“I might know people.”
“Then have them call my people and we’ll do lunch,” he said. “Sure, why not, it’ll free the kids up to keep probing any links between Boykins, Parmenter, and O’Brien. Which I stillthinkcould be relevant.”
—
I spent the next hour and a half scouring the web for overdose victims, left dead or alive in or near health facilities. Beginning with L.A. County then expanding throughout the state. Nothing but MarissaFrench came up, not even the two intoxicated males Alicia and Sean had found in the crime files.
Push the clutch, switch gears.
I phoned Lee Falkenburg, a pediatric neuropsychologist with whom I sometimes cross-referred. I’d worked with Lee years ago at Western Pediatric hospital doing research on the neurological effects of cancer radiation. Smart and industrious, she’d gone on to open up a private office in Beverly Hills and a payment-optional learning disabilities clinic for the working poor in Inglewood near the northern rim of Culver City.
The Bedford Drive office had expanded to a six-psychologist group. I got voicemail offering a numerical menu.
For Dr. Falkenburg, press 1.
Compliance led me to Lee’s away-message. She had a beach house in Carpenteria. End of the week, probably off to enjoy the sand. I’d just identified myself when she cut in.
“Hi, Alex. Something interesting?”
“Yes, but not a referral.”
“That’s okay, we’ve got more work than we can handle. Is it one of your police-y things?”
I explained.
She said, “Poor girl, that is so sad. I’ve had a few patients with GHB neurotoxicity, mostly teens with lingering memory issues. But no, I haven’t heard about anyone being dumped anywhere and I’ve got no connections to any of those urgent cares. I am on the staff of Cal Culver so I could ask.”
“That would be great.”
“No problem, Alex. Except you know what might happen if there was an incident and the patient didn’t do well and the lawyers got involved.”
“Tight lips,” I said.
“I was thinking more in anal terms.”
“Official sphincters freeze.”
She laughed. “But I’ll give it a try.”
“Really appreciate it, Lee.”
“No prob. Now, can you get my Becka one of those ride-alongs with the cops? She’s addicted to gory crime shows.”
I remembered a small girl, red-haired, freckled, precocious. “How old is Becka?”
“Twelve.”
I laughed. “Don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Lee said, “Yeah, the joys of impending adolescence, those mushy frontal lobes. Of course, it’s totally inappropriate. As are her viewing habits, but you choose your battles. When I told someone at the last neuropsych meeting the programs she streamed he looked at me as if I was an abuser. But he’s always been an insufferable prig and I know I can tell you stuff because you don’t get all judgy.”
I said, “How about a visit to the police academy?”
“Where’s that?”
“Elysian Park. Jack Webb donated most of it.”
“TheDragnetguy? Sounds interesting,” she said. “Maybe I’ll tag along. No, scratch that, if I want to go she’ll say that sucks.”
