CHAPTER 7

Next step: a home visit to Cherie Sykes and her daughter.

She lived in a studio apartment near Western and Hollywood, a five-hundred-square-foot share of a not-so-great ten-unit building in a marginal neighborhood.

She was ready at the door, beckoning me inside with a flourish. The air smelled of Lysol and I assumed she’d prepped for the appointment.

Not much to tidy. A foldout bed was covered by a thin white spread and dressed up by a couple of batik pillows that looked brand-new. Nearby stood a crib. A well-worn tweed love seat crowded the rest of the tiny room. A two-seater folding table straddled the kitchenette and the front room. Propped up against a space-saver fridge was a vacuum cleaner. In front of the sink was a plastic high chair.

Much of the floor was taken up by a neat stack of toys. A closet door left open revealed stacks of disposable diapers, jars of baby food and “beginner” toddler victuals, boxes of graham crackers and organic “healthy apple juice,” a collapsible stroller.

“Kid Central,” said Ree Sykes. The tremor in her voice would’ve done a Hammond organ proud. The drowsy child in her arms stirred.

I said, “Is she about to nap or just waking up?”

“Waking,” she said. “She does it slowly, never cries. Sometimes I wake up and she’s standing in her crib, just looking at me. I hold her for a while, let her blossom like a flower.”

She stroked dark, wavy hair. What I could see of Rambla Pacifico Sykes’s face was plump-cheeked, slumber-pink, dewy with sweat. She had on pink pajamas patterned with cats, polka-dot hats, and beach balls. The way she molded to her mother’s chest compressed her face, turning full lips into rosebuds.

I made mental notes. Pretty child. Average size. Well nourished. Relaxed.

Her tiny chest heaved as she sighed. One hand touched Ree Sykes’s chin. Ree kissed her fingers. Rambla’s eyes remained closed.

Ree said, “This is my heart.”

* * *

I sat on the tweed love seat and Ree perched near the edge of the foldout bed, Rambla still molded to her. The child’s breath quickened, then slowed, as she sank into deeper sleep.

“Guess she’s still tired,” said Ree. “She’s a great sleeper, made it through the night at two months.”

“That’s great. Any change when you picked her up from Connie?”

“You mean did she get worse being with Connie? I’d like to say yeah, but honestly no, she was fine. She was real happy to see me, she like jumped into my arms. Which I wasn’t sure would happen, you know like maybe she forgot me? But she didn’t.”

“She reconnected instantly.”

“Yup.” Her eyes shifted to the ceiling. “That’s not exactly true. She was quieter than usual. I’d try to kiss her and she’d turn her head. But that didn’t last long, maybe half a day and then she was herself.”

Medea Wright would probably use that to show Connie Sykes had done a great job of interim parenting. If Myron Ballister was smart, he’d skew it as evidence of the durable attachment between Ree and her child.

I’d note the facts and save interpretation for later.

Ree bit her lip. “I have to say this, Doctor. So you won’t think I’m crazy or cruel: I screwed up, okay? By leaving in the first place. By staying away that long. Connie kept telling me everything was fine, it was the first time we — me and Connie — ever did anything together, you know? I liked that. Not just was Rambla taken care of but me and Connie, we … whatever.”

“You felt Rambla had brought you and Connie closer.”

“I could hope. Because we never … she always made me feel stupid. I know she’s the smart one, but … I guess I coulda studied harder but it didn’t come easily. Reading, numbers. Everything. It was hard. I did my best but it was hard. Still, she didn’t have to make me feel stupid.”

Her eyes grew moist. She began rocking Rambla. A small hand grasped the braid and squeezed. “She loves it. My hair. Kind of a security thing, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“Anyway …”

“You were hoping Connie and you could be closer.”

“Because she was acting different. I know now it was phony but how could I tell at the time? I’m a trusting person.”

“Different, how?”

“Paying attention to me, Dr. Delaware. Talking to me like I was a grown-up — like normal sisters. So when she offered to care for Rambla and then she’d always tell me when I called that Rambla was doing great, I deserved a vacation, just go have a good time — it was like she approved of me. For the first time in my life.”

“You were encouraged.”

“I’m not saying that excuses it. Staying away from my baby-love so long. And yeah, I wasn’t being totally honest with you, Rambla didn’t jump into my arms, at first she looked scared and my heart just dropped to my feet, like Girl, you really screwed up, this time. One thing in your life that you love and now you screwed it up. More like she accepted me but she was quiet. But it didn’t take long and she was like melting against me just like she’s doing now.”

Her eyes lowered to her shoulder. “Touching my braid just like she’s doing now. It’s like the flame needed to be turned on but once it was, it just kept burning.”

She kissed a plump cheek. “I just love you, I love love love you.”

Rambla stirred. Opened her eyes. Smiled lazily at her mother.

Spotting me, she gripped Ree tighter. Began whimpering.

Appropriate attachment. Expected separation anxiety for the age.

Ree said, “I usually give her a snack when she wakes up.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

* * *

I sat there and watched Rambla eat, keeping my distance, careful not to intrude. Ree broke the food up into tiny pieces while delivering an ongoing commentary. (“Organic, Dr. Delaware, no preservatives.”) Eventually, Rambla permitted herself several glances in my direction.

I smiled.

The fourth time she smiled back. I got up, crouched low within inches of her face.

She yelped and gripped her mother.

I retreated.

Ree Sykes said, “It’s okay, baby — I’m sorry, Dr. Delaware, she must be still half asleep.”

Appropriate, appropriate, appropriate.

The great yeah-sayer.

Rambla quieted but avoided eye contact.

Five minutes later, she allowed me to show her the picture I’d drawn. Smiling face, bright colors.

She beamed. Giggled. Snatched the paper and crumpled it and threw it to the floor and thought that was just hilarious.

For the next ten minutes, I sat next to her high chair and we giggled together.

When I got up, she waved.

I blew a kiss. She imitated.

I said, “Bye bye.”

“Bah bah.” Plump hand to mouth, flamboyant wave.

I headed toward the front room.

“Now what?” said Ree.

“Nothing,” I said, “I’ve seen enough.”

I gave her hand a squeeze and left.

* * *

That night I wrote my report. Shortest draft I’ve ever sent a judge.

The first sentence read, “This well-nourished, well-functioning sixteen-month-old female child is the object of a guardianship dispute between her birth mother and her maternal aunt.”

The final sentence read: “There appears to be no reason, based on either psychological factors or legal standards, to alter the child’s status. A strong recommendation is made to reject Dr. Constance Sykes’s request.”

A few paragraphs in between. Nothing that required a Ph.D., but education’s what they pay me for.

* * *

A week after I sent my findings to Nancy Maestro, I returned home after a run and found Connie Sykes out on my front terrace, sitting in one of the wicker chairs Robin and I leave there when we want to catch sunrise over the trees.

Warm morning; I was sweaty, breathing hard, wearing a sleeveless tee and shorts.

She said, “Nice muscles, Doctor.”

“What can I do for you, Connie?”

“Obviously, I’m pretty crushed.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I understand,” she said, in a softer voice than I’d ever heard. But still, that strange, digital spacing. As if every word needed to be measured prior to delivery. “I knew at the outset that it was a long shot. May I come in?”

I hesitated.

“Just for a little support? You are a psychologist.”

I glanced at my watch.

“I won’t take up much of your time. I just need to … integrate. To talk about my own plans. Maybe adopting a child of my own?”

“Was that something you’d thought about before?”

Her shoulders heaved. “Can we talk? Please? Just briefly but I’ll pay you for a full session.”

“No payment necessary,” I said. “Come on in.”

* * *

This time she allowed me to lead. Settled in a different spot on the couch. Placed her leather purse to her right and her hands in her lap.

I said, “Morning.”

She smiled. “I guess things work out the way they’re supposed to. Though I wish I could be more confident about the poor child.”

“Rambla.”

“She really is in danger, Doctor. You may not be convinced of it, the court may not be convinced of it. I’m not even sure my own lawyer was convinced of it. But I’ve got superior analytic powers. Always have. I can see things — sense things — that elude other people.”

Gone was the soft voice.

Something new in her eyes. A sputter of … irrationality?

“So,” I said, “you’re considering adopting.”

She laughed. “Why would I do that? Why would I assume the risk of ending up with something genetically inferior? No, that was just … I suppose you’d call it an icebreaker. Gaining rapport in order to build up trust, so you’d let me in. That’s your thing, right? Rapport. You sure pulled a fast one on me. Convinced me you understood me and then you went and wrote that I had absolutely no case. Very ethical, Doctor.”

“Connie—”

“Dr. Sykes to you,” she snapped. “You’re ‘Doctor,’ I’m ‘Doctor.’ Okay? It’s the least you can do. Show me some respect.”

“Fair enough,” I said, keeping my eye on her every movement. “Dr. Sykes, I never—”

“You never, you never, you never,” she snapped. “You’re Doctor Never. And now that poor child is destined to never lead the life she deserves.”

Smoothing black gabardine slacks, she lifted her right hand, stroked the purse’s fine, whiskey-colored leather.

“I’m not going to shoot you, Dr. Delaware. Even though I should.”

Tapping the bag, she ran her finger over a swell in the leather and smiled wider and waited.

Master-of-timing comedian, pausing to see if the audience got it.

When I didn’t respond, she tapped the bag harder. Something beneath the leather gave off a dull thud.

Something hard and dense. Implying she’d come with a weapon.

If she had and decided to use it, I was too far away to stop her, blocked by the desk.

Bad situation; I’d let down my guard, broken every rule, allowed her to catch me off guard.

No way to predict something like this.

Lots of victims probably thought that. No excuse for me; the whole point of my training was expecting the unexpected. I’d always figured myself pretty good at that.

The worst kind of assumption: blithe and arrogant.

I studied the flat-eyed, weird woman sitting across from me.

Serene stare from her. Icy contentment. She’d evoked fear, knew it. Had gotten what she’d come for.

The threat was the first time she’d used my name.

A new form of intimacy.

I kept silent.

Connie Sykes laughed. Then she got up and left the office and continued up the hall and I scurried to lock myself in, feeling like nothing but prey.

* * *

CHAPTER

* * *

8

My true love is a gorgeous, thoughtful, intense woman who cherishes solitude and makes her living transforming wood into guitars and mandolins of great beauty. Sequestered in her studio, she plays her own ensemble of instruments: routers, chisels, gauges and knives, band saw, jigsaw. A roaring table saw that rips through rosewood and ebony like a hungry predator.

Soft flesh versus razor-edged metal. A single slip can lead to horror and Robin lives with hazard every day. But it’s my work that has led us to danger.

I sat at my desk, wondering what to tell her about Connie Sykes.

We’ve been together for a long time and how much I divulge about the terrible things has always been an issue. Robin knows better than to ask about therapy patients. But the other stuff — court work, the murders Milo brings like bloody gifts — is open territory and I fight the urge to overprotect.

I’ve finally figured out an approach that seems to work: assess how receptive she really is, divulge no more than she wants to know, temper the details.

Working with power tools and avoiding people doesn’t mean you lack insight and sometimes she offers an opinion that leads to a solution.

That’s the way it is, now.

Years ago, a psychopath burned our house down. After the shock wore off, Robin recouped quickly, the way she always does, designing and supervising the building of the eye-filling white structure we eventually learned to call home.

Connie Sykes’s visit marked the first time, since then, that I’d felt personally threatened by someone sitting on my battered leather sofa.

I’m not going to shoot you.

Technically, a non-threat.

Massaging the bulge in her purse.

Subtle.

Connie Sykes had shown herself eager to use the legal system as a weapon, so maybe the visit was a ploy. Enticing me to accuse her of something, so she could file a spite lawsuit.

A weapon? Ridiculous. I keep tissues, cosmetics, and a cell phone in there. This is defamation and harassment, this man is clearly unfit for the job with which he’s been entrusted.

If she tried that, she’d lose. Again. But that wouldn’t stop her from convincing herself she had a chance of winning. Because if Connie Sykes believed it, it had to be true.

I could call Milo but drawing him into the mess would just add complication.

I imagined a fine-print complaint against him hand-messengered to the LAPD brass. Parker Center was Cover-Your-Ass Central. Milo, always an official irritant operating beyond his official boundaries, would be vulnerable.

Medea Wright, not my biggest fan, would enjoy the process.

Gun in a purse? The complainant is a physician, not a criminal, and this alleged mental health expert is showing himself to be rather delusional and paranoid, leading to serious questions about his professional competence and qualifications for state licensure. Furthermore, his exploitation of personal connections to the police department in order to exert vengeful damage to the complainant is nothing short of venal.

If you couldn’t get the outcome you wanted, torture ’em with process.

The more I thought about it, the better it explained Connie showing up on my terrace. Bested in court, she itched to squeeze out a few drops of control.

To Connie Sykes, everything was about control. That’s why she’d tried to confiscate her sister’s child in the first place.

To Connie Sykes, winning meant someone had to lose.

Dr. Zero-Sum. I decided the best response to her stunt was none at all. Give her time to cool down.

Even if she forgot about me, she was likely to regroup for Connie v. Ree, Chapter II. Because she had the means and the opportunity and the system was receptive to second, third, fourth, millionth chances.

So forget about telling Milo, keep the bear in his den. But I’d let Robin know because the invaded territory was as much hers as mine.

Steeling myself for the walk through the garden to the studio, I poured coffee in the kitchen, drank some but found it bitter, organized my desk, checked files that didn’t require inspection, ran out of delay tactics.

Just as I was about to leave the office, I thought of someone else who needed to know.

If Connie Sykes could muster that level of rage against me, what was she feeling about the judge?

I phoned Nancy Maestro. A hard, wary male voice answered, “Chambers.”

Familiar voice; the deputy I’d met with the bronze-lensed eyeglasses. H. Nebe.

I said, “Hi, it’s Dr. Delaware.”

“Her Honor’s unavailable. You have a message you want to leave?”

More of the protective attitude I’d seen in court. Not a bad idea, as it turned out. I told him about Connie Sykes.

He said, “Well, that’s pretty insane. She do anything else crazy?”

“No.”

Not going to shoot you, huh?” said H. Nebe. “Sounds like she got you pretty scared.”

“No, just wary.”

“Meaning?”

“Watchful. I figured the judge should know.”

“Okay, Doc. I’ll handle it from this end.”

“Meaning?”

“That nutcase shows up again, lock your door and call 911.”

* * *

I filled a second mug with coffee, carried it down the back stairs to the garden, paused by the pond to listen to the waterfall and feed the koi, continued up the stone path to Robin’s studio.

Quiet day, no machine noise. I found her standing over her workbench, face-masked, auburn curls topknotted, wearing red overalls over a black T-shirt and looking sexy. Vials of varnish and oil and stain flanked her. A HEPA filter whirred at high speed.

Her hand gripped a soft wad of cotton, moved in small, concentric circles. French-polishing the quilted maple back of a seventeenth-century French guitar. One of those petite parlor instruments, high on decoration but low on sound. What used to be called women’s guitars, back when women were deemed incapable of making serious music. This one was owned by a man, a collector who couldn’t play a note but demanded that everything in his world — including his third wife — be pretty and shiny.

Robin continued working as Blanche, our little blond French bulldog, snored at her feet.

I cleared my throat. Removing the mask and putting down her polishing cloth, Robin smiled and Blanche’s eyes began fluttering open.

“The prince brings caffeine. Perfect timing, how’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

By the time she kissed me and took the mug, Blanche had padded over. Robin retrieved a stick of beef jerky from a jar on a shelf, kneeled to Blanche’s level. Blanche took the treat with a soft mouth and held it there until Robin said, “Nosh-time.”

Waddling to a corner, Blanche settled and chomped with delicate lust.

I felt a gentle tug. Robin’s finger under my collar. “What’s wrong?”

No sense asking how she knew anything was wrong, she always did. I told her.

She said, “What a nasty, vindictive person. Obviously, you were right to keep the kid out of her grasp.”

“Anyone would’ve made the call.”

“You’re the one who did.”

We moved to a couch against the wall, sat with our thighs touching.

“So,” she said, “you think she might actually do something?”

“Doubt it,” I said. “I just thought you should know.”

“Appreciate it. So what’s the plan? We batten down the hatches and go on red alert?”

“Maybe orange.”

She squeezed my hand. “Don’t mean to be flip. So you think she was just posturing.”

“She’s narcissistic and asocial but nothing in her past says she’d ever be violent.”

“You going to let Milo know?”

I explained why I wasn’t.

She said, “You’re making a good point. Okay, for the next week or so — or longer, whatever you think — we’ll lock the gate at the bottom of the road, anyone wants to intrude they’ll have to do it on foot. And we’ll make sure the night-lights are on down there. Be more careful about bolting the doors to the house and when we leave, we’ll be extra-watchful.”

“Sounds good,” I said. My tone said “good” was a foreign word.

Her fingers left my collar, traveled to my cheek.

“What a pain,” she said. “You do your job and get this. I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone needed a scapegoat.”

“My court work bother you?”

“Of course not. You’re doing good deeds. Crappy system needs you.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s never about the kids, right? Just screwed-up adults going to war. I remember the times I thought my parents were definitely getting divorced.”

“That happen often?”

“Two, three times a year. They were always sniping at each other but sometimes the fights got really bad and you could smell how much they hated each other. I mean literally, Alex. The house would fill with this feral odor. Then they’d retrench and each of them would try to get me on their side. Dad always paid attention to me so it felt more natural when he got all chummy. But you know Mom. Parenthood didn’t exactly rank high on her to-do list so when she started going on about all the things we should do together, just us two girls …”

She shuddered. “I didn’t argue but ugh.”

Untying her hair, she set loose a torrent of curls, brushed tendrils away from her face.

“Eventually, they’d make up and have disturbingly noisy sex and I’d go outside and pretend I was living on Mars. Then he’d be back to showing me how to use a hand plane and she’d revert to her usual icy, selfish self. Terrible thing to say about the person who gave you life, huh? But you know Mom.”

My mother had possessed the capacity for tenderness but for the most part she’d been passive, depressed, and unable — or unwilling — to shield me from my father’s alcoholic rages.

I said, “We don’t pick our relatives.”

She laughed. “That crazy woman’s sister sure knows that.”

* * *

CHAPTER

* * *

9

For the next week and a half, life went on as usual except for the locked gate and the lights. And the part I didn’t tell Robin about: during my morning runs, looking for tree-shrouded spots where someone with a firearm could hide.

To relax myself, I imagined Connie Sykes in combat fatigues and a mud-smeared face jumping out and playing Rambette. The image was ludicrous and my jaws eventually unclenched. By day seven, I didn’t need that bit of cognitive behavior therapy. By day ten, I was certain there was nothing to worry about and we could unlatch the gate.

I was about to broach the topic with Robin when the buzzer to that very barrier sounded.

Milo said, “Alex, it’s me.”

I beeped him in.

He’s always hounding me about being lax with security. No comment, now, about the extra precaution.

Preoccupied? Probably a new whodunit.

Dealing with someone else’s problems. Excellent; I was ready.

As I waited out on the terrace, a black LTD drove up. The passenger door opened and Milo’s bulk emerged. He wore a navy wind-breaker, baggy brown slacks, scuffed desert boots, white shirt, skinny tie. Even from this distance the tie’s colors were an intrusion: orange-rind paisley over week-old vegetable clippings. His olive vinyl attaché case swung at his side.

I said, “Morning, Big Guy.”

His reply wave was minimal.

Out of the driver’s side stepped a short, stocky woman in her thirties wearing a gunmetal-gray suit. Clipped dark hair, full face, excellent posture, as if she labored to stretch above five two. Clipped to the breast pocket of her jacket was a detective shield. She’d left the jacket unbuttoned, revealing a slice of white shirt and smidge of black — the strap of a nylon shoulder holster.

She made eye contact immediately, but we’d never met and her eyes had nothing much to say.

She let Milo lead the way as the two of them climbed the stairs.

Just before they reached the top, he said, “This is Detective Millie Rivera, North Hollywood Division. Millie, Dr. Alex Delaware.”

Rivera extended her hand. Her fingers were barely above child-sized, but her grip was solid — a pair of miniature pliers finding their mark and maintaining a hold. On top of that, she’d mastered that thumb-on-webbing trick women learn when they’ve had their hand squeezed too many times by macho fools.

I said, “Pleased to meet you,” and she let go. “What’s up, Big Guy?”

Milo said, “Let’s go inside.”

Typically, he beelines to the kitchen and raids the fridge. Sometimes, when there’s an especially knotty puzzle on his mind, he heads for my office and either commandeers my computer or stretches out on the leather couch, where he proceeds to think out loud or gripe about the policeman’s lot.

A few months ago I presented him with a gag invoice. Six-figure charge for “years of listening.” He looked at it, said, “Will a large pizza do as payment?”

This morning he went no farther than the living room, picking the nearest chair and plopping down heavily.

Detective Millie Rivera settled in an adjoining seat.

I said, “West L.A. and North Hollywood. Sounds complicated.”

Milo said, “It’s simple, Alex.” He motioned to the facing couch.

I sat.

Milo said, “The bad news is someone wants to kill you. The good news is it hasn’t happened, yet.”

I said, “Constance Sykes.”

The two of them looked at each other.

Millie Rivera said, “You’re aware of the plot?”

“I’m aware of her anger but never figured she’d go that far.” I recounted Connie’s non-threat.

Rivera said, “That didn’t alarm you, Doctor?”

“I’ve been looking over my shoulder.”

“The gate,” said Milo. “In your world that’s security?”

Rivera said, “So on some level you figured she was serious. Well, good guess, Doctor. She tried to hire a hit man.”

“You got him?”

“No, Doctor. He got us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re unbelievably lucky, Dr. Delaware. The only reason the plan wasn’t put into action was the person Dr. Sykes hired to kill you only wanted to be a broker and the person he turned to just happened to know you.” She smiled. “Apparently, there are bad guys who think you’re a good guy.”

Milo muttered, “The friends we keep.”

Rivera looked at him. He motioned her to go on.

“Here are the basics, Doctor. Sykes went to a not-so-solid citizen named Ramon Guzman who works for a company that cleans her offices at night. Guzman has a steady gig, now, but he’s gangbanger up the wazoo, spent time in Lompoc for agg assault. At this point we don’t know if Sykes actually knew about Guzman’s prison record, but since he’s covered with tats and looks like a badass, her assuming wouldn’t be a stretch. And turns out, she was right because Guzman had no problem getting involved in murder for hire, he just didn’t want to do the shooting because — get this — his eyes are bad, he didn’t want to mess up. So he took a thousand-dollar down payment from Sykes and turned to one of his senior homeboys, a gangster prince. And wonder of wonders, that guy called me. I know this joker’s entire family, they go way back criminal-wise. But Doctor, this is the first time I’ve ever been contacted directly by an upper-level bad actor. This one goes by the moniker Effo but his given name’s Efren Casagrande.”

My eyes widened.

Rivera said, “Obviously he was telling the truth about knowing you.”

I kept silent.

“Doctor?”

Milo said, “He thinks he can’t say anything, Millie. The old shrink-confidentiality thing.” To me: “Guess what, Alex, you’re free to express yourself because Mr. Casagrande let us know he was your patient. Though he was clear that it wasn’t for a ‘head problem.’ ”

They waited. I said nothing.

Rivera said, “Effo granted you permission to talk to us.”

Milo said, “So how ’bout you educate us so I don’t find myself writing a eulogy.”

I said, “He give you written authorization?”

He cursed. Pulled out his phone, punched numbers. “It’s me, Lieutenant Sturgis. Ready for a reunion, amigo? Hold on.”

Handing the phone to me.

I said, “Dr. Delaware.”

A familiar voice, older, deeper, ripe with amusement, said, “Yo, Doc. Long time. So how’s the lifestyle? Looks like you still got one.”

“Looks like it. Thanks.”

“Hey, you don’t think I’d let your ass — let you get with no lifestyle? Fuck that, Doc. Fuck that.”

“Appreciate it, Efren.”

“No prob — anyone else listening to this?”

“No.”

“Then let me tell you: I’m so fucking pissed some bitch would try to do that, I’m ready to kill her ass. You with that?”

I said, “Nope.”

Laughter. “Just kidding. Maybe. Yeah, okay, let’s both of us hang on to our lifestyles. Let’s both of us represent.”

“Good idea. How’re things going?”

“Mostly up, few downs, haven’t been in the E.R. since last Christmas.” Laughter. “Too much partying. You know. What can I say?”

“Season to be jolly,” I said. “Listen, anytime you want to—”

“Nah, I’m fine. And so are you. Try to stay that way, Doc.”

Click.

I handed the phone back to Milo.

He said, “Heartwarming,” and hummed a few bars of “Auld Lang Syne.”

Millie Rivera said, “Casagrande may be charming but he’s suspected in at least five murders. Doctor, you’ve got to be the luckiest man in L.A County.”

Milo said, “Let’s keep it that way. Now tell us every goddamn thing about this goddamn crazy lunatic who decided you don’t deserve to breathe anymore.”

Crazy lunatic. Redundant. It wasn’t the moment to get finicky about grammar.

I said, “A thousand down? How much more to complete the job?”

“Four,” said Millie Rivera.

“Five measly gees to snuff you out,” said Milo. His green eyes were hot. His pallid, pockmarked face was tight with rage.

I couldn’t help thinking some of that was directed at me.

* * *

CHAPTER

* * *

10

Back when I worked at Western Pediatric Medical Center, my main job was helping children with cancer and their families. But soon I began getting consults from departments other than Oncology, most frequently Endocrinology. And when I switched to private practice, Endo referrals continued.

It’s a natural pairing. Glandular and metabolic disorders — growth problems, puberty issues, juvenile diabetes — pose obvious emotional challenges. Diabetes adds an additional hardship because it requires a level of patient compliance — monitoring blood sugar, regulating diet, injecting insulin — that anyone would find tough, let alone a kid.

When diabetic children become teens, it can really get hairy, because adolescence is all about identity, differentiating yourself, breaking away from authority figures. Which isn’t to say that all diabetic teens act out medically. Many ease into mature self-management.

Others are like Efren Casagrande.

* * *

He came to me as one of those last-resort panic referrals, a fourteen-year-old “exceptionally brittle” diabetic who needed to draw blood multiple times a day and control his food with a level of precision that would faze a competitive bodybuilder. Diagnosed at age eight, he’d been reasonably compliant until the onset of puberty, when his attitude shifted to “Fuck this shit,” and he simply stopped cooperating.

During the past half year, he’d ended up in the E.R. thirteen times, had nearly died twice.

His doctor tried to talk sense into him.

Efren listened attentively, claimed he understood.

Blithe lie.

The same applied to pleading by his mother, two older sisters, an aunt who worked as a health care aide and was deemed the family medical guru, a hospital social worker named Sheila Baxter who was damn good and had accomplished wonders with other patients.

Three days after assuring Sheila he’d changed his ways, Efren ended up in a near coma.

She called me the day he was discharged. “Got time for an interesting one, Alex?”

“Anything you can’t handle has to be interesting.”

She recited the history wearily.

I said, “Want me to be brutally honest?”

She sighed. “Hopeless?”

“I’m always hopeful, Sheila, but I can’t perform magic.”

“No? Isn’t that what mental health’s all about? Spells and incantations and head-shrinking voodoo hexes? Heck, Alex, maybe I should break out my Tarot deck, couldn’t be any less effective than I already am.”

I said, “The lightbulb.”

“I know, I know, it has to want to change. Which is fine when we’re talking naughtiness in school. But this kid — and he’s personable and bright when he’s not screwing up — is going to die soon.”

“I’ll give it a shot, Sheila.”

“That’s all I can ask for. And guess what? This family can pay, I’m not asking you for charity.” A beat. “Which leads me to something else about the family. They’re intact in an official sense but the father hasn’t been around for a long time. He got sent to Pelican Bay when Efren was three and will be there for twenty more years.”

I said, “Pelican’s all about serial killers and major-league gangsters.”

“In this case, it’s the latter. Efren’s daddy was a player in the heroin trade.”

“Business trumps prison walls, huh? Ergo the family’s ability to pay.”

“Alex, please don’t tell me you just got qualms. Because no matter where the money originates, Efren really needs help and, believe it or not, his mother’s a good person. Long suffering, you know? And effective; two older sisters are in college.”

“Do I get reimbursed with Baggies of black tar?”

Another sigh. “I would think not, dear.”

“Don’t worry, then. Qualms are for sissies.”

She laughed. “I’m sure Efren would agree. Who knows, you two might actually get a rapport going.”

* * *

Rosalinda Casagrande phoned two hours later and set up an appointment with my service for the following morning. Precisely on time, a low-riding Chevy painted gold with green pin-striping and a black Aztec eagle emblazoned on the trunk huffed up in front of the house. As its engine continued to pulsate, a skinny kid in droopy duds got out of the passenger side, scratched his saggy-khaki butt, and squinted up at the sun.

The Chevy’s engine kept running. Anyone else in the car was concealed by heavy-tint windows.

I stood in full view of the boy. He looked everywhere but at me.

When he began to turn his back, I called down: “Efren?”

Reluctant swivel.

“C’mon up.”

He stood there.

I said, “Or don’t.”

His mouth dropped. “Wuh?”

“We can talk inside or out here.” I laughed. “You can even stay down there and we’ll yell at each other. Good workout for the vocal cords.”

His face aimed up at me.

I said, “Nice wheels. Maybe one day you can drive it.”

His lips pretzeled. “I already drive.”

“Great.”

The Chevy revved loud. The boy flinched. A second clap of gasoline thunder got him rolling his head, as if trying to dispel the noise. Rev number three sent him trudging up the stairs.

By the time he reached the top, the trudge had been replaced by a comical swagger. Up close, he was far from impressive: small for his age, a whole lot more bone than muscle, a chin that could use help, sallow cheeks assaulted by acne. His head was shaved to the skin. A toss of pimples had chosen his scalp for a nesting spot. He had long, soft-looking arms, not much upper body. Smallish feet that he tried to augment with too-large work boots verging on cartoonish. His fingernails were clean and he didn’t emit body odor but his clothes gave off that three-day-old must that flavors adolescent bedrooms.

I held out my hand. He looked at it.

Withdrawing, I entered the house and continued to my office without checking to see if he’d followed. I was behind my desk for ninety-four seconds before he appeared in the doorway and gave the room a quick scan.

“You got a lot of things, man.” His voice cracked a couple of times. Alto aiming for tenor but a long way from success. On the phone, he could be mistaken for a girl. Hopefully testosterone would eventually come to the rescue. Insulin sure hadn’t been there for him.

“A lot of things,” he repeated.

The office was free of personal mementos, the way a therapy space needs to be. “Think so?”

“Yeah, those art pictures out there.”

“You into art?”

“Nah …” He bobbed his head a couple of times, as if adjusting to an internal beat. “You trust me with all that, man?”

“All what?”

He smiled. His teeth were uneven but white. “Your things, man. You got nice things, I was out there with ’em and you were in here, man.”

“You want my things?”

“I can have ’em?”

“Not a chance.”

He stared at me.

I said, “You can sit.”

He didn’t budge.

“Or don’t,” I said, moving papers around and consulting my appointment book.

He continued to stand there.

I said, “Here’s how I see the situation. Everyone’s getting on your case to be a good boy with your diabetes. It’s like a mountain of noise, coming at you all the time. So you tell ’em sure, no problem, but you mean, ‘Fuck you, leave me alone.’ ”

The obscenity caused his head to retract. Black eyes sharpened. A boot tapped.

“Noise, nonstop.” I ticked my fingers. “From Dr. Lowenstein, from your mom, Aunt Inez, Aunt Carmen, Aunt Dolores, Ms. Baxter. Maybe a curandero I don’t know about.”

He didn’t react.

I said, “Basically, you’ve got an army of people getting on your case, so you need to defend yourself.”

He shook his head.

I said, “I’m wrong?”

“You don’t know me, man.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Whatever.” The tapping picked up speed. An index finger bumped atop a thumb. A dozen times.

I said, “So now they’ve got their backs against the wall and they send you to me. You know what kind of doctor I am?”

Grunt.

I waited.

He said, “Head doc.”

“Everyone’s hoping I can find a trapdoor into your head and crawl in and tell your brain you need to be a good boy. Problem is, even if I wanted to do that, I couldn’t ’cause there’s no, no trapdoor. Your brain is yours. No one can control you.”

“You don’t want to?”

“To go into your head?”

Nod.

“No way, Efren. I’m thinking it’s a complicated place.”

He whipped around, faced me.

I said, “There’s a lot going on in your head because you’re a lot more than diabetes.”

He mumbled. Inaudible but the placement of crooked upper teeth over lower lip suggested something beginning with “F.”

He glanced at the couch.

I wheeled my chair back, stretched.

He said, “Why you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Psycho stuff. If you don’t wanna … if you don’t care.”

“Once I get to know someone, I care plenty.”

He smirked. “You don know a dude you don give a shit?”

I said, “Do you care about people you don’t know?”

“I don’t care about nothin’.”

I got up. “You drink coffee?”

“Nah hate that shit.”

“I like that shit, wait here.”

Leaving him alone in the office, I took time filling a mug from the kitchen. When I got back he was perched on the arm of the couch.

I sipped. He licked his lips.

“Thirsty?”

“Nah.” He swayed.

I drank some more, sat back as far as the desk chair would allow.

One of his hands gripped the couch. A second sway, wider. His eyes began to roll upward. “You got like juice, man?” Weaker voice. Fading.

“Got orange.”

“Yeah.”

I filled a glass quickly, returned to find him slumped on the couch, pale and sweaty. He drank slowly, revived quickly. I returned behind the desk, worked on my coffee.

Suspending the empty juice glass between his palms, he gave the office another examination. “You make a lot of money?”

“Enough.”

“For what?”

“Some nice stuff.”

“That like picture you got,” he said. “Guys hitting each other.”

“That’s a boxing print by an artist named George Bellows.”

“Cost a lot?”

“I got it a long time ago, so not so much. Also, there are a lot of them. The painting they’re based on is worth millions.”

“Who got it?”

“A museum.”

“Where?”

“Cleveland.”

“Where’s that?”

“About two thousand miles away.”

His eyes glazed. Apathy, now, not low sugar. I might as well have said Venus.

I said, “Too far to walk.”

He began to smile, checked himself. “You always work in your house?”

“Sometimes I go to hospitals. Or to court.”

He stiffened. “Court? Like a cop?”

“No, I get paid to be an expert.”

“About what?”

“Mostly it’s people divorcing and fighting over who gets the kids. I get paid to say what I think. Sometimes it’s kids getting hurt — like in an accident — and they pay me to say that’s a problem.”

He stared at me.

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s a sweet deal.”

“Who gets ’em?”

“Who gets who?”

“The kids they’re fighting for.”

“Up to the judge.”

“So what do you do?”

“Tell the judge what I think.”

“You’re smarter than the judge?”

“I know more about psychology — about how people think and act.”

His soft little chin pushed forward. What would’ve been a jut had he had more to work with. “How?”

“How what?”

“How do people think?”

“Depends on who they are, what’s happening to them.”

His expression said I’d failed some sort of test.

I said, “Like you, Efren. Sometimes you think you’re in charge of the world, you’re huge and powerful.”

Black eyes remained fixed on me.

“Other times, you think you have no control over anything. It just depends.”

His hands faltered. The glass fell to the floor, thudded on my Persian rug. Scooping it up, he said, “Sorry, man.”

I said, “It’s the same with everyone. Sometimes we’re feeling big, sometimes we’re small. I get paid to be smart because I’ve had a lot of schooling and experience. But I don’t have magic and I don’t have trapdoors.”

“What do you got?”

“What people tell me.”

“I’m not telling you nothing.”

“Your choice.”

Head shake. “Right …”

“You don’t think you have a choice?”

Silence.

I said, “Unlike the other doctors who poke you and probe you and tell you what to do, I won’t order you to do anything.”

“Right.”

“I mean it, Efren. You’ve got enough forced upon you. I don’t want to be part of that.”

He looked down at his knees. “You don’t want it, huh?”

“What?”

“Being my — doing the doctor thing.”

“I want to do my job,” I said. “I love my job. And you seem like an interesting guy and I’d be happy to work with you. But to be part of that mountain of noise? No way.”

He stood. Hefted the empty glass, put it down hard. “You got that, man. I don’t need no more shit.”

Zipping past me. End of session.

* * *

I figured I’d never hear from him again, was rehearsing my sad call to Sheila Baxter when the service rang in.

“A Mrs. Casagrande wanting to talk to you, Doctor.”

“Put her through.”

A beat. “Hallo?”

“This is Dr. Delaware.”

“This is Efren mother.”

“Nice to talk to you. How’s everything?”

“Actually,” she said, “a little good. Efren test himself twice after he come home from you.”

“That’s great.”

“He still find the candy and sneak but he at least test and take the shot … when you wanna see him again?”

“He wants to come back?”

“He forget to pay you,” she said. “I give him money, he forget. I send double, okay?”

“Sure. So Efren—”

“He say next week. That okay?”

I found a slot, made the appointment.

Rosalinda Casagrande said, “Thank you, Doctor. Effo say you a mean guy.”

“Really.”

“That good. To him, you know? Mean is strong. He live all the life with girls, everyone thinks he the little kid, you know?”

“He gets babied.”

“I think now he need someone to kick his butt. He come next week.”

* * *

For the next three months the gold low-rider arrived punctually for weekly sessions. I never set Efren’s appointments in advance, offering him a choice each time — requiring him to make the choice explicitly.

But keeping his slot open because he’d become high priority to me. A fact I’d never let on.

With the exception of one instance when he had a cold and canceled personally with seventy-two hours’ notice, he opted to come in.

The first few sessions were more question than answer. His questions about me — my education, how much money I made, the places I’d lived. I gave out very little information and my reticence pleased him: Someone who protected his own privacy could be trusted to respect his.

I dealt with the confidentiality issue early on, being clear that at fourteen, he couldn’t be guaranteed secrecy. But pledging that I’d never divulge anything he didn’t want divulged even if pressured.

“By the cops?”

“By anyone. Why would the cops ask me about you?”

Sly smile. “I dunno. They come in, you tell ’em, right?”

“Wrong.”

“What if they busted you and beat your ass?”

“I’d have nothing to tell them.” I showed him his chart. “This is what I write every time you’re here.”

He flipped pages. Read. The identical note every week: “Patient doing well.”

He said, “That’s bullshit, man. I’m fucked up.” He laughed. And remained jocular for the rest of the session.

* * *

When he arrived looking settled, we talked in my office. When he was antsy, we moved to the garden where he got a huge kick out of feeding the fish and threatened to come back with a hook and line to “catch their asses for dinner.”

When he flagged he asked for juice. Soon, he began thanking me for “keeping it nice and cold, man. You got beer?”

“Not for you.”

Awww.

“How about vodka?”

“Really?”

“No.”

* * *

A couple of times sitting anywhere wouldn’t do and we walked. Leaving the property and getting as far as the Glen before returning. Once we spotted hawks circling and I had to disabuse him of the notion that they were those “vultans that eat dead stuff.”

I learned about him. The TV he watched, the movies he liked, the foods he enjoyed. A girl in his class that had “like tits out to here, man, and prolly a real hairy pussy.”

The subject of his father never came up. Same for his gang heritage. Not a word about the drive-bys in his Boyle Heights neighborhood, including two fatal attacks reported in the papers that I looked up in my Thomas Guide and found to be walking distance from his house.

Same for diabetes.

On the twelfth session, I took the risk.

“Let me ask you something, Effo.”

“What?”

“You’re a smart guy — more than smart, you’re sharp, perceptive — you see things clearly—”

“I know what that means, man.” Grin. “Like a college perceptor.”

“On top of being smart, you like yourself. Which is good, that’s a sign of strength. You also understand all about diabetes. The scientific part.”

“All that shit? Keep the sugar smooth, man.”

“Exactly,” I said. “So how come when they sent you to me you weren’t keeping it smooth? I’m asking ’cause I’m curious.”

Shifting sideways, he stretched prone on the couch. “Know what I’m doing, lying down?”

“What?”

“I saw it on TV, they say that’s the way you spose to do the head-doc shit.”

I smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and I figured he’d sleep, or fake it, to avoid answering.

He said, “Why’d I do it?”

The eyes opened. He turned sideways. Winked. “It’s the diabetes, man. That shit don’t fit my lifestyle.”

I thought: Lifestyle? You dumb kid, you’re lucky you still have a life.

I said, “Okay, makes sense.”

* * *

CHAPTER

* * *

11

Detective Millie Rivera said, “Looks like you chose the right patient. I never figured Effo could be right about anything but being wrong. When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Years ago.”

“What’d you treat him for?”

I shook my head.

She said, “I hope it wasn’t for his antisocial tendencies. If so, it didn’t work, Doctor. He’s a serious gangster, climbed higher in the gang after his father died. In Pelican Bay. Know anything about that place?”

“Worst of the worst.”

“It’s probably where Effo will end up one day, Doctor. Who knows, he might even inherit Poppy’s cell.”

Heat had come into her voice. Her left wrist rolled up and down a chunky thigh. Working gang detail is an infinite process with infrequent satisfaction.

Rivera turned to Milo. “Big-time killer, now he’s a good citizen, go figure.”

I said, “You’re North Hollywood. Did Effo change his turf from East L.A.?”

Milo said, “He’s got a business in North Hollywood.”

“Alleged business,” said Rivera. “Car stereo place. Where bangers go for boom. We think it’s a front. You haven’t seen him in a long time?”

“He was my patient when he was a teenager.”

“He’s twenty-seven, now,” she said. “So, ten years?”

“Give or take.”

“No contact since then? Even on the phone?”

I said, “I have no ongoing relationship with him or anyone else in the gang.”

“Well, looks like Effo thinks you have a relationship. If he didn’t, Doctor, you wouldn’t be part of this conversation. Because Effo’s not shy about homicide. Like I said, he’s suspected in five and I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of stuff we don’t know about.”

“In those five was he the triggerman or a contractor?”

“Does it matter, Doctor? The point is when he decides people are going to die, they tend to do just that. We’ve been trying to nail him for a long time. He’s integral to the organization and taking him down will be a big deal. Unfortunately, because of your situation we have to treat him like he’s a good person and that means backing off. Until we resolve your situation.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Next time I’ll try to be saved by Batman or the Green Lantern.”

She blinked.

Milo hid a smile behind a hand.

I said, “How are we going to resolve my situation?”

Rivera said, “By wiping the slate clean of Dr. Sykes.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Milo said, “You do nothing, Alex. We’re here to protect and serve.”

Rivera said, “This — us notifying you — is part of the protecting. But you don’t talk to anyone about this, okay? Specifically, you don’t contact Efren Casagrande.”

I smiled. “Not even to maintain clinical support?”

Milo said, “His ego’s doing just fine. Charming little weasel that he is.”

Rivera said, “Doctor, you need to take this seriously: Everything stays buttoned up until Sykes is taken care of. Speaking of which, you need to educate us: Is she crazy, or what?”

I summed up my impressions.

“I’m hearing cold bitch rather than outright loony-tuney,” said Rivera.

I had a grab bag of diagnostic labels to dip into. Said, “Fair enough.”

“She one of those compulsives, Doctor? One try fails, she doesn’t give up?”

I said, “When did she solicit Guzman?”

Milo said, “Four days ago.”

“Six days after she showed up here.”

He nodded.

Rivera was puzzled by the exchange.

Milo said, “Woman takes her time, Millie. Premeditation, not impulse.”

She said, “Smart criminals. Hate ’em.”

I said, “She’s about organization and planning, so sure, she could persevere. What’s the plan?”

Milo said, “Far as Sykes knows — far as Ramon Guzman’s telling her — the hit’s on and ready to go. We’re gonna work with that.”

“Guzman’s cooperating.”

Rivera said, “Guzman, there’s another winner. Sociopath like Effo but minus fifty IQ points. Yes, Doctor, he’s cooperating but only because he has no choice. We can bust him for conspiracy anytime we choose but we’re holding off because his arrest could tip off Sykes and leave her untouchable — the word of a lowlife against a rich doctor. Instead, we had Effo bring Guzman to a meeting and then we popped in. At which time Effo informed Guzman he needed to play nice.”

She ground her teeth. The fist on her thigh gathered fabric and maybe some skin. “Not that we routinely take the word of people like your prize patient. But we needed Guzman totally submissive and Effo had him over-the-top terrified. Genuine fear, Ramon’s too stupid to put on a convincing performance. But stupid can cause problems so everything needs to be kept strictly under wraps.”

I said, “After Sykes threatened me, I warned Judge Maestro.”

Rivera frowned. “You did that because …”

“She wrote the order dismissing Connie Sykes’s suit. I figured she might be in jeopardy.”

“You informed her, but not the police.”

“It didn’t seem to reach the level of—”

“It reached a level where you warned a judge.”

“I played it as I saw it, Detective.”

“And the judge’s response was …”

“I spoke to her bailiff. He said he’d handle it.”

“Well,” said Rivera, “right now you’re the prime target so let’s take care of your situation and everyone else will benefit.”

I said, “Effo wires up, meets with Sykes, you’re listening in?”

Rivera slashed air with one hand. “Effo meets with no one. His participation is officially over, no way we’ll get that cozy with him, last thing we need is he goes to trial and his lawyer tries to cash in big-time brownie points for heroic law enforcement cooperation.”

She scooted forward on her chair. “You need to be clear about this, Doctor: Your situation has created an inconvenience for us but no matter what he’s done for you, we will get him.”

Milo said, “Yeah, we’re stinging her, but using our own. I borrowed Raul Biro from Hollywood.”

I said, “Raul doesn’t come across gangster.”

“Give him credit, Alex. He’s quick on his feet and he can play cold-blooded.”

“When’s it happening?”

Rivera said, “When we’re ready.”

“I want to be there.”

Rivera laughed.

Milo didn’t.

She said, “El Tee?”

I said, “This woman tried to kill me. I want to watch her go down.”

Milo said, “Nice to know you’ve got the revenge gene like the rest of us.”

Rivera said, “Well, I need to talk to my lieutenant.”

“Bill White’s a good man, Millie. I’ll handle it.”

“Fine, your responsibility.” She stood. “Nice meeting you, Doctor. Try to stay healthy.”

Milo got up, as well, but he left the attaché case on the floor and he didn’t follow Rivera.

She stopped. “Something else, El Tee?”

“Gonna stick around a bit. Educate the doctor a little more.”

“Ah … good luck with that.”

* * *

We walked Rivera out, remained on the terrace, watched as she sped away.

Milo said, “You’re gonna have to chauffeur me back to the station.”

“After you educate me?”

He laughed. “Like Millie said, good luck.”

I said, “You think I screwed up by not reporting it?”

“My protective instincts say yeah, it’s more of your usual denial. But the truth is, she really didn’t threaten you, she just acted nasty. So there’s nothing I could’ve done other than to warn her away. And I don’t know her well enough to predict how that would turn out.”

“I thought about telling you, figured if you did step in and she complained it could get sticky department-wise.”

“No doubt.” He smiled. “What a pal.”

“So what’s Rivera’s problem? I got on her bad side without really trying.”

“It ain’t you, Alex. She’s going through a rough patch.”

“Gang work burnout?”

“Probably that, too,” he said. “But the main thing is an ugly divorce. Her ex is an arson D from Van Nuys. Not a bad guy but he and Millie are going at it. One kid and they’re ripping at each other. So Millie’s not too high on men, nowadays.”

“She told you about it?”

“I have my sources.”

Returning to the house, he headed for the kitchen.

* * *

Two roast-beef-and-coleslaw sandwiches and half a pint of milk later, he said, “How you doing with it?”

“With what?” Stupidest answer in the world but I couldn’t find anything else to say.

“With the pollen count — what do you think?”

I shrugged.

He washed his dish and his glass, returned to the table. “You were pretty much Dr. Sphinx with ol’ Millie and I’m sure you had your reasons. But now it’s just us Boy Scouts, so feel free to emote.”

“I’m all right.”

He let that ride. Returned to the fridge and scrounged for dessert.

I repeated that to myself: I’m all right. Punishment for the lie arrived a split second later in the form of a wave of nausea that surged below my sternum and scuttled up to my gullet. My breathing caught, my vision fogged, nausea switched to vertigo, and I braced myself with two hands on the table.

That didn’t work, so lowering my head to my arms I closed my eyes, worked at slowing my breathing.

I heard Milo say, “Alex?” As if from far, far away.

My skin turned clammy. My pulse clanged in my ears. My head felt like a chunk of pig iron, barely secured by a rubber spine.

I needed to settle down before the next challenge: updating Robin.

The fridge closed. Heavy footsteps grew louder. I got my pulse down to a fast trot but the vertigo lingered and I kept my head down.

Milo and I have been friends for a long time and all those cases we’ve worked have probably shaped the way we think because sometimes we seem to be sharing the same brain.

This was one of those moments.

He said, “She back there, working? You sit and relax, I’ll deal with it.”

A big hand patted my back. Heavy footsteps diminished. The kitchen door closed softly.

* * *

CHAPTER

* * *

12

Six p.m., the commodious parking lot behind Rubin Rojo’s Mexican Hacienda, Lankershim Boulevard, North Hollywood.

Fifty-two hours after Milo and Millie Rivera’s visit. My new way of keeping time.

Robin and I had spent most of that period in Santa Barbara, bunking down in a bed-and-breakfast off upper State Street, filling our days with enforced recreation: leisurely mountain walks, strolls along the beach, ocean kayaking off Stearns Wharf, even a spin on the carousel on Cabrillo Boulevard.

Just another couple apparently enjoying one of the loveliest places on the globe.

Robin had taken the news well, though she was quieter than usual. I felt guilty about the whole mess and said so and, of course, she reassured me and moved us on to the next distraction. Sleeping for more than a couple of hours in a row would’ve been nice, but I made do with minutes at a time.

Now we were back in L.A., Robin visiting a friend in Echo Park, me sitting in the back of Milo’s unmarked, with him at the wheel, Rivera riding shotgun.

The restaurant was one of those oversized stucco rhomboids erected decades ago when land was cheap and signage despised subtlety. A proprietor smart enough to own, not rent, had helped it avoid the wrecking ball.

Now ninety years old, Rubin keeps the place for fun, using reasonable prices and mammoth portions to surround himself with smiling people.

Six p.m. is midway through the restaurant’s Happy Hour. Tall, overly sweet Margaritas for four bucks. The big parking lot is three-quarters full.

Warm L.A. evening. Gray skies, poor air quality, so what else is new?

The cream-colored Lexus arrives first, driving through the aisles and selecting one of the remaining slots.

Exactly fifteen minutes early.

Six oh three: A gray Ford pickup, rear deck crammed with gardener’s tools and bags of fertilizer, one of the hubcaps missing, drives in, takes no apparent notice of the Lexus, parks well across the lot.

In the truck’s driver’s seat sits North Hollywood plainclothes officer Gil Chavez wearing sweaty work clothes and two days of heavy stubble. Chavez turns off his engine, lights up a cigarette, and trains his camera on the cream-colored Lexus, pushing the zoom function to the max and focusing upon the square-faced middle-aged woman in the car’s driver’s seat, waiting motionless, her window open.

Her first movement comes at six oh six. Checking her watch.

Producing a cell phone, she texts.

After sending her message — later ascertained to be a reminder to her office manager to obtain more Medi-Cal and Medicare billing forms — she lets out a luxuriant yawn, doesn’t bother to cover her mouth. Returning to the phone, she dials up the Internet and examines something later ascertained to be a CNN news feed. Financials.

Later, Chavez will comment on how cool she appears.

Like she’s there for chiles rellenos and a couple frozen Margees.

A few other vehicles enter the lot.

The woman in the Lexus watches them with shallow interest. Glances in the vanity mirror on the underside of the driver’s sun visor. Freshens her makeup.

Chavez’s camera clicks away. Captures a smile on her lips.

Her phone drops from view. A magazine takes its place.

The zoom can’t pick up the title.

Small-print index on the cover.

The periodical is later ascertained to be Modern Pathology.

Two more vehicles drive in. The woman watches them briefly. Yawns, again. Flicks something out of the corner of her left eye.

Six fourteen p.m. — exactly a minute early — a ten-year-old black Camaro shows up. Stopping, it proceeds slowly, makes a loop of the parking lot, passes the Lexus. Two additional circuits are completed before the Camaro returns to where the Lexus is positioned and slips in next to the luxury sedan.

The new arrival’s passenger window is open, offering a direct view of the Lexus’s driver’s side. But the square-faced woman’s window is closed, wanting to study the Camaro’s driver without being studied herself.

Nevertheless, one of the four video cameras concealed in the Camaro’s black tuck-and-roll kick in. Captures a close-up of mildly tinted glass.

The Camaro’s driver leans toward his open window. A young, slim, handsome Hispanic man with pronounced cheekbones and inquisitive dark eyes, he wears a long-sleeved, plaid Pendleton shirt buttoned to the neck, saggy khakis, and white Nikes. A blue bandanna sheaths his freshly skinned head. Three hours ago, Detective Raul Biro sported a head of thick black hair so luxuriant you could mistake it for a toupée. Now, freshly cholo-buzzed by his partner, Petra Connor, with some makeup added to blend his sun-deprived scalp with the rest of his coppery dermis, he squints at the Lexus.

Expertly applied temporary tattoos litter the top of Biro’s hands and meander up his neck. The perfect blue-black hue of prison ink, also provided by Petra, a trained artist prior to becoming a cop.

Left side of the neck: a beautifully drawn blossoming rose in the center of an orange crucifix.

A teardrop under the left eye.

A crudely drawn black hand.

That much ink showing in such limited dermal terrain implies an entire body given over to adornment.

No one expects Biro to have to strip down, exposing the illusion.

He continues staring at the Lexus’s driver’s window. As if responding to his energy, the glass slides down and the square-faced woman reveals herself.

Expressionless, she studies Biro.

He returns the favor.

Finally, she says, “Juan?”

Biro says, “George. Don play games, lady.”

The square face tightens, then brightens. Eyelashes bat. “Good to meet you, George. I’m Mary.”

Different voice than I’d heard in my office. Connie Sykes is playing girly-girly with hammy abandon, laying on a Southern Belle drawl that would be comical if I was able to tolerate funny.

Neither Milo nor Millie Rivera has ever heard her real voice. They don’t react.

My stomach crawls.

She’s enjoying this.

Biro: “Anyone see you?” His voice is different, too. Lower-pitched, East L.A. singsongy, imprecise around the edges.

A refined man of perfect diction slumming for a one-woman audience.

Connie Sykes says, “Of course not.” Of cowass not.

“You sure.”

“I am, George.”

Biro says nothing.

“Cross my heart, George. So where do we do this?”

No immediate answer. Biro looks around the parking lot. “Okay, get in.”

“To your car?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Well … I suppose not.”

“So do it.”

Grimacing but bouncing back with a “Shuah, George,” Connie Sykes flips her wavy hair.

The first feminine gesture I’d ever seen her display. Absurd and incongruous. Like a tutu on a rhino.

“George” couldn’t care less about her sex appeal and Connie senses that and frowns again, as she gets out of the Lexus.

Walking to the back of the black Camaro, she sidles around, takes the passenger handle, finds it locked.

Biro unlocks it with a click. No doubt about who’s in charge.

Connie gets in. Fools with her wavy hair. Tries for a warm, flirty smile, comes up with a weirdly repellent twist of freshly painted lips.

Or maybe I’m being too harsh. She does have an X chromosome.

Millie Rivera says, “Creepy bitch.”

Biro lights up a cigarette.

Sykes barks a pretend cough. “That’s not good for you, George.”

Biro blows smoke rings. “Show me the money, lady.”

Sykes pats her bag. Same way she’d implied a gun while sitting on my leather couch. “The money’s all here, George.”

“How much?”

“What we agreed on.”

“Let me see it.”

Connie opens the bag, pulls out a wad of bills.

Biro says, “What you want me to do?”

“What do you mean?” Sykes has dropped her drawl.

“Huh?”

“I thought Ramon worked that out.”

“Yeah, right,” says Biro. “Do a guy.”

“So you do know.”

“That’s nothin’, lady.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do can be anything,” says Biro. “How you want it?”

“By ‘how’ you mean—”

“Shoot, cut, break the fuckin’ head.” He turns to her, exhales a bust of smoke. “They’s all kinda do, Mary.”

Sykes opens a window and breathes in fresh air. “Would you mind putting that out? You’re really asphyxiating me.”

Biro, still puffing: “You gonna tell me or what?”

“I assumed Ramon already discussed—”

“Fuck Ramon, I’m here, you’re here — you sure you got all the money, lady? You only showed me that bunch.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Peeved.

Silence.

Connie says, “I’m a busy person. Why would I bother to come here if I wasn’t serious.” She laughs.

“Something funny, lady?”

“I mean, George, you don’t impress me as the type of guy who does things just for fun. Though I imagine it must be fun for you.”

Biro stares at her. “You talk crazy, lady. Gonna tell me what you want, or what?”

Connie stares back. Her mouth is set hard.

The atmosphere in the Camaro has shifted and all of us know it.

Milo rubs his face, as if washing without water.

Rivera says, “Uh-oh … c’mon, Raul, work it, man.”

Biro says, “What, lady?”

Connie says, “I think you’re being … legalistic, George.”

“Huh?”

“Pressing me for details.”

“It’s your job, lady.”

“But you’re the pro, George.”

“Yeah. So.”

“So you decide.”

“Everything?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Suit yourself, Mary. I just figured you’d wanna—”

Without warning, Connie Sykes pushes the Camaro’s passenger door open and exits the car. Rather than flee to the Lexus, she returns to the rear of the black car, stops for a second. Seems to be studying something.

Milo says, “What the — she’s memorizing the tag?”

Rivera says, “Unbelievable. Ballsy bitch.”

Raul Biro speaks, barely moving his lips. “What now, guys? I go after her?”

His tone says that’s the last thing he wants.

Milo says, “Stay there.”

Connie Sykes walks into the restaurant.

Milo says, “Get out of there.”

Biro complies.

Moments after the Camaro exits the lot, Connie Sykes steps out, looks around, approaches her Lexus, takes the time for another check of her surroundings before getting into her car.

Cruising slowly, she’s gone.

Millie Rivera curses.

Milo joins her.

My head fills with what-ifs. I keep them to myself.

* * *

CHAPTER

* * *

13

Driving back to the city via Laurel Canyon, Milo headed for Hollywood Division and the sure-to-be-depressing meet-up with Raul Biro.

Not at the station on Wilcox. Biro, sounding deflated, had no desire to be in the company of Petra or any of his peers.

He directed us to a coffee shop on Sunset near Gower, was already seated at a booth, coffee cup in hand. He’d loosened the top button on the Pendleton, rolled up the sleeves. Clean arms but marked-up hands. Instead of the bandanna he wore a Dodgers cap.

Before Milo, Rivera, and I were sitting, he said, “I know I messed up but I still can’t figure out how.”

He’s an unusually bright and perceptive detective, free of macho self-delusion but confident and self-possessed. Seeing him like this was sad.

Milo said, “That’s ’cause you didn’t screw up, Raul. She’s a paranoid weirdo.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Biro said, “I did the hard-guy because the department shrink said to.” He looked at me. “I would’ve asked you but they said you were too involved.”

I said, “Understandable.”

“Would you have done it differently?”

“There’s never a cookbook. Milo’s right, there was no way to predict.”

“Oh, man,” said Biro, “what a mess.”

“You poor guy,” said Millie Rivera. “Losing your hair.”

“Don’t care about that, it’ll grow back,” said Biro. “Meanwhile she’s still out there — I’m really sorry, Doc.”

I said, “Don’t worry.”

Biro shook his head. “I used to think actors were idiots. Now I’m thinking I’m the fool, need to appreciate them.”

A waitress came over. The request for three more coffees made her scowl. “That’s it?”

“Nah, that’s the appetizer,” said Milo. “Bring me a chocolate sundae with hot fudge — you got pineapple sauce?”

“Just peaches and cherries.”

“Fine.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“It’s extra.”

“I’m an extra type of guy.”

The waitress left, rolling her eyes.

Biro said, “El Tee, if I eat now, I hurl.”

Rivera said, “Well, I can use a sugar rush — maybe I’ll also get a sundae.”

Milo said, “It’s yours I just ordered,” and stood, nodding at me to do the same. We left the booth. He said, “Don’t sweat it, kids, it’ll work out.”

“You two are going?” said Rivera.

“I’ll be in touch.”

“We’re finished?”

“In terms of official business? For the time being.”

“What do I tell Lieutenant White?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“What about Guzman?”

“Sounds like he’s under control via Effo.”

Rivera thought about that. “Okay, what about Effo?”

“Do your thing, Millie.”

She looked at me. “How do you feel about that, Doc?”

“If you’re asking will I warn him, I won’t. But even if I did, would it make a difference? He’s got to know you’re after him.”

Rivera bared her teeth.

The waitress approached with the sundae.

Milo said, “Sweeten your life, kid,” and tossed a twenty on the table.

The waitress said, “You don’t want this?”

“I like it but it doesn’t like me.” Patting his gut, he handed her a ten. Her mouth dropped open.

Milo winked at her and we left.

As I reached the coffee shop door, I glanced back at the booth. Neither Biro nor Rivera had moved.

Cop tableau.

My best friend had a surplus of personal power, knew how to use it judiciously.

I should’ve found that comforting.

* * *

Milo started up the car. “In answer to your first unasked question, I’ll take care of the situation. In answer to the second, why bother yourself with the details?”

I let him drive for a while before speaking. “In response to your first answer, how, when, and where? In terms of the second: because it’s my life and I need to know what’s going on.”

He picked up speed. “Fair enough. I’m figuring on a nice direct confrontation with Crazy Connie.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Hear me out, Alex. I’m going to surprise her at home, let her know we know everything, scare the hell out of her within legal limits, maybe even get her to do something that allows me to arrest her.” Touching his abdomen, again. “I’m not exactly a small target. She makes contact anywhere on this Sahara of Irish dermis, she’s toast.”

“You’ll be—”

“I’m a homicide cop, I get to work any damn homicides or attempted homicides that I choose. Per His Majesty.”

“You asked the chief?”

“I posed a theoretical question to one of the chief’s sycophants.”

“You figured the sting would fail?”

“I figured nothing, Alex. It’s the Boy Scout training. Be prepared.”

“Connie uses the legal system—”

“Yeah, yeah, she’ll get herself a lawyer. But meanwhile, the booking process can go real slow, let’s see how snotty she is after a stretch in County with some east side homegirls as roomies.” Big wolfish smile. “She wants to end your life because you wrote a damn report? Fuck her. Where does she live?”

“Westwood.”

“Address.”

“Don’t know it by heart.”

“It’s in her file.”

“Yes.”

“File’s back at your house.”

Nod.

“Then that’s where I’m aiming this chariot.”

* * *

Instead of heading to my office, he said, “First things first,” and continued through the house and out to the garden and Robin’s studio.

She was working the table saw, so the two of us stood just inside the door. When the roar died, she removed her goggles, brushed dust off a rectangle of spruce. “Big Guy.”

Milo said, “Hey.”

Wiping her hands, she came forward. Blanche followed. “I’d like to say great to see you, Milo, but I’m sensing bad news.”

He told her.

She shrugged. “Those things, you never know.”

“The perfect woman.”

Finally, something I could agree with.

* * *

The three of us convened around the kitchen table. Blanche settled at Milo’s feet. He scratched her head absently. “If you had K-9 training, pooch, I’d take you along.”

Robin said, “Take her where?”

I said, “He’s going to confront Sykes.”

Milo reiterated his logic.

Robin said, “Makes perfect sense. Thank you.” To me: “Really, honey, what’s the choice, continue in limbo?”

“I’m not sure this will get us out of limbo.”

“What’s your approach?” said Milo. “Doing therapy with her?”

I said nothing.

Robin fooled with my hair. “Honestly, Alex, the only other solution I see is you put her out of her misery, yourself.” Sly smile. “Or I do it. Come to think of it, I’ve got all sorts of implements of destruction back at the studio.”

Milo clamped his hands over his ears and began humming.

Robin laughed, pulled his left hand free, placed her mouth near his lips. “And then I fill a bathtub with sulfuric acid, after which I take the bitch and—”

“Save it for the movie version, kid. Alex, get me that address.”

I said, “When are you planning to do it?”

“She’s a doctor, probably works late, I want to catch her at home, maybe tennish.”

“Tonight?”

“You see any reason to prolong this? Gonna get myself a nice hearty dinner, something rib-sticking — hey, maybe ribs, that joint on Centinela — no, kids, don’t offer to provide sustenance, I need a little alone time. Collecting thoughts, as it were.”

“Ding dong,” I said. “Homicide calling.”

“Hey,” he said, “if she’d succeeded, she woulda met me, anyway.”

* * *

CHAPTER

* * *

14

After Milo left, Robin and I returned to the kitchen table.

I said, “So.”

She said, “I suggest we adopt Plan B.”

I said, “What’s A?”

“Sitting around, our tummies in a knot, waiting for Big Guy to call and tell us what happened.”

“Where’s your sense of fun? What’s B?”

“Enjoy life — maybe a rib-sticking meal of our own. If anyone can clear up this mess it’s him, so why worry?”

“You can eat?”

“I’d sure as heck like to try. And please don’t ask what happens if he doesn’t convince her. We’ll deal with that if and when it comes up.”

“Fine. Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s decide once we’re on the road.”

“Okay,” I said. “Sorry.”

“For being a potential victim? I think not, Alex. I think the only one who needs to apologize is that insane monster.”

“I live,” I said, “with the perfect woman.”

“Far from it, darling.” She punched my shoulder lightly. “But I’m way better than most.”

* * *

We decided on Thai food at a storefront café on Melrose, were finished at nine forty-five. By now, Milo would be at Connie Sykes’s place, watching, waiting.

I asked Robin if she wanted to drive around a bit.

She said, “You bet, beats us obsessing.”

“Appreciate the kindness.”

“What kindness?”

“Using the plural.”

“What, you think I’m an Iron Maiden? This is nerve-racking for me, too. I’m just trying to utilize all those coping skills some psychologist taught me.”

* * *

We cruised west into Beverly Hills, traversing Rodeo, stopping a few times so Robin could check out window displays.

“Name it, it’s yours, Tsarina.”

“Thank you, Sugar Daddy.” Adopting a southern drawl. Unfortunate choice; my gut tightened. I looked at the dashboard clock. Ten twenty-three. By now, Milo would be—

Robin said, “Let’s go home, watch some tube, if he doesn’t call by midnight, I’m assuming all is well and our dreams are going to be a lot better than hers.”

Ten after midnight. Lights out.

“Love you, babe, thanks for your patience.”

“Love you, too, Alex. Everything’s going to be fine.”

* * *

Three minutes later, I was swimming in worst-case scenarios, jumped when the phone rang.

Milo said, “It’s me. You’re safe.”

“You’re sure—”

Trust me, you’re safe. My life, on the other hand, just got a whole lot more complicated.”

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