Dr. Death by Jonathan Kellerman

“Come on, Doctor,” said Bratz. “You don’t want to be putting yourself in an awkward position. We’ll be contacting Detective Sturgis soon enough, he’ll tell us the truth.”

“Be my guests.”

Bratz hemmed me closer and I sniffed mentholated cologne. His jaw was set. No more vulnerability. “Why would you care about Dr. Burke? A suspect’s already in custody on Mate.”

“Being thorough,” I said.

“Thorough,” Bratz repeated. “Just like Fusco.”

“You know, Doctor,” said Donovan, “some people say you’re kind of obsessive.”

I smiled. How long before the prints on Alice Zogh-bie’s gate got decoded and they found out about it? “Sounds like you’ve been researching me.”

“We can be thorough, too.”

“If only everyone was,” I said. “Better world. The trains would run on time.”

Bratz rubbed a patch of raw skin and looked at the recorder. Nothing of substance had been recorded. “You

think this is a joke, my friend? You think we want to sit around with you, bullshitting?”

I turned and looked into his eyes. “I doubt you’re enjoying this any more than I am, but that doesn’t change the facts. You asked me if I knew where Fusco was, I told you the truth. I don’t. He said he’d be out of town, left the cell-phone number. I tried it and he didn’t answer, so I phoned the Federal Building. Obviously that’s something he didn’t instruct me to do, so we’re obviously not colluding on anything.”

“What cell number did he give you?”

“Hold on and I’ll get it for you.”

“You do that,” said Bratz, barely opening his mouth.

I went into my office, stashed the accordion file in a drawer, copied down the number and returned. Bratz was on his feet, studying prints on the wall. Donovan’s nylon-glossed knees were pressed together. I handed her the slip.

“Same one we’ve got, Mark,” she said.

Bratz said, “Let’s get out of here.”

I said, “Even if Fusco had left me a detailed itinerary, why would it be any more credible than anything else he told me?”

“You’re saying Fusco just told you about Burke, then dropped out of sight.”

“Told Detective Sturgis and myself. We met with him, together, just as you said.”

“Where?”

“Mort’s Deli. Sturgis didn’t buy the Burke theory, basically shunted it to me. As you said, he’s got a suspect.”

“And your opinion?”

“About what?”

“Burke.”

“I need more data. That’s exactly why I tried to reach Fusco. If I’d known it was going to get this complicated…”

Bratz turned toward me. “Understand this: if Fusco keeps improvising, it could get real complicated.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Rogue agent running wild, psychological expert goes haywire. Public relations nightmare for you guys.”

“Something wrong with that? Protecting the Bureau’s integrity so it can do its job?”

“Not at all. Nothing wrong with integrity.”

“True, Doctor,” said Donovan. “Just make sure you’re holding on to yours.”

I watched them drive away in a dark blue sedan.

They’d labeled Fusco obsessive but hadn’t dismissed the core of his investigation. An internal issue. Not their problem.

Meaning someone else in the Bureau might very well be looking into Michael Burke. Or they weren’t.

When news of the Zoghbie-Haiselden murder broke, Fusco’s nose would twitch harder. He’d probably try to contact Milo, even fly back down to L.A. Get snagged by his former comrades, taken into custody. For his own good.

He’d had a tragic life, but right now worrying about his welfare wasn’t my job either. I went back inside, gave Milo yet another try. Daring another attempt at the West L.A. station, ready to disguise my voice if the same clerk answered.

This time it was a bored-sounding man who patched me up to the Robbery-Homicide room.

A familiar voice picked up Milo’s extension. Del Hardy. A long time ago the veteran detective and Milo had worked together. Del was black, which hadn’t mattered much, and married to a second wife who was a

devout Baptist, which had—she’d kiboshed the partnership. I knew Del was a year from retirement, planning something down in Florida.

“Working Saturday, Del?”

“Long as it’s not Sunday, Doc. How’s the guitar-playing?”

“Not doing enough of it. Seen the big guy recently?”

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *