“You’d do that? Fly out here?”
“What choice do I have?”
I heard him blow out breath. “Even so,” he said. “Her talking about Dad–no, it’s too risky. I’m sorry, but I have to hold firm.”
“I’ll work with her doctors, Mr. Rosenblatt. Clear my questions with them and with you. I’ve done hospital work for years. I understand illness and recovery.”
“What makes you think she knows anything that could help you?”
“At this point she’s my last hope, Mr. Rosenblatt. The creep who’s after me is picking up his pace. He murdered someone in Santa Barbara yesterday–de Bosch’s daughter. She was pregnant. He cut her up, made it a point to go after the fetus.”
“Oh, God.”
“He’s stalking me,” I said. “To tell the truth, I’d be safer in New York than here. One way or the other, I may come out.”
Another exhalation. “I doubt she can help you, but I’ll ask.”
“I really apprecia–” “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not promising anything.
And fax your credentials to me, so I can check them out. Include two verifiable references.”
“No problem,” I said. “And if your mother won’t speak to me, please ask her if she knows anything about the term bad love.” And did your father report anything unusual about the nineteen seventy-nine conference. You can also throw out some names: Lyle Gritz, Dorsey Hewitt, Silk, Merino.”
“Who’re they?”
“Hewitt’s a definite killer–murdered a therapist out here and was shot by the police. Gritz was his friend, may have been an accomplice. He may also be the one who killed your father. Silk and Merino are possible aliases.”
“Fake names?” he said. “This is so bizarre.”
“One more thing,” I said. “There’s an LAPD detective working the case out here, named Milo Sturgis. I’m going to inform him of your father’s murder and he’ll be contacting the New York police and asking for records.”
“That won’t help you,” he said. “Believe me.”
Milo was no longer at Records, and Sally Grayson’s number was picked up by a male detective who hadn’t seen her all morning and had no idea who Milo was. I left a message, and wondered why Joshua Rosenblatt had been so sure the police couldn’t help.
My offer to go to New York had been impulsive–probably an escape reflex–but maybe something would come out of my talk with Shirley Rosenblatt.
I’d leave as soon as possible, Robin would have to move out now.
I looked out at the pool, still as a slab of turquoise. A few leaves floated on top.
Who cleaned it? How often?
I didn’t know much about this place.
Didn’t know when I’d be able to leave it.
I got up, ready to drive into Beverly Hills to find a fax service.
Just as I put my wallet in my pants pocket, the phone rang and my service operator said, “A Mr. Bucklear wants to talk to you, doctor.”
“Put him on.”
Click.
“Doctor? Sherman Bucklear.”
“Hello.”
“Have you received my correspondence?”
“Yes, I have.”
“I haven’t received any reply, doctor.”
“Didn’t know there was anything to reply to.”
“I have reason to believe you have knowledge of the whereabouts–” “I don’t.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Do I have to?”
Pause. “Doctor, we can go about this civilly or things can get complicated.”
“Complicate away, Sherman.”
“Now, wait a sec–” I hung up. It felt great to be petty. Before I could put down the phone, the service patched in again with a call from New York.
“Dr. Delaware? Josh Rosenblatt, again. My mother’s willing to talk to you but I’ve got to warn you, she can’t handle much– just a few minutes at a time. I haven’t discussed any details with her. All she knows is you knew my father and think he was murdered. She may have nothing to tell you. You may end up wasting your time.”
“I’ll take the chance. When would you like me there?”
“What’s today? Tuesday. .. Friday’s bad and she needs her weekends for total bedrest–Thursday, I guess.”
“If I can catch a flight tonight, how about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. .. I guess so. But it’ll have to be in the afternoon.