me to do my job.”

“Legal? What’s illegal for you, man? Doing some gangsta-freak doctor shit?” He bobbed his head. “How you feelin’ I stealin’ you dealin’ we all feelin’ getting real-in.”

I laughed. “Interesting concept.”

“You’re saying you gotta pay to work?”

“There’s a fee, but mostly you need a certain amount of—”

“Oh, man, they pushin’ you around.”

“Not really—”

“You gotta pay? To do your job? That su-ucks — hey, you ever need help, you say, okay?”

“Help with what?”

“Anyone pushing on you.” He winked. “Now I got to go. Long trip to El Oco-land. El Loco-land.”

“You’re driving up there?”

“Maybe.” Another wink. “Oh, yeah, I ain’t legal to drive.” Laughing, he got up and slouched to the door. Walking back to me, he held out his hand.

I shook it. His bones felt fragile. “Hey,” he said. “It’s been real, man.”

I said, “I’ll walk you out.”

“No, no, I know the way, man.”

“Okay, then. Have a good time, Ef.”

“Good?” His eyes slitted. “Ain’t gonna be fun. Gonna be business.”

Now, years later, I reached the West L.A. station twenty minutes early, parked a block away, strolled the distance on foot, kept walking past the building. Figuring if Efren reverted to instinct he’d be on time, if he wanted to strut a bit, he’d keep Milo waiting. Either way, I had a decent chance of seeing him before anyone else got involved.

I’m so fucking pissed some bitch would try to do that, I’m ready to kill her ass. You with that?

Nope.

Just kidding. Maybe.

If I encountered him, what would I say?

He was early. Walking south on Butler from Santa Monica Boulevard next to a curvy blonde, the two of them engaged in animated conversation.

He’d grown a few inches but was far from tall. Had added breadth to his shoulders but remained a skinny, loose-limbed figure with all the bulk of a wire hanger.

He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, dark pants, black shoes. Full head of black hair, brushed straight back; adopting the gangbanger coif of a previous era, none of that shaved-head obviousness.

No ink I could see from a distance. His skin had cleared.

I backed into the shadow of the station’s façade. Whatever the blonde had to say held Efren’s attention. As they got closer I made out details. His face was longer, bonier, with thick black eyebrows and a beak nose bottomed by a faint dark smudge.

Mustache or shadow.

The blond woman was about Efren’s age, taller than him by an inch with Marilyn Monroe hair and a shape to match. She wore a fitted red satin blouse, black pencil skirt, crimson stockings flocked in black, silver stilettos that did nothing to slow her prance-like gait.

They were five yards away. The flocking on her legs turned to applique: tiny black roses. A maroon suede briefcase swung from a black-nailed hand.

Gorgeous face, exuberant makeup, gigantic hazel eyes.

The smudge under Efren’s nose was, indeed, a wispy ’stache.

I stepped in front of them. Efren’s hand shot to a pant pocket. Reflexive move.

He took a second to focus, grinned and grabbed my hand. “Hey, it’s my doctor — this is him, Leese. This is the patron save my life when I was a stupid sugar baby.”

His voice had taken on more East L.A. singsong than before. Hormones had lowered it to tenor. His teeth had been straightened, his smile was radiant, his hair smelled of citrus pomade.

Gangster prince. Same look of easy confidence you saw on Ivy League legacies and showbiz brats.

We shook hands. His bones had laid on some calcium but they still felt flimsy. Nice manicure.

The blonde watched disapprovingly.

Efren said, “Man, it’s been a long time. How you been doin’, Doc — oh, yeah, not so good.” His irises turned to lumps of coal. “Bitch tryin’ to do that. Crazy.”

I shrugged.

The blonde said, “Anyway …”

Efren turned to her. Her gaze was stony.

“This is him, Leese.”

Unimpressed, she offered her fingertips to me. As she pulled away, curving black nails grazed my knuckles and I couldn’t help but take that as a warning.

She said, “Lisa Lefko, Mr. Casagrande’s attorney.”

“Alex—”

“I know who you are,” she said, consulting a Ulysse Nardin watch rimmed with diamonds. “We need to get going, E.C.”

Efren said, “Wait one sec — so, Doc, you sure you okay? I mean psychological.”

“I’m fine.”

He studied me. “So how’re things going for you? Besides all this shit?”

“Great. How about you?”

“Me? Life is be-yootiful, got what they call a thriving business.”

I knew but I asked. “What kind?”

Lisa Lefko tensed up.

Efren said, “Car audiovisual.” He kissed air, bounced on shiny new loafers. “Top-of-the-line entertainment systems, Doc — hey, why don’t you come in, I set you up with something really sick — what kind of music you like?”

“All kinds.”

“All kinds, huh? Well, I got systems for all kinds. We also got a place next door, do custom rims. Got a guy with the best blue squirrel brush in town, does pin-striping it’s like art. Don’t you think, Leese? That stripe on your Jag pretty cool, no?”

Lisa Lefko said, “Lovely. Now, can we—”

“Doc, anything you drive we can make it hyper-bitchin’. What’s your wheels now?”

“The Seville.”

“Same one?”

I nodded.

“You kidding.”

“She’s been good to me, Ef.”

“Whoa,” he said. “That’s like … historical. Original engine?”

“Third.”

“Third,” he said. “Caddy?”

I nodded. “New old stock.”

“Wow wow wow, that’s like antique.”

Lisa Lefko tapped a stiletto heel on the pavement. A black-and-white drove past, entered the staff parking lot. She followed its trajectory. So did Efren.

“Cops,” he said. “They could use better wheels. Make ’em happier, they stop giving problems to everyone.”

Steel in his voice. Lisa Lefko cleared her throat, arched her back advertising her figure, dared anyone to make a comment.

Movie-star face, pinup body, the eyes of an IRS auditor. She reminded me of someone — Connie’s lawyer, Medea Wright, another looker with a J.D. not afraid to flaunt.

Lisa Lefko could be Wright’s taller, blonder sorority sister. Maybe law schools were looking for a type.

Efren said, “Okay, Doc, let’s do this.”

Lefko said, “He’s not part of it, E.C.”

“What you talking about?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you on the way over, E.C. Got a call from that lieutenant. Dr. Delaware’s not going to be part of your interview.”

“Why not?”

“Police procedure.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means whatever they want it to mean, E.C. Bottom line: They don’t want him participating.”

He turned to me. “You know about that?”

I shook my head. “All I was told was you requested I show up.”

“Shit,” he said. “They wasting your time, they wasting my time.”

Lisa Lefko said, “Before you get too friendly with the doctor, consider that maybe he’s closer to them than he is to you, showed up as a sop to you.”

Efren said, “Sock?”

She sighed. “Sop. Throwing you a bone.”

“Huh?”

“Cops want you here, you wanted Dr. Delaware here. They probably figured you two would talk for a few minutes, then they’d corral you. But now you managed that on your own. So can we go in and get it over?” Turning to me, she continued to address him. “It’s not like you have anything to tell them, Efren.”

He blinked. “Yeah. True.” To me: “Good to see you, Doc. Just wanted to make sure you’re healthy.”

“I am. Thanks.”

He hooked a thumb at the station entrance. “Lisa says you work with the cops.”

Always did.

I said, “Sometimes.”

“Like what, getting inside bad guys’ heads?” Smiling.

“Basically.”

“You still seein’ sugar babies?”

“Once in a while.”

“Mostly it’s the cops?”

Lisa Lefko said, “E.C., we really need to—”

He waved her quiet, gripped my hand with both of his. “Been real, Doc. Stay healthy.”

I waited a couple of minutes before phoning Milo’s desk.

Moe Reed answered. “He just started talking to the suspect, Doc. You’re supposed to go to his office, video feed’s on his computer.”

“Right on the desktop?” I said. “New system?”

“Been operative for over a year,” said Reed. “This morning he let me show him how to use it.”

Clean, beige room. One table, three chairs, no water, no coffee. The table was pushed into a far corner. No physical barrier for psychological protection. Efren sat next to Lisa Lefko. Both of them faced Milo.

Milo said, “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Casagrande.”

Efren said, “Hey, my pleasure.”

“Okay, let’s start—”

Lisa Lefko said, “In this case, start equals finish. Mr. Casagrande has nothing to discuss about anything.”

She got up, hefted her briefcase.

Milo turned scarlet. “What the—”

“Mr. Casagrande has nothing probative to offer about any criminal or civil matters and upon advice of legal counsel, he will offer no replies to any questions whatsoever.”

Milo leaned toward Efren. “That the way you feel?”

Efren’s smile was gone. His shoulders were stiff as he turned to Lefko.

As surprised as Milo.

Lefko said, “That’s exactly the way he feels, Lieutenant.”

Milo said, “She talks for you, huh?”

Efren said, “Hey, Leese, we can talk about the Dodgers, no?”

Lefko’s face was stony.

Milo said, “If you intended this all along, Ms. Lefko, why did we waste time—”

“Good question, Lieutenant.”

Both men stared at her. She cocked a hip, tossed hair, switched her briefcase to the other hand. “Ready, Mr. Casagrande?”

Efren shifted in his chair. His laugh was strained.

Milo said, “Adios,” and stomped out of the room.

Once he was gone, Lisa Lefko smiled down at her client. First indication I’d seen that she was capable.

Efren sat there.

She said, “Don’t say anything, I’m sure the room is bugged.”

He didn’t move.

“Got some mail for you back at my office,” she said. “From out of town.”

Emphasis on town. Efren’s eyebrows climbed. She walked to the door. Held it open for him.

His turn to follow. He did. Moving like a much older man.