The Clinic

20

It was good to get back out in the sunlight.

Pretending the warmth could melt the bitterness I'd absorbed up in his office.

Real pain and anger or an act to prevent me from probing?

Confronted with a question about his and Hope's relationship, he'd never said it had been good, only that they'd both been hard to live with and their endurance proved something.

Then he'd admitted he was jealous but turned it into worship.

Living with a masterpiece… that could wear thin.

I thought of the sudden way he'd flushed. Short fuse.

People with severe temper-control problems often betray themselves physiologically.

Root around to your heart's content.

Secure in his innocence or a psychopath's catch-me-if-you-can challenge?

The meeting at Kenneth Storm Sr.'s office in Pasadena was at one. Julia Steinberger would be finished teaching in twenty minutes.

I used a library phone and gave Casey Locking's home another try. Same tape.

Late evening in England, but still a civil hour to call Hope's other student, Mary Ann Gonsalvez.

Once again, the phone just kept ringing.

Back to the world of real science.

Julia Steinberger was heading for her office, flanked by two male graduate students. When she saw me, she frowned and told them, “Could you give me just a minute, guys? I'll come by the lab.”

They left and she unlocked the office. She was wearing a knee-length black dress and black onyx necklace and looked troubled. When the door closed behind us, she remained standing.

“I don't know if I'm doing the right thing,” she said, “but the first time you were here there was something I left out. It's probably not relevant- I find the whole thing distasteful.”

“Something about Hope?” I said.

“Yes. Something- remember how I told you I'd had an intuition about her possibly having been abused?”

“The fierce look.”

“That was true,” she said. “She had that look. But… I- there was something else. It was last year- at the Faculty Club. Not the welcoming tea, something else- some guest lectureship, who remembers.”

Walking to her desk, she braced her palms on the top. Looked at the doll she'd fondled the first time, but made no move toward it.

“We chatted a bit, then Hope moved on to circulate and Gerry and I found someone else to talk to. Then, maybe an hour later, at the end of the evening, I went to the ladies' room and she was in there, standing at the mirror. There's an entry room before you get into the main bathroom, also mirrored, and the way it's set up, you can get a look into the bathroom as you pass. It's carpeted, I guess she didn't hear me.”

She lowered her eyes.

“She was in there, examining herself. Her arms. Her dress was cut low on the shoulders but with elbow-length sleeves. I'd noticed it, very elegant, figured it had cost a fortune. She'd pulled one of the shoulders down and was looking at her upper arm. There was a strange look in her eyes- almost hypnotized- and her expression was blank. And on the arm was a bruise. A large one. Black-and-blue. Right here.”

She touched her own bicep. “Several marks, actually. Dots. Finger marks. As if she'd been squeezed very hard. Her skin was extremely white- beautiful skin- so the contrast was dramatic, almost like tattoos. And the bruises looked fresh- hadn't yet turned that greenish-purple color.”

She hurried back to the door, fighting tears. “That's it.”

“How'd she react when you walked in?” I said.

“She yanked up the sleeve, her eyes came back into focus, and she said, “Hi, Julia,' as if nothing had happened. Then she made happy talk and put on her makeup. Chatting on and on about how different things would be if men were expected to always be in perfect face. I agreed with her and we both pretended nothing had happened. What was I supposed to say? Who did that to you?”

She opened the door. “Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she just had delicate skin, bruised easily… but when she asked me to be on the committee, I just felt as if I owed it to her.”

Dark bruises on white skin.

Seacrest's sudden anger.

I got back in the Seville and onto the 405 north.

Pasadena eats more than its share of smog but today the air was clean and the office buildings on Cordova Street shone as beautifully as a Richard Estes painting.

Storm Realty and Investment was a one-story neo-Spanish surrounded by brilliant flower beds and jacaranda trees still in purple bloom. The accompanying parking lot was pristine. I pulled in next to Milo's unmarked just as he got out. He was carrying his briefcase and a tape recorder and was wearing a gray suit, white button-down shirt, red-and-blue rep tie.

“Very GOP,” I said, looking down at his desert boots and trying not to smile.

“When in businessland, do as the businessmen. Speaking of commerce, I found a couple of Sunset Strip bars Mandy Wright just might have frequented.”

“Might?”

“No ID yet but a couple of promising maybes. We're talking big hair, perfect bodies, so an ugly girl would have stood out better. As is, I was lucky to find two bartenders who'd been working there a year ago. Neither would swear it was her, just that she looked familiar.”

“Was she working or hanging out?”

“Her line of work, is there a difference? And if she was working, they wouldn't admit it and jeopardize the liquor license. The thing that makes me think it could be a valid lead is the places were only a block apart, so maybe she was cruising. Club None and the Pit. Trouble is, neither barkeep can remember seeing her with anyone.”

“But it does put her in L.A.”

He crossed his fingers. “The other thing is, I spoke to Gunderson, the Temple City detective who handled Tessa's complaint against her old man. He's an assistant chief now, barely remembered the case, but he pulled the file and said his notes indicate they never took the complaint seriously. Considered Tessa a head case. He started to remember the father vaguely. As a nice guy- admitted to a juvenile record when he didn't have to, very up-front about everything. So Muscadine is looking increasingly righteous and let's finish with the damned committee- ready for Master Storm?”

“Before we begin, I've got some evidence of Hope being abused.” I told him Steinberger's story, then my few minutes with Seacrest.

“Bruises and a bad temper,” he said, frowning. “What, specifically, got him so pissed?”

“He was pissed at the outset, got red in the face when I told him I wanted to talk about the relationship.”

“Good. Maybe we're getting under his skin. Maybe I should work him a little more… Wouldn't that be something, he roughs her up for years and she writes the book telling women how to defend themselves.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” I said.

“For what?”

“Style over substance. Little boxes. But if she and Seacrest were having problems, the book, all the attention it got her, could have crystallized her dissatisfaction, made her decide to finally break away. Maybe in that sense, fame was her death sentence. But as to what that has to do with Mandy Wright, I still can't come up with anything. And here's another complication: Last night I took another drive by Cruvic's office. He wasn't in but Nurse Anna was. Along with Casey Locking.”

I told him about the Mulholland house and he copied down the address.

“Shit,” he said. “Just when you thought it was safe to go back into hypothesisland- okay, I'll find out who owns it. Meanwhile, let's go persecute a mouthy kid.”

We crossed a long, quiet reception area to get to Kenneth Storm Sr.'s office, past a pair of secretaries who looked up from their keyboards resentfully, talk radio in the background.

The Storms were a testament to genetics, both bull-necked and wide-shouldered with sandy crew cuts and small, suspicious eyes that locked in place for long stretches.

Senior was fiftyish with the dissolute, puffy look of a fullback gone sedentary. He wore a navy blazer with gold buttons and a Masonic pin in the lapel. Junior's jacket was dark green, his buttons as bright as his father's.

They were both positioned behind Senior's canoe-shaped blond-oak desk, which had been cleared of everything but a cowboy bronze and a green onyx pen-and-pencil set. The office was too big for the furniture, walled in oak veneer and carpeted in beige shag. Real-estate and life-insurance achievement awards were Senior's idea of self-validation. A cigar smell filled the room but no ashtrays were in sight.

Standing in front of the desk was a rangy, hawk-nosed, gray-haired man wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, French-cuffed powder-blue shirt, and a silk tie in someone's idea of power pink. He introduced himself as Pierre Bateman, Storm's attorney, and I recalled his name from the complaint against the conduct committee. Before we had a chance to sit, he began laying down stipulations for the interview in a slow, droning voice. Kenneth Storm Jr. yawned and scratched behind his ears and stuck his index finger in and out of a buttonhole. His father stared down at the desktop.

“Furthermore,” said Bateman, “with regard to the substance of this proced-”

“Are you a criminal lawyer, sir?” said Milo.

“I'm Mr. Storm's attorney of record. I handle all his business affairs.”

“So you regard this as a business affair?”

Bateman bared his teeth. “May I continue, Detective?”

“Has Mr. Storm Jr. engaged you formally?”

“That's hardly relevant.”

“It might be if you're going to stand around making up rules.”

Bateman massaged a sapphire cuff link and looked at the boy. “Would you care to designate me as your attorney, Kenny?”

Junior rolled his eyes. His father tapped his sleeve with an index finger.

“Yeah, sure.”

“All right, then,” said Bateman, “with regard to this procedure, Detective, you will refrain from…”

Milo placed his tape recorder on the desk.

“I have a problem with that,” said Bateman.

“With what?”

“Taping. This is neither court testimony nor a formal deposition and my client's not under any formal suspicion-”

“So why are you acting like he is?”

“Detective,” said Bateman. “I insist that you stop interrupting-”

Milo shut him up with a loud exhalation. Picking up the recorder, he examined a switch. “Mr. Bateman, we drove out here as a courtesy, rescheduled several times as a courtesy, allowed your client's father to be present as a courtesy, even though he's reached the age of majority. We are not talking juvey traffic court here. Our interest in the lad is the fact that he had a highly hostile exchange with a woman who was subsequently stabbed to death.”

Junior mumbled and Senior shot him a look.

“Detective,” said Bateman. “Surely-”

“Counselor,” said Milo, taking a few steps closer. “He's not a formal suspect yet, but all this shuffling and dodging is definitely firming up the picture of an individual with something to hide. You wanna sit here, play F. Lee Bombast, that's your business. But if we do conduct an interview today it's gonna be taped and I'm gonna ask what I want. Otherwise, we'll reschedule at the West L.A. substation and you all deal with the freeway and the press.”

Junior mumbled again.

“Ken,” warned Senior.

Junior rolled his eyes again and fingered a pimple on the side of his neck. His hands were big, hairless, powerful.

Milo said, “Sorry to be taking up your time, son. Though you've got a bit of time on your hands, don't you. Being out of school and all that.”

Junior's neck stretched as he jutted his lower jaw. His father tapped his cuff again.

“Detective,” said Bateman, “that was a wonderful speech. Now, if you'll allow me to continue my stipulations.”

Milo picked up the recorder and headed for the door. “Sayonara, gentlemen.”

We were halfway across the reception area when Bateman called out, “Detective?”

We kept walking and the lawyer hurried to catch up. The reception area had gone quiet, the two secretaries staring. The talk jock was pontificating about athletes' salaries. The place smelled of mouthwash.

“That was intemperate, Detective,” Bateman stage-whispered. “This is a kid.”

“He's nineteen and more than big enough to do damage, Mr. Bateman. Expect a call.”

He pushed the door open and Bateman followed us out to the parking lot.

“Mr. Storm's well-regarded in his community, Detective, and Kenny's a solid boy.”

“Good for them.”

“With all the gangs and the serious crime, one would think the police have better things to do-”

“Than harass law-abiding citizens?” said Milo. “What can I say, we're stupid.” We reached the unmarked.

“Just wait one minute.” Bateman's voice had tightened, but with anxiety, not indignation.

Milo took out his keys.

“Look, Detective, I'm here so they'll feel protected. Kenny really is a good kid, I've known him for years.”

“Protected against what?”

“Things have been rough, lately. They're both under considerable stress.”

Milo opened the car door and put his gear in.

Bateman edged closer and spoke in a lower voice. “I don't expect you to care, but Ken- Ken Sr.'s having some financial difficulties. Serious ones. The real-estate market.”

Milo straightened but didn't answer.

“It's a hard time for both of them,” said Bateman. “First Ken's wife died, very sudden, an aneurysm. And now this. Ken built his business from nothing. Built this building twenty years ago and now it's on the verge of foreclosure. And losing it won't solve all his problems, there are plenty of other creditors. So you can see why he'd be nervous about the legal process. I'm his friend as well as his lawyer. I feel obligated to protect him as much as I can.”

“We're not talking real estate, here, Mr. Bateman.”

The attorney nodded. “Truth is, I don't know shit from shinola about criminal law and told Ken so. But he and I go back to grade school. He insisted on having me present.”

“So he thinks the boy needs legal help.”

“No, no, only in general terms- not getting shafted by the system. To be frank, Kenny's no genius and he has a bad temper. So does Ken. So did his dad, for that matter. The whole damn bunch of them have short fuses, for all I know that's how they got the family name.”

He smiled but Milo didn't return it.

“Is Kenny an only child?”

“No, there's a daughter up at Stanford Med.”

“The bright one.”

“Cheryl's a whiz.”

“How do she and Kenny get along?”

“Fine, but Kenny's never been at her level and everyone knows it. My point is, Detective, take those tempers and add all the stress, and without some sort of structure, there's a good chance both of them would eventually get hot under the collar and pop off. Give the wrong impression.”

“Which is?”

“That Kenny's capable of violence. He isn't, believe me. He played football with my kid in high school, had the speed and the muscle but got dropped from the team because he wasn't aggressive enough.”

“No killer instinct, huh?”

Bateman gave a pained look. “Furthermore, he assures me that on the night of the murder he was in San Diego.”

“Does he have someone to back that up?”

“No, but like I said, he's no Einstein.”

“So?”

“What I read about the murder sounded thought-out: stalking the woman, leaving no physical evidence. That just isn't Kenny. He might lose his cool and run his mouth, maybe even punch someone, but he calms down fast.”

“He's smart enough to get into the U,” I said.

“A miracle,” said Bateman. “Believe me. Ken pulled in some alumnus chits, had him tutored, the boy took the SAT four times. Then he worked his butt off, but still couldn't cut it. Couldn't hack College of the Palms either. Now this. It couldn't come at a worse time, in terms of his self-esteem. That's why that cra- your remark about his having free time was hurtful. Being interrogated by the police isn't pleasant. To be honest, Detective, he's pretty scared about today.”

“He didn't seem scared.”

“He puts on a show. Believe me, he's scared.”

Milo finally smiled. “You like him, huh?”

“Yes, I do, Detective.”

The smile widened. “Well, I don't, Mr. Bateman. 'Cause he hasn't done anything to earn my liking him.”

“Det-”

“I've got a brutal, unsolved murder with a lot of angry overtones to it on my hands and what I see in your client is a big, strong, aggressive kid with a very nasty temper who's been playing hard-to-get and finally shows up with Daddy acting antsy and a lawyer trying to block every syllable that comes out of my mouth. What do you want me to do, serve up my questions on a doily with parsley on the side? If I wanted to cater, I'd learn how to cook.”

Bateman bared his teeth again. The affect behind the mannerism was hard to gauge but his body language said submission.

“Of course not, Detective. Of course not, I'm just trying to- all right, let's give it another try. Ask what you want, tape everything, but I'll be taking detailed notes. And do try to remember this is a good kid.”

When we returned to the office, both Storms were smoking cigars and an ashtray had appeared on the desk.

“Panamanian?” said Milo.

Senior nodded and blew enough smoke to hide his facial features. Junior smirked.

Milo set up the tape recorder, recited the date and place, his badge number, and Junior's name as the subject of an “in-person interview with regard to one-eight-seven PC, Coroner's Case Number nine-four dash seven-seven-six-five, Professor Hope Devane.”

Hearing her name wiped the smirk off Junior's face. He smoked and fought back a cough.

Bateman and I sat down but Milo remained on his feet.

“Afternoon, Kenny.”

Grunt.

“Do you know why we're here?”

Grunt.

“How many times did you meet Professor Devane?”

Grunt.

“You're going to have to speak up.”

“Once.”

“When was that?”

“The committee.”

“The hearing of the Interpersonal Conduct Committee chaired by Professor Devane?”

Grunt.

“What's that?”

“Yeah.”

“I've read transcripts of that hearing, son. Sounds like things got pretty heated.”

Grunt.

“What's that?”

“She was a bitch.”

Senior took his cigar out. “Ken.”

“Hey, tell it like it is,” said his son.

“So you didn't like her,” said Milo.

“Don't put words into his mouth,” ordered Senior.

Milo looked down at him. “Okay, we'll stick to quotes: You think she was a bitch.”

Senior's mouth got piggish and Bateman made a go-easy gesture with his hand.

Milo repeated the question.

Junior shrugged. “She was what she was.”

“Which was?”

“A fucking bitch.”

“Ken!”

“Mr. Storm,” said Milo. “Please stop interrupting.”

“He's my son, dammit, and it's my right to-”

“Ken,” said Bateman. “It's okay.”

“Right,” said Senior. “Everything's okay, everything's just great.”

“Counselor,” said Milo.

Bateman got up and put a hand on Senior's shoulder. Senior shook him off and smoked furiously.

“What,” said Milo, “made you think she was a bitch, Kenny?”

“The way she acted.”

“More specific.”

“The way she set me up.”

“Set you up how?”

“That letter telling me we were just going to discuss things.”

“At the hearing.”

“Yeah. When I got there, the way she tried to get Cindy to say I was some kind of rapist, which is total bullshit.” Sidelong glance at his father. “It was just a dumb hassle between Cindy and me. Later, she called me.”

“Professor Devane did?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Afterward.”

“After the hearing?”

“Yeah.”

“How long after?”

“The next day. At night. I was at the Omega house.”

“Why'd she call?”

“To try to freak me out.”

“In what way, son?”

“She was pissed because her little game was a loser.”

“How'd she try to freak you out?”

“She said even if Cindy didn't want to press charges, I had problems- impulse-control problems, some bullshit like that. She said she could make things rough for me if I didn't behave.”

“She threatened you?”

The boy shifted in his seat, looked at his cigar, and put it in the ashtray. His father stared at him.

“She didn't exactly come out and say it, more like hinting.”

“Hinting how?”

“I don't remember the exact words. Like I'll be watching, I'm in control, you know?”

“Did she use the word “control'?” I said.

“No- I don't know. Maybe- it was more like how she said it, you know? Watch your step. Or something like that. She was a radical.”

“Radical?” said Milo.

“Left-wing.”

“She discussed her political views with you?”

The boy smiled. “No, but it was obvious. Radical feminism, trying to establish a new order, know what I mean?”

“Not really, son.”

“Socialism. Central control.” Glance at his father. “Communism died in Russia but they're still trying to centralize America.”

“Ah,” said Milo. “So you see Professor Devane as part of some kind of left-wing conspiracy.”

Kenny laughed. “No, I'm no militia freak, I'm just saying there's a certain type of person likes to control things, make rules for everyone- like Playboy is evil and should be banned, affirmative action for everyone.”

“And Professor Devane was that type of person.”

Kenny shrugged. “Seemed like it.”

Milo nodded and ran his hand over his face. “And she said she'd be watching you.”

“Something like that.”

“Watching how?”

“She didn't say. I shined her on, anyway.”

“How?”

“Told her to fuck herself and hung up and went back to playing pool. I was leaving the place anyway, what did I care, fuck her.”

“Leaving the University?”

“Yeah. Place sucks, waste of time. You can't learn business in school.” Another sidelong peek at his father. Senior, his head in a cloud of smoke, was staring at the framed awards.

Milo said, “So you thought she was a bitch and she threatened you. Did her threat scare you at all?”

“No way. Like I said, she was full of shit and I was out of there.”

“Did you ever consider taking action against her?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything.”

Senior swiveled and faced Bateman. “Can he get that general, Pierre?”

“Would you care to rephrase your question, Detective?” said Bateman.

“No,” said Milo. “Did you ever consider taking any kind of action against Professor Devane, Kenny?”

Junior looked from his father to Bateman.

Milo tapped a foot.

“Dad?”

Senior gave him a disgusted look.

Milo said, “Shall I repeat the question?”

Bateman said, “Go ahead, Kenny.”

“We- my father and me- we talked about suing her.”

“Suing her,” said Milo.

“For harassment.”

“Which it was,” said Senior. “The whole thing was a complete outrage.”

“It woulda served her right,” said Junior. “But we never did anything.”

“Why not?”

No answer.

“Because she was murdered?” said Milo.

“No, because Dad's got some… he's busy with business complications.”

“So we discussed it,” said Senior, loudly. “So what? Last I heard it's still a free country, or have I missed something?”

Milo kept his eyes on the boy. “Did you ever consider taking any other kind of action against Professor Devane, Kenny?”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting back at her physically?”

“No way, man. And anyway, if I would've wanted to do that it wouldn'ta been her I'd pound, it would be that wuss with her. I'd never hit a lady.”

“What wuss is that?”

“The faggot with her, he really got on my case, I don't know his name.”

“You considered getting back at him physically.”

Bateman said, “Detective, that's not a-”

Kenny said, “I didn't consider it, but if I did, he would've been the one. He kept going at me, like trying to… outfeminist her.”

“So if you would've planned to hurt someone it would have been him, not Professor Devane.”

Senior said, “He never said he'd hurt anyone.”

“Exactly,” said Junior. “Him, I could've duked it out fair and square with. But she was a woman. I still open doors for women.”

“Car doors,” said Milo. “Like for Cindy?”

The boy's shoulders bunched.

Milo checked the tape.

“Okay. Now let's talk about where you were the night of the murder.”

“ La Jolla.” Quick answer.

“Why?”

“I live there, I work there.”

“Work where?”

“Excalibur Real Estate, the training program. Used to, real estate's in the dumpster.”

“So you quit.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing, now?”

“Exploring.”

“Exploring what?”

“My options.”

“I see,” said Milo. “But the day of the murder you were still in the Excalibur Real Estate training program.”

“Yeah,” said the boy. “But that day, specifically, I was with friends on the beach.” He ticked off his fingers: “Corey Vellinger, Mark Drummond, Brian Baskins.”

“Friends from La Jolla?”

“No, from here. The Omega house. They came down to see me.”

“How long were you with them?”

“From around ten to five. Then they drove back up to L.A.”

“What did you do at five?”

“Went driving for a while, got a video at Blockbuster, then I think the Wherehouse for some CD's.”

“You bought CD's?”

“No, I just looked.”

“Do you have the receipt for the video?”

“Nope.”

“You pay for it with a credit card?”

“Nope, I was overdue on my card so I left them a deposit, paid cash.”

“What'd you rent?”

“Terminator 2.”

“You go home and watch it?”

“First I went for dinner.”

“Where?”

“Burger King.”

“Is there anyone who can remember you there?”

“Nope, it was drive-through.”

“Where'd you eat?”

“At my place.”

“An apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“The Coral Motel, off Torrey Pines.”

“Anyone see you there?”

“Don't think so, but maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I don't know anyone, it's just this dinky-shit single he was renting for me while I was in the program.”

“Who's he?”

“Dad.”

Senior smoked and looked at the wall. “Month-to-month rent,” he said.

“So you returned with your video and your dinner to your room. What time was this?”

“Six or seven.”

“Then what?”

“I watched TV.”

“What'd you watch?”

“MTV, I think.”

“What was on?”

Kenny laughed. “I dunno, videos, all kinds of shit.”

“Did you go out again that night?”

“Nope.”

“Quiet night, huh?”

“Yeah. I got sunburned at the beach, didn't feel so good.” Smiling, but an uneasiness ruffled the last few words.

“You do anything that night besides watch TV?” said Milo.

Pause. “Nope.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

The boy glanced at his father.

“Kenny?” said Milo.

“Basically that was it.”

“Basically?”

Senior turned to his son and scowled.

“Basically?” Milo repeated.

Kenny touched the pimple on his neck.

“Don't pick at it,” said Senior.

“What else did you do that night?” said Milo.

Junior's answer was nearly inaudible. “Beer.”

“You had a beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Just one?”

“A couple.”

“How many?”

Another glance at Dad. “A couple.”

“Meaning two?” said Milo.

“Maybe three.”

“Or four?”

“Maybe.”

“You get high, son?”

“Nope.” The small eyes were active, now.

“Do anything besides beer?”

“No!”

“Four beers,” said Milo. “Maybe a six-pack?”

“No, there were two left over.”

“So definitely four.”

“Probably.”

“Probably.”

“Maybe I had another in the morning.”

Senior stared at his son, shook his head very slowly.

“Breakfast of champions,” said Milo.

The boy didn't answer.

“Dinner, TV,” said Milo. “Then four beers. What time did you drink the fourth beer?”

“I dunno, maybe eight.”

Leaving enough time for the two-hour ride to L.A. and an hour of stalking. But the dog had turned ill earlier in the evening.

“Then what?” said Milo.

“Then nothing.”

“You went to sleep at eight?”

“No, I… more TV.”

“TV all night?”

“Basically.”

“Be nice to have someone who saw you there, son.”

“It's a small room,” said Kenny, as if that explained it.

“Make any phone calls?”

“Um… I dunno.”

“Maybe?”

“I don't know.”

“It's easy to get a look at your phone records.”

The boy glanced at Bateman.

Bateman said, “We'll have to explore that, Detective.”

“Explore away,” said Milo. “But with no alibi and Kenny's hostile exchange with Professor Devane I'll have no trouble getting a warrant.”

The boy sat higher, then his shoulders fell and he blurted, “I- can I talk to you in private, sir?”

“Kenny?” said his father.

“Sure,” said Milo.

“No way,” said his father. “Pierre?”

“Kenny,” said the lawyer, “if there's something you need to-”

The boy shot to his feet, waving his fists. “I need privacy!”

“I'm here to safeguard your privacy and your-”

“I mean real privacy, not legal bullshi-”

“Ken!” barked Senior.

“This is a murder, Dad, they can do what they want!”

“Shut up!”

“It's no big deal, Dad! I just want some fucking privacy, okay!”

Bateman said, “Kenny, there are obviously some things you and I need to-”

“No!” shouted the boy. “I'm not saying I killed her or anything crazy like that! I just made a phone call, okay? A fucking phone call but they're gonna find out so can I have some privacy?”

Silence.

Finally, Senior said, “What the hell did you do, call a whore?”

The boy blanched, sat down heavily, covered his face.

“Great,” said his father. “Great judgment, Kenny.”

The boy began sobbing. Talking between gasps: “All… I… wanted… fucking… pri… vacy.”

Senior ground out his cigar. “With all the diseases going around. Jesus…”

“That's why I didn't want to tell you!”

“Great,” said his father. “Very smart.”

Kenny lowered his hand. His lips trembled.

Senior said, “If you were so concerned about what I'd think, why'd you do it in the first place?”

“I used a skin!”

Senior shook his head.

Milo said, “What you do on your own time doesn't concern me, Kenny. In fact, it could help you. Who exactly did you call?”

“Some service.”

“Name?”

“I don't remember.” Despondent, soft voice.

“Had you used it before?”

Silence.

Senior turned away.

“Kenny?” said Milo.

“Once.”

“Once before?”

Nod.

“But you don't remember the name?”

“Starr Escorts. Two r's.”

“Where'd you find out about them?”

“The phone book. They're all in the Yellow Pages.”

“What was the girl's name?”

“I don't- Hailey, I think.”

“You think?”

“We didn't exactly talk much.”

“Both times it was Hailey?”

“No, just the second time.”

“Describe her.”

“Mexican, short, long black hair. Not bad face. Good bo… nice-looking.”

“How old?”

“Maybe twenty-five.”

“How much did she charge?”

“Fifty.”

“How'd you pay her?”

“Cash.”

“What time did you call Starr Escorts?”

“Around ten.”

“And what time did Hailey arrive?”

“Maybe ten-thirty, eleven.”

“How long did she stay?”

“Half hour. Maybe longer. After- she watched some TV with me, we had the last two beers.”

“Then?”

“Then she left and I went to sleep. Next day I turn on the news and they're talking about her- Devane. Saying somebody offed her and I'm thinking, whoa, while she was getting killed, I was…” He looked at his father, sat up straighter. “Right around the time she was dying I was having a good time. Freaky, but kind of… like some kind of revenge, know what I mean?”

“Christ,” said Senior. “Can we end this?”

“So I'm covered, right? Alibied?” the boy asked Milo. “She was killed around midnight and I was getting- with Hailey, so I couldn't do it, right?”

He took a deep breath and let the air out. “I'm glad it's out. Big deal, Dad. I didn't kill anybody. Aren't you happy?”

“I'm overjoyed,” said Senior.

“Starr Escorts,” said Milo.

“Look it up in the book. I'll take a fucking lie-detector test, if you want.”

“Shut your mouth!” said his father. “No more gutter talk!” He turned quickly to Milo: “Are you happy, now? Have you squeezed enough blood out of the rock? Why don't you just leave us alone and go out and catch some gang members?”

Milo looked at the boy. “What about Mandy Wright?”

Genuine confusion on the stolid face. “Who?”

“Christ,” said Senior. “Lay off!”

“Ken,” said Bateman.

“Ken,” Senior repeated, as if the sound of his own name disgusted him. Pointing his hand to the door, he said, “Out. All of you. This is still my office and I want privacy.”