Self-Defence

33

The Van Nuys station is part of the municipal complex on Sylvan, just off the boulevard, where thrift shops, pawnbrokers, bail bondsmen, and discount Western-wear barns prevail. Posted just inside the door among the bulletins and wanted posters was a xeroxed flier from a local gang threatening to assassinate officers. Someone had written on it Come and get it, lowlife. The front room was noisy and active. Several handcuffed men waited to be booked.

It took a while to get past the desk. Finally, a detective named Almondovar came out and walked me through the squad room to the Robbery-Homicide area. Thirty-five or so, he was compact and stubby, with neat graying hair and curious eyes. His Ultrasuede sportcoat was gray, his slacks a darker gray, and he wore lizard-skin cowboy boots.

"Whose doctor are you?" he said.

"Lucy Lowell's. Was it an accidental OD?"

"Did you know the victim?"

"Just by reputation."

"Big-time addict?"

"Long-term addict."

"From the shape he was in, you couldn't tell much- here we are."

He opened the door of an interrogation room. Lucy and Ken sat next to each other at a folding card table, looking like prisoners of war. Before them were two cups of coffee, untouched.

"Hey, folks," said Almondovar.

Ken's eyes were red and his blond-stubbled face looked swollen. Lucy didn't move or blink. Her dull gaze went right through me.

Almondovar said, "We already took statements from them, doctor. If there's anything more we need, we'll let you know."

Neither Ken nor Lucy budged.

"What I mean, doctor, is they can go."

"We'll get going soon as possible," I said.

Almondovar whispered in my ear, "We might need the room soon." To Lucy and Ken: "Sorry, folks, we'll do what we can to clear this up."

He walked out.

Ken covered his face and shook his head.

I patted his shoulder. He looked at me, trying to smile, then turned to Lucy. She was staring at the wall. Her eyes were glassy.

I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back. Then she took a very deep breath and stood up.

She seemed unsteady. Ken was out of his chair, grabbing her elbow, but she was okay.

I walked them out through the station. A few cops looked up but most didn't.

We left Ken's Taurus in a city pay lot and I drove them to Rockingham Avenue.

When we got in the house, Lucy said, "I'm tired."

"I'll settle you in," said Ken. The two of them disappeared and I waited in the living room, leafing through a coffee-table book on the great mansions of Newport, Rhode Island. A quarter hour later, Ken came down. He'd removed his jacket and his shirt was wrinkled.

"Can I get you a drink or something?"

"No, thanks. Do you want to sleep, too?"

He made a hard, angry sound that could have been a laugh or a cough. "I guess I should tell you what happened."

"It doesn't have to be now."

"Might as well," he said. "It's not going to get any easier."

We went through the kitchen into the breakfast room and sat down at an oak table.

"We were going to drive out to look at some horse land I'm foreclosing on," said Ken. "First we went out to breakfast this morning. Lucy seemed very uptight. When the food came, she didn't touch it. I asked her what was wrong, and she said she couldn't stop worrying about Puck. Then she started crying."

He gave a pained look. "Sure I can't get you some coffee?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay… Where was I?" Rubbing his chin. "So I said, "Why don't we go over to his place and see if he left any indication where he went?' She said she didn't know if that was a good idea, in case people were looking for him; she didn't want to tip them off. Didn't want to put me in danger either." He wiped his eyes.

"Drug people?" I said.

"I guess. We never actually talked about his problem. I never even realized he was addicted until later. I mean, when I met him I knew something was wrong. Thin, always coughing, his nose running. I wondered about AIDS… Anyway, we ate for a while- at least I did. Then Lucy said, Maybe we should go. We could look around to make sure no one was watching the apartment, and if there wasn't, we could go in- excuse me."

He got up, fixed a cup of instant coffee, and brought it to the table. "Then she said she was sure he was in some kind of danger. Otherwise he would have called her at least once. I asked her what danger. She said she really didn't know, Puck tried to keep his problems to himself, but probably some kind of debt situation. So we went to his place. Lucy had a key." Wiping a tear. "What a rathole. Basically an abandoned building. The store below was vacant. To get to Puck's place you had to climb up some rear stairs near the trash bins."

He ran his hands through his hair and swallowed hard.

"We went in and there was this smell, right away- like stale laundry mixed with badly rotting food- but the place was a mess, open cans, crap all over the carpet, so I didn't think anything of it. It was a surprisingly big place- two bedrooms. But no real furniture. Lucy said the rear bedroom was Puck's, so we went back there. The door was closed but we heard something behind it, like an electric shaver. We looked at each other, scared out of our minds. Then I figured, maybe it's good news, he just got back, he's shaving, cleaning up. So I opened the door…"

He blinked and put the cup down.

"Just a crack, but this cloud came out at me. Flies. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. That was the sound. And maggots. The whole bed was covered with them. On the floor, on the drapes, like someone had tossed rice all over. Then I saw- underneath a big mound of them, on the bed- this… thing. The needle sticking out of it. Shiny and clean. The only clean thing in there. He was- under them, on the bed. And on the floor. It was hard to tell what was him and what was- he'd melted!"

Milo said, "It's called purge fluid. Stuff leaks out when putrefaction's well under way. It means he'd been there for a while."

We were in the living room of the Brentwood house. He'd just arrived, nearly two hours after I'd brought Ken and Lucy back. Both of them were sleeping.

"How long?" I said.

"Hard to say, there was no air-conditioning in the apartment. Coroner says the most we can expect is an estimate, three- to eight-day range."

"Well, we know it's closer to three, because before that he was in New Mexico. Looks like he came back soon after he called Lowell. But he still didn't call Lucy."

"Came back after scoring," he said. "Van Nuys found a nice little chunk in the toilet tank. Mexican brown, but very strong. Small corner chipped away."

"Sampling the goods and he OD'd," I said. "Too stoned to call Lucy."

He looked around the room. "How long's she been asleep?"

"Hour and a half."

"Ken, too?"

"He went up to see how she was doing a half hour ago and didn't come down."

"Escape to sleep," he said.

"Old Buck tends to nod off when he's under stress, too."

He cracked his knuckles. "Some people just have shitty lives, don't they? And the rest of us live off them. Hey, why don't we blow this joint, go to the circus or something? Did I ever tell you I once busted a clown when I was on patrol? Peeping Tom. Never worked that into his act."

He got up and paced the room. "Nice place the scamsters set up for themselves."

"Crime almost paid."

Ken came down the stairs, holding on to the banister. His hair was combed but he looked sick. "Guess I dozed off- hi, detective."

They shook hands.

"Is Lucy awake?" I said.

"Just up. She said if you wanted to come up it was okay. She's at the end of the hall."

I went up the stairs. Lucy's room was pale blue with white trim, smallish, with a canted ceiling and a big four-poster with lace-edged covers. She was sitting on the edge, staring out the window.

I sat next to her. She didn't react. Her eyes were dry and her lips were chapped.

"I'm so sorry, Lucy."

"Gone," she said. "Everything."

I patted her hand. Fingers cold as Puck's junkie digits.

"Heard the doorbell," she said.

"That was Milo."

She nodded, then kept the movement going, a faint rocking.

"No surprise," she said. "Guess I always knew, but…"

"It's never easy."

"Like being stripped… one thing at a time… empty world."

I squeezed her fingers.

"He can come up," she said. "Milo."

Almost pleading.

I stepped out to the landing. Milo and Ken were still in the entry. It didn't look as if either of them had moved.

"She'd like to see you."

He bounded the steps two at a time. When we were alone, Ken touched his belly and gave a squeamish look. "Stomach's off, can't hold on to anything. Maybe I'll finally take off some blubber."

I smiled.

"Gained way too much. Fifteen pounds during the last year. My divorce. It hasn't been a friendly one. Kelly- my wife- met another guy. She'd been complaining about being bored, so I suggested she take some classes at the junior college. She met him there, some out-of-work construction guy. I tried to get her to go to counseling, but she wouldn't. When I finally realized we were going to break up, I tried to keep it amicable, for the kids. But she bad-mouthed me to them."

"That doesn't help the kids."

"It's been going on over a year, and we're still in court. Her dad's got lots of money, lawyers on retainer. She says she won't give up until she has everything."

He gave another cough-laugh. "That's why I was motivated to get in touch with Puck and Lucy. Now this."

Milo returned. "She fell asleep again."

"I'd better go lock the door," said Ken.

Milo said, "Why?"

I told him.

"Oh." Turning to Ken: "Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks, detective. Are they treating what happened as an accident?"

"Probably."

"Guess it was," said Ken. "Sometimes it seems like everything is."

Outside at the curb, I asked Milo if Lucy'd said anything.

"She held my hand and took turns smiling and crying. Think she has any chance coming out of this reasonably intact?"

"She's pretty tough, but this… she's topping off the stress scale."

"Beautiful day," he said, looking at the sapphire sky. "I had time to make some calls. The surf shop's closed, meaning the Sheas may have split, too. Still nothing on Trafficant, and if your Mr. Mellors is a bad guy, he's been a careful one. Nothing on NCIC. In fact, I can't find any record of him at all."

"What's going on?" I said. "Everyone's just disappearing."

He rubbed his face. "We all do, eventually."

I returned home and tried Columbia University. They'd never heard of Denton Mellors. Either he'd lied about his educational background or was using a false name. Pen name? I got the number for the Manhattan Book Review and called the magazine.

The man who answered let out a stuffed-sinus laugh. "Mellors? And who are you, Lord Chatterley?"

"Sometimes I feel like it."

That cut off his laughter. "He's not one of ours. We have no grounds to keep."

"He definitely wrote for you," I said. "Reviewed M. Bayard Lowell's last book."

"That sounds awfully like ancient history."

"Twenty-one years ago."

"Well, that's paleolithic, isn't it?"

"Is there anyone on your staff who was working on the magazine at the time?"

"We're not a magazine," he said, miffed. "We're a review- a state of mind, actually. And we have no permanent staff. Just Mr. Upstone, myself, and a bevy of freelance hopefuls."

"What does it take to be a reviewer?"

"One has to recognize the proper criteria for judging books."

"Which are?"

"Style and substance. Now, I fail to see the importance-"

"I work for a law firm out in L.A. Mr. Mellors has come into an inheritance. Nothing big, but he still might want to know about it."

"How nice for him."

"Was Mr. Upstone around when Mr. Mellors's review came out?"

"Mr. Upstone has always been around."

"May I speak with him, please?"

"If you're good."

"I promise."

He laughed. "California… how can you live there?"

A few minutes later, a cross-sounding tobacco voice said, "Mason Upstone."

I repeated my request.

Upstone broke in. "I won't tell you a damn thing. Haven't you ever heard of the right to privacy?"

"I'm not-"

"That's right, you're not. Tell your friends at the CIA or the FBI or whoever it is you're with to do something more constructive than spying on creative people."

Slam.

I went out on the deck and tried to relax. The sky out there was even bluer, but I couldn't unwind.

I couldn't stop bad things from happening to Lucy, but I should have been able to deal with a dream…

Lowell, Trafficant, Mellors.

I pulled out the clipping on the Sanctum party and read it one more time.

Lowell holding court.

Trafficant with his own circle of groupies.

Had they tried to outdo one another the night of the party?

Had Karen Best been the victim of that competition?

There had to be some way to connect the pieces.

I ran my eyes down the names of partygoers. The usual Westside showbiz list, no indication any of them had a relationship with Lowell. With one exception: the film producer who'd financed construction of the retreat, Curtis App.

His name had come up before. I shuffled through articles till I found it: A PEN fund-raiser at App's Malibu house had been the site of Lowell's reentry into the public eye.

Fund-raiser for political prisoners.

Had App shared Lowell's sympathy for talented criminals? Or was he just a generous man?

Calculated generosity? Film people's self-esteem often lagged their wealth. Had App tried to buy himself respectability by hitching up with a Great Man?

An "independent producer" had optioned Command: Shed the Light for film. App, or some other patron?

Paying to adapt poetry to the screen seemed an absurd business decision. More charity?

Great Man on the skids… App buying in cheap?

Sinking money into Sanctum, then watching it all fall apart as Lowell lost interest.

He might very well have a few opinions on Lowell.

No phone listings under his name. No great surprise.

Didn't producers belong to some kind of trade group- the Producers Guild?

I found the address-400 South Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills- and was just about to punch the number when my service clicked in.

"Someone on your line from Mr. Lowell, doctor. She wouldn't give a last name. Sexy voice."

I took the call.

Nova said, "Are you still planning to bring the daughter up?"

"There were no plans."

"I was under the impression there were. He's expecting her- the best time's late afternoon. Five or later. He takes a long nap after lunch, and-"

"There were no plans," I repeated, "and something's come up."

"Oh, really," she said coolly. "And what's that?"

"Mr. Lowell's son Peter was found dead today."

Silence.

"When did this happen?" she said skeptically.

"The body was discovered this morning. He'd been dead for a while."

"How did he die?"

"Heroin overdose."

"Damn," she said. "How am I going to tell him?"

"Call the police and let them do it."

"No, no, it's my job… This is obscene, the man's been through so much. When he wakes up he'll expect me to tell him about the daughter's visit. You should have her come. Especially now. He deserves it."

"Think so?" I said.

"Why are you being so hostile? I'm just trying to do what's right."

"So am I."

"I'm sorry." Suddenly, a softer tone. "I'm sure you are. This caught me by surprise. I have no experience with this kind of thing. I really don't know what to do."

"There's no easy way to tell him," I said. "Just find the right time and do it."

"What's the right time?" she said, almost timidly.

"When he's not drunk or highly medicated or upset about something else."

"That doesn't leave much… but you're right, I'll just have to bite the bullet."

Sounding miserable.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"What if I tell him and he has a fit and- he's in such bad shape. What if he has another stroke? What do I do, all alone with him?"

"He obviously needs a doctor."

"I know, I know, but he hates them."

"Then I don't know what to tell you."

"He likes you. Would you come up and be there when I tell him- maybe coach me?"

I laughed. "I think you've got the wrong guy."

"No, no, he does. Said he'd given you both barrels and you'd shot right back. He respects you. It's the first time I've heard him say anything respectful about anyone. I know it's an imposition, but I'll pay you for your time. Please, this freaks me out; I don't do death well. Too much weirdness in this family, this wasn't what I expected when I took the job. But I can't abandon him- too many people have."

"It seems to me he's the one doing the abandoning."

"You're right," she said. "But he doesn't see it that way. He can't help himself- he's too old to change. I'm really worried I'm going to mess this up. Please help me. I'll make it worth your while."

"I won't take your money," I said. "Conflict of interest. But I'll come up. And it has to be now."

The kindly therapist, even as I mapped out a walk through the grounds. Looking for lacy trees.

"You will?" she said. "That's so incredible. If there's anything I can do in return…"

Sexy voice.

"Let's just get through this," I said. "I feel sorry for the whole family."

"Yes," she said. "They're a pitiful bunch, aren't they?"