“The family biz could’ve contributed to Kevin’s sexual confusion,” I said. “By itself it means nothing, but toss it onto the pile and it helps define Kevin a bit more. I can see him wanting to distance himself. Becoming obsessed with art for art’s sake. Getting enraged at people he views as selling out—prostituting themselves. But in the privacy of his apartment, he stockpiles dirty pictures.”
“Sexual confusion,” he said. “Nice euphemism. He’s gay, Alex.”
“It’s not a euphemism to me. He could be straight and be confused.”
“Guess so—don’t mean to get touchy but like Ol’ Bob D. said, too much of nothing. Okay: The Drummonds are highly screwed up. Now how the hell do I find Kevin before he channels his confusion into offing another poor, unsuspecting artiste?”
I had no answer for that.
He said, “We’re still exploring the Erna Murphy angle. On the off chance that Frank and Terry lied to us about not knowing her, or maybe Erna’s smart, artistic cousin really does exist. Stahl’s been working the Internet, searching the family tree using the name of the battle-ax aunt—Trueblood. Turns out she really is in the money. Married an appliance king, lives in a big house in Pasadena.”
“A neighbor of Everett Kipper,” I said.
A couple of beats passed. “Didn’t think of that . . . well, let’s see what Stahl turns up. Meanwhile, Petra and I have adopted the showbiz approach: got no ideas, take a meeting. The next one’s tonight, nine P.M., her turf: Gino’s on the Boulevard. You’re welcome to come, but I can’t promise you any excitement.”
“Shame on you,” I said. “No rose garden, and now this.”
39
Allison had a break between her last outpatient of the day and a man dying of Lou Gehrig’s disease whom she was seeing at the hospice. I bought some takeout deli, picked her up on Montana Avenue in front of her office, and we drove to Ocean Park and ate while watching the sun sink. A few windsurfers lingered on the beach, incorrigibly optimistic. Pelicans flapped their wings and scanned the water for dinner.
She attacked her sandwich, wiped her mouth, and watched the birds. “I love them. Aren’t they gorgeous?”
Pelicans have always been favorites of mine. Ungainly fliers but efficient feeders. No pretense, just do the job. I told her so, put my arm around her, and finished my beer. “My idea of gorgeous is more like you.”
“Shameless flattery.”
“Sometimes it works.”
She put her head on my shoulder.
“Tough night ahead?” I said. She’d talked to me a few times about the ALS patient. A good man, a kind man, he’d never make it to fifty. She’d counseled him for four months. Now, as he faded, so had Allison’s feelings of usefulness.
“This job we chose to do,” she’d said, a few weeks ago. “We’re supposed to be experts, but which god appointed us?”
“The Baal of Academia,” I said.
“Exactly. Get good grades, pass the right exams. It’s not exactly spiritual training.”
Neither of us spoke for a very long time. I heard her sigh.
“What is it?”
“Have the stomach for another confession?”
I squeezed her shoulder.
“My little chromium friend,” she said. “I’ve used it once.”
“When?”
“Soon after I got it. Before I got my own place, when I leased space in Culver City. I used to work really late. Because I had nothing to come home to. One night, I was in the office doing paperwork until after midnight. I came out to the parking lot and some kids—punks—were hanging out, smoking dope, drinking beer. By the time I got to my car, they’d moved in on me. Four of them—fifteen, sixteen, they didn’t seem hard-core, but they were clearly blasted. To this day, I can’t be sure they meant to do anything other than hassle me. But when the leader stepped up to me—really got in my face—I gave him my best girlish smile, pulled the gun out of my purse, and stuck it in his face. He peed his pants, I could smell it. Then he backed away, ran, they all did. After they were gone, I just stood there, the smile still plastered to my face—it felt wrong, smiling, but for a moment I couldn’t move my facial muscles. Then I began trembling, couldn’t stop, the gun was flopping around. Catching moonlight—the reflection on the barrel was like shooting stars. When we were up in the canyon watching the sky, that image came back to me . . . I was gripping the gun so hard my fingers began to ache. When I finally calmed down, my hand still remained tight. I’d actually pushed the trigger down partially.”