“So who’re you concentrating on?” I said. “Haiselden or Donny Mate?”
“Do I have to choose between Door Number One and Door Number Two, Monty? Can I take Number Three? Better yet, I’ll concentrate on both of them. If Donny’s our street wacko, it may take a while to find him. I wanna find out if he was released clean or placed on parole. Maybe he’s got a P.O. I can talk to. If he was the bum Mrs. Krohnfeld saw, maybe he’s still hanging in Hollywood. That would also fit with your idea about stalking Mate.”
“Stalking Daddy.”
“Who’s off in his own world and thinks he’s immortal … I think I’ll touch base with Petra, she’s as clued in to the streets as anyone.”
Petra Connor was a Hollywood Division homicide detective, young, bright, intense, recently promoted to D-II because of some help she’d given Milo on a series of killings of handicapped people. Just after that, she and her partner had solved the Lisa Ramsey case—ex-wife of a TV actor, found hacked up in Griffith Park. She’d referred me a case, a twelve-year-old boy who’d witnessed the crime while living in the park, a brilliant, complex child, one of the most fascinating patients I’d ever encountered. Rumors were that her partner, Stu Bishop, was in line for a major administrative job and that she’d be a D-III by year’s end, then groomed by the new chief for something conspicuous.
“Give her my best,” I said.
“Sure,” he said, but his tone was detached and his eyes were somewhere off in the distance.
Staring into his own world. At that moment, I was happy not to be sharing.
CHAPTER 12
MONDAY, NINE-THIRTY P.M., nearing the end of a very long day.
Robin was soaking in the bath and I was in bed, reviewing Stacy Doss’s chart.
Tomorrow morning, Stacy and I would be talking, ostensibly about college.
She’d used college as a cover the first time.
March, a warm Friday afternoon. I’d seen two other kids before her, sad children caught up in the poison of a custody dispute. The next hour was spent writing reports. Then waiting for Stacy. Curious about Stacy.
Despite my preconceptions about Richard Doss— because of them—I’d labored to keep an open mind about his daughter. Still, I wondered. What kind of girl would result from the union of Richard and Joanne? I really had no clue.
The red light signaling someone at the side door lit up precisely on time and I went to fetch her. A small girl— five-two in brown loafers. Perfect genetic logic; no reason for the Dosses to produce a basketball player. A bright-green oversize book was sandwiched between her right arm and her chest, the title obscured by her sleeve. She wore a white cotton mock turtle, snug blue jeans, white socks with the loafers.
Normal teenage curves, a bit of flesh on her face, but certainly not overweight. If she’d gained ten pounds, as Judy Manitow had claimed, she’d have been extremely thin before. That made me wonder about Judy—her own tendency toward sharp angles, snapshots of her daughters in her chambers. A pair of bright-eyed blondes in very short, very tight party dresses . . . also skinny. The younger one—Becky—veering too close to skeletal?
No matter, Stacy was the patient. She had full cheeks but a long face that evoked her mother’s college picture. Richard’s high, broad brow, stippled by a few tiny pimples. Pixie features; another endowment from both parents.
She smiled nervously. I introduced myself and held out my hand. She took it readily, maintained eye contact, flashed a half-second smile that burned lots of calories. Making an effort.
Prettier than Joanne, with dark, almond eyes and the kind of small-boned good looks that would attract the boys. During my high-school days, she’d have been labeled a Gidget. In any generation, she’d be termed cute. Another paternal donation: her hair—thick, black, very curly. She wore it long and loose, glossed with some kind of product that relaxed the helixes to dancing corkscrews. Lighter complexion than Richard’s—skin the color of clotted cream. Thin skin; traces of blue surfaced at jawline and temple. A cuticle picked raw on her left middle finger had turned red and swollen to a silky sheen.