The Boys from Santa Cruz

7

“That went well, don’t you think,” Pender observed drily, as he and Skip left the motel. Gerald Mesker had chased them out of the apartment before Pender had a chance to ask them about their son’s mental history.

“At least they can still move back into their house,” Skip pointed out. “Because where Charlie’s going, they don’t charge for room, board, or psychiatric care.”

“Assuming he lets himself be taken alive.”

Skip shrugged. “Either way, he won’t have to pay any rent,” he said. “So what do you want to do next, track down this Dr. Hillovi?”

“We need to bring Klug up to speed first,” said Pender, who was well aware that by not informing the Santa Cruz detective earlier about the change of suspects, he had probably violated Steve McDougal’s prohibition against stepping on local toes. Still, if Charles Mesker had been at his parents’ house, and Pender had made the pop himself, to the greater glory of the Bureau, not only would he not have been reprimanded, he’d have been a hero. In the FBI, as elsewhere, Pender understood, you pays your money and you takes your chances.

With the aid of his handy cell phone, Pender tracked down Klug to a bar on the municipal wharf. Skip drove the Buick all the way to the end of the wharf, angle-parked in a handicapped zone, and hung his blue placard from the rearview mirror.

Klug was outside the bar, leaning against the board fence surrounding the noisy, noisome sea lion corral, wearing a Popeye Doyle porkpie hat with the brim turned up, and smoking one of his Camel straights. Pender introduced Skip, half-shouting over the grumbling and baying of the sea lions, and mispronouncing the name as Ep-steen.

“That’s Epstein, rhymes with fine.” Skip gave them the short-form correction; the long form included a speech about how you didn’t say Albert Einsteen or Gertrude Steen or drink a steen of beer.

The homicide detective stuck out his hand. “Lloyd Klug, rhymes with bug, mug, drug, and hug.” He’d obviously had a few drinks but sobered up fast when Pender handed him the small, framed snapshot of Charles Mesker-the grown-up, not the Boy Scout-which he’d pocketed on his way out of the Meskers’ apartment.

“Let me get this straight,” said Klug, when Pender had finished telling him about their new suspect. “This guy Mesker is going around killing people named in Sweet’s journal because Sweet told him to?”

“You got it,” said Pender. “I suspect we’ll have a more detailed answer after we track down his psychiatrist, but we wanted to bring you up to date first.”

Klug’s eyes narrowed. “And am I?” He took a last lung-charring drag off the Camel, then flicked it over the side of the pier.

“Are you what?”

“Up to date. Because I’ve got the distinct feeling you’re holding out on me.”

“Hey, what I got, you got.” Pender was the picture of injured innocence. He sounded so sincere that even Skip might have believed him, if he hadn’t already known about the list of potential victims in Luke’s journal. Skip also noticed that during the course of the conversation, Pender had gradually adopted an unobtrusive version of Klug’s Philadelphia accent.

After the meeting with Klug, Pender used the magic cell phone to track down Dr. Fredu Hillovi, Charles Mesker’s staff psychiatrist at Meadows Road, to the regional burn center at Valley Medical in San Jose, where he was still a patient. To Pender’s surprise, when he spoke with the night charge nurse to find out when he and his colleague could interview Dr. Hillovi, she asked him how soon they could get there.

“You mean, like tonight?” Pender’s plans had been tending more toward a few drinks, a motel room, and beddy-bye.

“Yes, tonight. As soon as possible, in fact. He’s having a terrible time, pain-wise, and doesn’t want to be left alone. Meanwhile I’m short-staffed beyond belief, so you’d be doing us both a favor.”

“In that case, keep a light in the window,” said Pender. “We’re on our way.”