JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THE CLINIC

Reed Muscadine had dropped out of school, so his class schedule was no longer relevant.

I called him. His tape said, “Hello, this is Reed. I’m either not here or I’m working out and unwilling to interrupt the burn. But I do want to talk to you, especially if you’re my golden opportunity—pant pant. So please please please leave your name and number. Starving actors need love, too.”

Cheerful, mellow, modulated. The kind of voice that knew it sounded good.

If he was HIV-positive it hadn’t dampened his spirit or his attempts to stay fit. Or he hadn’t changed the tape.

Starving actor . . . even after getting the soap-opera job?

Had something gotten in the way of the job?

His address was on Fourth Street. If I was lucky, I’d catch him after the burn faded and learn about his health and his feelings about Hope Devane and the conduct committee.

If my luck really held, perhaps I could find out what was scaring the hell out of Tessa Bowlby.

CHAPTER

15

His address matched a white stucco cottage with castle pretensions: two turrets, one oversized over the front door, the other a vestigial nipple atop the right corner. An old woman wearing a wide straw hat stooped on the sidewalk, removing weeds by hand. By the time I cut the Seville’s engine, she was upright with her hands on her hips. She wore brown canvas gardening pants with rubber kneepads and had sueded skin and judgmental eyes.

“Hi, I’m looking for Reed Muscadine.”

“He lives in back.” Then she stiffened, as if regretting telling me that much. “Who’re you?”

I got out of the car and showed her my police ID.

“Ph.D.?”

“I’m a psychologist. I work with the police.” I looked down the driveway. An apartment sat on top of the garage, accessed by steep, skinny front steps.

“He’s not in,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Green. I own the place. What’s going on?”

“We’re questioning him with regard to a crime. Not as a suspect, just someone who knew the victim.”

“Who’s the victim?”

“A professor at the University.”

“And he knew her?”

I nodded.

“I lived here forty-four years,” she said, “never knew a victim. Now you can’t step outside without getting nervous. A friend of mine’s nephew’s a policeman in Glendale. He tells her there’s nothing the police can do til you’re hurt or killed. Told her to buy a gun, carry it around, and if they catch you it’s like a traffic ticket. So I did. I’ve also got Sammy.”

She whistled twice, I heard something slam shut, and a big, thick-set, fawn-colored dog with a sad black face ambled around from the back of the house. Bullish face—cousin to Spike? But this creature weighed at least one hundred pounds and its eyes were all business.

Mrs. Green held out a palm and the dog stopped.

“Mastiff?” I said.

“Bullmastiff. Only breed ever designed specifically to bring down people—they raised ’em in England to catch game poachers. Come here, baby.”

The dog sniffed, lowered its head, and walked over slowly, shoulders rotating, massive limbs moving in fluid concert. Drool dripped down its dewlaps. Its eyes were small, nearly black, and they hadn’t left my face.

“Hey, Sammy,” I said.

“Samantha. The females are the really protective ones—c’mere, puddin’.”

The dog made its way over, examined my knees, looked at Mrs. Green.

“Yeah, okay, kiss him,” she said.

A big mouth nuzzled my hand.

“Sweet,” I said.

“If you’re right, she is. If you’re wrong, well . . .” Her laugh was as dry as her skin. The dog rubbed against her thigh and she petted it.

“Any idea when Reed will be back?”

“No, he’s an actor.”

“Irregular hours?”

“Right now it’s night hours, he’s waiting tables out in the Valley.”

From soap opera to that? I said, “No luck in the acting department?”

“Don’t fault him,” she said. “It’s a tough business, believe me, I know. I did some work back a ways, mostly bit parts, but I did have a walk-on in Night After Night—that’s a Mae West film. Classic. They made her out to be some wild hussy but she was smarter than all of them. I should’ve bought real estate when she did. Instead I got married.”

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