Brainwaves, page 20
part #8 of Joanna Blalock Series
“She didn’t,” Farelli told him. “Karen Crandell is dead.”
“What?”
“She was murdered.”
“Oh, Christ!” Tony leaned back against the wall, shock written all over his face. “Do you know who did it?”
“That’s what we’re looking into now.”
“What the hell is the world coming to?” Tony asked. “A nice lady like that, a doctor, and somebody kills her. The world is so fucked up.”
Tell me about it, Farelli started to say, but he held his tongue. “Did she ever talk to you about being afraid of someone? Or maybe having an enemy?”
“Never.”
“At these clubs you two went to, did she get along okay with the people?”
Tony nodded. “Everybody liked her.”
Farelli closed his notepad and exhaled wearily. He was going nowhere fast. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“About a month ago.”
“And you two parted on good terms?”
Tony hesitated. “She was a little upset.”
“About what?”
“I refused one of her requests.”
“Tell me about it,” Farelli said, ears now pricked.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got a lot of time.”
“It goes something like this,” Tony began. “I come
from a long line of professional dancers. Both my parents and grandparents were dancers in France before they came to this country. Anyhow, when I was a boy I used to have dreams of being in a palace in Paris and I’d be doing the minuet with beautiful women. Everybody was dressed in clothes from around the time of the French Revolution. The dreams eventually stopped, but for no reason started coming back a few months ago. I mentioned this to Karen and she was really anxious for me to take part in some experiment at Memorial. I told her to get lost. I didn’t want to be some damn guinea pig. She got really upset because I wouldn’t do it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Tony stared at the detective and tried to read his face. “Am I going to be arrested for all this?”
“No,” Farelli replied. “But there is a law against screwing for money, you know.”
“I know,” Tony said guiltily.
“So keep your pecker in your pants.” Farelli added, “And don’t mention this interview to anyone.”
“You mean, my boss won’t hear about this?”
“Not unless you tell him.”
Farelli left the studio and walked outside into bright sunlight. The day was warmer, with not even a hint of a breeze. Farelli pulled at his collar with an index finger, thinking he hadn’t learned a damn thing. So the doc was a little kinky and paid to get laid. That sure as hell didn’t add up to murder.
Farelli was reaching for his car door when he remembered something he’d overlooked. He walked back into the studio and over to the receptionist.
Farelli asked, “Do you keep a record on how your
clients find out about this place? You know, yellow pages or other people. Things like that?”
“Sure,” the receptionist said, and pushed her chair over to the computer keyboard. “Who are you interested in?”
“Karen CrandeU.”
The receptionist punched in the name and waited for the information to appear on the monitor. “She was referred by two of Vivian’s students, Albert and Benjamin Rudd.”
“Ask Tony to step out for just a minute,” Farelli requested. Those two little bastards, he thought, keep turning up everywhere.
When Tony appeared, Arturo was at his side. The receptionist leaned toward them, eavesdropping.
“Yeah?” Tony asked.
“One more question,” Farelli said. He took Tony’s arm, guiding him onto the sidewalk outside the studio. “The records say that Karen was referred to you by Vivian. Right?”
Tony thought for a moment. “Well, actually it was a couple of Vivian’s clients who referred Karen here. Vivian just made sure Karen was assigned to me.”
“So it was the Rudd twins who made the referral?”
“Right.”
“Did you ever meet the Rudds?”
“No,” Tony said. “But they were double bad news.”
“How so?”
“Well, according to Vivian, at first they seemed like normal guys. She tried to teach them how to dance, but both of them had two left feet. But Vivian kept trying and they became regulars and sort of friends. Nothing serious, just friends. Anyhow, the twins play Softball every weekend and invited Vivian and her
roommate to come watch them play.” Tony took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “You’re not going to believe this part, particularly since we’re talking about doctors.”
“Try me.”
“Vivian and her roommate went to the game and everything was fine—until someone slid real hard into one of the twins. He got pissed and a scuffle started. The next thing you know, the other twin comes running onto the field with a baseball bat and swings it at the opposing player. He hit the guy and broke some ribs before they could wrestle the bat away. That scared the shit out of Vivian and her roommate. They couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Can you imagine a doctor hitting somebody with a baseball bat?”
“Yeah, strangely enough, I can,” Farelli said, and headed for his car.
18
“A baseball bat?” Joanna asked incredulously.
“A baseball bat,” Jake repeated. “And he actually swung it at the guy.”
Joanna shook her head, still not believing it. “They’re insane.”
“They’re a handful, all right.”
“Was the guy badly hurt?”
“He ended up with some broken ribs.”
Jake and Joanna were standing outside Christopher Moran’s office at the BRI. It was 5:10, and the corridor was deserted except for a cleaning crew at the far end.
Joanna asked quietly, “Do they make baseball bats from oak?”
“Most are made from ash, and they don’t have silver inlays either,” Jake told her. “But as a long shot we’re checking around to see if anybody knows of an oak ceremonial bat with a silver plaque attached.”
“What kind of bat is that?”
Jake paused, trying to think of a good example. “Like one that Joe DiMaggio held and signed. The silver plaque says it’s authentic.”
“But why would the Rudds keep a ceremonial bat in their office?”
Jake shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a long shot.”
“Well, at least you’ve excluded the escort guy as a suspect.”
“And there was something else Farelli mentioned,” Jake went on. “Apparently Karen Crandell wanted to use the escort for some type of research, but the guy refused.”
Joanna glanced over toward the opened door to Moran’s office. She lowered her voice further. “What kind of research?”
“It had to do with a dream.” Jake described in detail the recurring dream the dance instructor had. “He saw himself dancing the minuet in a French palace a couple of centuries ago.”
Joanna considered the matter at length before slowly nodding. “It probably had to do with Karen’s memory research.”
Jake looked at her quizzically. “Are all dreams really memories?”
“Some people think so.”
They glanced up at the wall clock. It was exactly five-fifteen. They walked into Christopher Moran’s office.
Moran’s secretary was on the phone. She quickly finished the call, then stood. “Dr. Blalock?”
“Yes,” Joanna said.
“Dr. Moran was tied up in surgery, but he’s on his way up now. He thought you’d be more comfortable waiting in his office.”
The secretary ushered them in and left, leaving the door open.
Joanna thought Moran’s office looked like something out of Victorian England. The desk was mammoth and made of polished mahogany. Its legs were
thick and bowed and embellished with carved scrolls. The chairs were all high-back and upholstered in deep brown leather. There was a huge window behind the desk. One side wall was covered with builtin shelves, the other with framed diplomas and certificates. There were no personal photographs, or any paintings or plants. The room was colorless.
“Cold isn’t it?” Jake commented.
“Like the man.”
As Joanna sat down, she glanced over her shoulder. Suddenly she straightened up and stared at the back wall. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“Look,” Joanna said, and pointed at the rear wall.
“Son of a bitch,” Jake hissed under his breath. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.”
On the rear wall was a display of polished walking sticks held in place by felt damps. Some of the canes had curved handles, but most were straight walking sticks with ornate silver heads.
Jake hurried over and took one of the straight canes down. It was made of solid oak. He rapped the cane against his palm and felt its sting. “You could crack a head open with this,” he whispered.
“We’ve got our murder weapon,” Joanna whispered back, glancing over at the opened door.
“But maybe not our man.”
“Why not?”
“Because the offices were all left open the night of the murder,” Jake explained. “Any of the four could have come in and grabbed a cane.”
“I guess so,” Joanna had to admit, remembering something else. “And there’s a photograph in Bondurant office that shows him and Moran in top hats
and tails at a costume ball. And they both had walking sticks.”
“Well, it’s one of these four bastards, for sure.”
Jake replaced the cane, then examined the others one by one. All were highly polished with no chips or marks. “They’re like new.”
“What about the silver heads?”
“Not even a scratch.”
Joanna glanced at the door again. “The murder weapon came from this office. That’s for damn sure.”
“And that puts Moran right at the top of the list.” Jake again studied the rack of canes and the felt clamps that held them in place. “But if an oak cane was the murder weapon, where is it now?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, all these canes are in perfect condition, without even a nick. So it couldn’t be any of these.”
“And none of the spaces in the rack are empty,” Joanna added. “So there’s no missing cane.”
“Right,” Jake said, trying to think through the problem. “I guess he could have hidden it away and replaced it with another cane.”
Joanna nodded. “That would be no problem for an ardent collector.”
“Somehow we’ve got to find the cane he used.”
“And prove he used it.”
“That, too.”
They heard Moran’s voice in the reception area. He was giving instructions to his secretary on changes in tomorrow’s schedule.
They hurried back to their seats and stared straight ahead at the window.
“Don’t glance back at the canes,” Jake said sotto voce. “Make believe you never saw them.”
Moran entered the office and nodded as he sat behind his desk. He was still wearing a green scrub suit, his mask pulled down onto his chest. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he apologized. “We had a very sick patient in post op.”
“No problem,” Jake said, and opened his notepad.
“Before we begin,” Moran went on, “I’d like to tell Joanna about some interesting findings that have just come to light.”
“Sure,” Jake said, taking his measure of the man before him. Moran was big with muscular arms. He was plenty strong enough to crush in a skull with an oak cane. “Go ahead.”
“It seems, Joanna, that Oliver Burns was right,” Moran reported, pleased. “The electron microscopic studies on Marci Gwynn’s brain showed exactly what he predicted. There was obvious swelling of the blood vessel walls along with other evidence of damage. And this was responsible for Marci’s vasomotor collapse and irreversible shock. Cause and effect, you see.”
“It’s quite possible,” Joanna said, but she still wasn’t convinced. The microscopic changes in the blood vessels of Marci’s brain were nonspecific, and most patients with those changes didn’t have shocks or seizures.
“So, that’s one problem out of the way,” Moran concluded. “Now, how may I help you?”
By confessing to Karen Crandell’s murder, Joanna wanted to say. But she kept her expression even and deferred to Jake. “The lieutenant has a few questions for you.”
“Nothing big,” Jake said. “When we talked last, we
covered the time period between nine and ten the night Karen Crandell was murdered.”
Moran nodded. “Correct. I was in the conference room with the others.”
“Yeah,” Jake continued, his tone nonconfrontational. “What I need to know is your whereabouts between ten and ten-fifteen.”
Moran leaned back and tapped a finger against his chin, concentrating. “To the best of my recollection, our meeting ended just before ten. Then I went to my office, checked for phone messages, and left.”
They all tell the same story, as if they had rehearsed it, Jake was thinking. “Were you the first to leave?”
Moran thought back again. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see Evan on my way out, but he may have still been there.”
“And the Rudds?”
“They were arguing about something in their office when I left.” Moran shook his head, amused. “You’d think they’d give it a rest now and then.”
“And you saw nothing unusual or suspicious on your way out?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Did you see anybody on the fire escape?” Jake asked. “Coming or going?”
After a pause, Moran said, “Not at that time of night.”
“What about other times?”
“Well, some of the people run the steps as a form of exercise during the day.”
“Like who?” Jake pressed, as if the information was new.
“The Rudds and a few of the technical staff,” Moran
answered, then hastily added, “but I’ve never seen them at night.”
“Good,” Jake said, and turned to Joanna. “Do you have any questions for Dr. Moran?”
“Just one or two.” Joanna took out an index card and studied it, though the card was blank. “Have there been any recent robberies up here in the BRI?”
“None to my knowledge,” Moran replied.
“Has there been anything of value missing?” Joanna asked. “Any thefts reported to the police?”
“Not that I know of.”
Jake smiled inwardly. That was a damn good question, because now if they found the murder weapon, Moran couldn’t say it was stolen or missing.
Joanna put her blank index card away. “Those are the questions I have.”
“Thanks for your time, Dr. Moran.” Jake got to his feet and closed his notepad. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Moran’s brow went up. “I have?”
“Yeah.”
“Wa-was it some information I gave?”
“Yeah,” Jake lied, deciding to let the surgeon worry. “We may have more questions later.”
As they walked out, both Jake and Joanna had to strain to keep their eyes off the oak canes that hung on the wall in Christopher Moran’s office.
19
Jake drove carefully along Mulholland Drive, a winding road atop the mountains separating West Los Angeles from the San Fernando Valley. To the left he could see the lights of the valley sparkling in the misty darkness a thousand feet below. At ten-thirty there was virtually no traffic, and only an occasional dim streetlight.
Jake leaned over the steering wheel, keeping his eyes glued to the road. He went past Beverly Glen, then around a sweeping curve where the lighting was a little better. Ahead, he saw a rest area with parking spaces and a few wooden benches. A black Town Car was parked in the shadows.
Jake pulled up next to it and turned off the ignition. After thirty seconds he flashed his lights one time, then waited for a return signal. In the adjacent car was William Buck, director of a sensitive intelligence unit in the Los Angeles Police Department. Jake had asked for information from Buck before, but the briefings always took place in Buck’s office, never on an isolated mountain road. That told Jake the information he was about to receive was so sensitive that Buck was going to extraordinary measures to make
sure their conversation wasn’t overheard. Buck was also making sure there was no evidence to show that their upcoming meeting ever took place. Jake wondered what in the hell he was getting into with this NASA business.
The headlights on the Town Car flashed twice.
Jake got out and entered the backseat on the driver’s side of the big car.
William Buck pressed a button on the console by his side. The doors locked. He pushed another button and a soundproof partition went up, separating the back of the car from the driver in the front seat.
“I hope I’m not keeping you up too late, Jake?” Buck said cordially.
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Buck was built like a tank, with wide shoulders, a thick neck, and a square jaw. “I’m glad you’re getting your sleep, because I’m not getting mine.”
“Are you telling me you’ve hit a blank wall?”
“Worse,” Buck said evenly. “You’ve sent me on a wild goose chase.”
“No way,” Jake argued. “I gave you solid facts. Some guy named Doyle handles all of NASA’s business at Memorial.”
“Not according to NASA.”
Buck rearranged the blanket that covered his thighs. Both of his legs had been blown off by a Vietcong mine in 1972. “They never heard of Doyle,” he said, “and they’ve never done any business with Memorial. Nada. Nothing.”
“Jesus Christ!” Jake hissed angrily. “They’re all lying over at Memorial. Every damn one of them.”
“I don’t think so,” Buck said. “I think they’re being used.”
Jake squinted an eye, confused. “You’re going to have to take me through this step by step.”
Buck pushed a button and the back window opened an inch. Cool air flowed in. “Let’s begin with what we know. My friend at NASA, who is a very solid source, did a comprehensive search for us. There is nobody named Doyle on their books and never was. And they’ve never contracted out any research projects to Memorial.”
