27
I didn’t hear from him the rest of the day so I figured he’d ignored my theory.
The following day, I had back-to-back evaluations from nine to six, switched my phone off as I always do and stashed it in a bottom desk drawer.
Five minutes after I saw the last patient out, Robin and I were on our way to a mom-and-pop Italian place on the southern edge of Westwood. By eight o’clock, we were home, by nine still naked and relaxed, by nine thirty showered and ready for some quiet time.
Still nothing from Milo. Then I remembered and retrieved my phone.
Two attempts, an hour ago and twenty minutes later.
I pushed the little red button.
—
He said, “You don’t like me anymore?”
“Patients all day, turned the phone off and forgot.”
“I’m hurt,” he said. “Anyway, you got me thinking so I rooted around on Alberts.”
He’d had no luck retrieving any official paper on the case. Backtracking local press coverage revealed that Kevin Van Osler, the politically motivated federal prosecutor who’d spearheaded the probe, hadturned corporate litigator at a New York firm. A year later, he was dead. Heart attack at an Oyster Bay country club.
Unable to find mention of any other attorneys on the case, he’d tried Deputy D.A. John Nguyen. Reaching John at home and annoying him.
“No idea and don’t ask me to look for it.”
“Just an initial stab, John?”
“The only stabs I’m into are when you bring me corpses.”
“John—”
“We are swamped, man. The case is ancient history and got beaucoup press coverage. Go find some alleged reporter.”
“TheTimesguy’s in Thailand and not answering emails and the rest of it was wire service with no bylines and online rehash.”
“Then I guess you’re S.O.L. Let’s face it, the entire premise sounds freakin’ flimsy. The daughter was likely some homeless deal and if Villalobos gets anywhere it’ll be because some homeless blabs.”
“You don’t think mother and daughter could be linked.”
“Because they both got done? West L.A. and Irwindale? Totally different methods? Plus the daughter had IQ issues? I know you think Delaware’s a genius and granted he’s been right about stuff, but stick with the here and now. Do your due diligence and if that doesn’t turn up anything and you’re struggling to breathe, maybe I’ll find you an oxygen tank.”
I said, “That’s cranky even for John.”
“I think I interrupted a date. Timing’s everything, right?”
Ignoring Nguyen, he’d persisted, chewing up most of the evening trying to find anyone who’d worked the Alberts case. A series of calls to former colleagues finally got him a name but no details. A White Collar Crimes detective named Angela Batchelder.
“Retired, lives near Spokane. Right off she tells me, ‘Sure, Martha was part of the team, sorry to hear about her.’ Do I have to say it? Yes, I do, self-abasement’s good for the soul.You. Were. Right.”
“What was the team?”
“Three D’s from us and a bunch of FBI agents specializing in money crimes. Martha was on it for a year. Batchelder said Martha hadbeen a real bulldog, extremely detail-oriented—compulsive, she called her. Working long hours, compiling the thickest file. Knowing what we know now, that makes sense. What would Freud call it—adapting your hang-ups to the job?”
“Sublimation. But Freud had an answer for everything.”
“Well,” he said, “doesn’t sound like Martha was sublime. Just the opposite, according to Batchelder. Hyped up, almost manic. To the point where she and the others were wondering about her. Then suddenly, she surprises everyone and packs it in. No face-to-face, she put notes on everyone’s desk. Wanna guess what I’m thinking?”
