Milo knew what I was thinking. “Looks like someone else likes privacy.”
Rubbing his lip with his lower teeth, he pushed the buzzer again.
Electric bee-buzz response, the click of release. He shoved at the heavy wood and we stepped in.
On the other side was a courtyard. Flagstone-floored, open to the sky, set up with potted bananas, flax plants, azaleas. A small iron table and two chairs. Ashtray on the table. Two lipsticked butts. The interior building was two stories with barred windows and hand-wrought balconies. Two doors. The right one opened and a woman in a light blue uniform came out. “Right here.” Throaty voice. She pointed to the left.
She was around fifty, trim and brunette with a very large bust, a tight, shiny, tan face, and dancer’s calves.
“Detective Sturgis? I’m Anna, come on in.” She gave a one-second smile, led us to the left, and opened the door. “Dr. Cruvic will be right with you. Can I get you some coffee? We have an espresso machine.”
“No, thanks.”
She’d taken us into a short, bright hallway. Dark wood doors, all closed, and dense tan carpeting that smothered our footsteps. The walls were white and looked freshly painted. She opened the fourth door and stepped aside.
The room was small with a low ceiling. Two beige cotton armchairs and a matching love seat sat on a black area rug. A chrome-and-glass coffee table separated them. A pair of high windows exposed the brick wall of the beauty-parlor building. No desk, no books, no phone.
“Dr. Cruvic’s offices are on the other side but he’d like you to remain here so as not to upset the patients. You’re sure you don’t want coffee? Or tea?”
Milo declined again and smiled.
“Okay, then. Make yourselves comfortable, he should be right in.”
“Nice old building,” said Milo. “Must be good to have this kind of space in Beverly Hills.”
“Oh, it is neat,” she said. “I think it used to be some kind of stable—they ran horses around here back in the old days. I think Mary Pickford kept her horses here, or maybe it was another of those old-time stars.”
I said, “Does Dr. Cruvic do his operating right here or does he go over to Cedars or Century City?”
Her taut face turned glassy. “Mostly we do outpatient procedures. Nice to meet you.”
She left, closing the door. Milo waited several moments, then opened it and looked out. Four long strides took him to the end of the corridor and a door marked TO WEST WING. He tried the knob. Locked. On his way back, he jiggled others. All bolted.
“Is my paranoia kicking in “cause I don’t like doctors’ offices or did she not like your question about where he operates?”
“It did seem to throw her,” I said. “Sorry to put a stress on her face-lift.”
“Yeah, she is glossy. I thought she might have been recuperating from a sunburn, but with that chest you’re probably right. . . . Did you want coffee? Far be it for me to speak for the entire class.”
“No, this room is stimulating enough.”
He laughed. “Warm and cozy, huh—could you do therapy, here?”
“I can do therapy anywhere but I’d prefer something a little less stark.”
“Maybe this was Hope’s therapy room.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s separate from the west wing. No upsetting the patients. Assuming she worked here. Which isn’t that big of a stretch: He paid her almost forty grand, we haven’t found patient files anywhere else.”
The door opened and a very broad-shouldered man about five-nine gusted in wearing a very wide frown.
He was around forty with thick gray hair styled in a long, spiky crew cut, the sideburns clipped high above small, close-set ears. Dark, extremely alert eyes studied us. Slanted—five degrees short of an Asian tilt.
His face was round with pronounced, rosy cheekbones, a straight nose with flared nostrils, and a strong chin already shadowed with morning growth.
He wore a tailored white double-breasted jacket over a spread-collar blue shirt and a black silk crepe tie hand-painted with crimson and gold swirls. Black slacks broke perfectly over two-tone black-leather-and-gray-suede wing tips. He stuck out his hand and revealed a French cuff held together by a gold-barrel link. His wrist was thick and coated with straight black hair.