“Emergency from Mr. Ken Lowell, doctor. He couldn’t stay on the line, sounded pretty upset. Here’s the number.”
My heart lurched as I copied down the 818 exchange and called it. Another suicide attempt. Or worse. Lucy more vulnerable than I’d thought, hypnosis a terrible mistake, weakening her defenses—
“Van Nuys Division.”
The police. Worse.
“This is Dr. Delaware returning Ken Lowell’s call.”
“Who’s he?”
“Probably a victim’s brother.”
“Probably?”
“I’m a doctor returning an emergency call to this number.”
“What was the person’s name?”
“Lowell.”
Four unbearable minutes later, Ken said, “Thank God they reached you. We’re in real trouble.”
“Lucy?”
“No, no, it’s Puck. We found him, Lucy and I. It was horrible. She didn’t actually see him, I closed the door before she could, but—”
“What happened, Ken?”
“They’re saying overdose. He must have gotten hold of some strong stuff or something. He—the needle was still sticking out of his arm.” I heard him gag. “Sorry.”
“Take your time.”
“He was all—but you could see the damned needle.” His voice broke, and I heard him choke back sobs. “It wasn’t even an arm anymore,” he said, gulping. “But you could see the damned needle.”
CHAPTER
33
The Van Nuys station is part of the municipal complex on Sylvan, just off the boulevard, where thrift shops, pawnbrokers, bail bondsmen, and discount Western-wear barns prevail. Posted just inside the door among the bulletins and wanted posters was a xeroxed flier from a local gang threatening to assassinate officers. Someone had written on it Come and get it, lowlife. The front room was noisy and active. Several handcuffed men waited to be booked.
It took a while to get past the desk. Finally, a detective named Almondovar came out and walked me through the squad room to the Robbery-Homicide area. Thirty-five or so, he was compact and stubby, with neat graying hair and curious eyes. His Ultrasuede sportcoat was gray, his slacks a darker gray, and he wore lizard-skin cowboy boots.
“Whose doctor are you?” he said.
“Lucy Lowell’s. Was it an accidental OD?”
“Did you know the victim?”
“Just by reputation.”
“Big-time addict?”
“Long-term addict.”
“From the shape he was in, you couldn’t tell much—here we are.”
He opened the door of an interrogation room. Lucy and Ken sat next to each other at a folding card table, looking like prisoners of war. Before them were two cups of coffee, untouched.
“Hey, folks,” said Almondovar.
Ken’s eyes were red and his blond-stubbled face looked swollen. Lucy didn’t move or blink. Her dull gaze went right through me.
Almondovar said, “We already took statements from them, doctor. If there’s anything more we need, we’ll let you know.”
Neither Ken nor Lucy budged.
“What I mean, doctor, is they can go.”
“We’ll get going soon as possible,” I said.
Almondovar whispered in my ear, “We might need the room soon.” To Lucy and Ken: “Sorry, folks, we’ll do what we can to clear this up.”
He walked out.
Ken covered his face and shook his head.
I patted his shoulder. He looked at me, trying to smile, then turned to Lucy. She was staring at the wall. Her eyes were glassy.
I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back. Then she took a very deep breath and stood up.
She seemed unsteady. Ken was out of his chair, grabbing her elbow, but she was okay.
I walked them out through the station. A few cops looked up but most didn’t.
We left Ken’s Taurus in a city pay lot and I drove them to Rockingham Avenue.
When we got in the house, Lucy said, “I’m tired.”
“I’ll settle you in,” said Ken. The two of them disappeared and I waited in the living room, leafing through a coffee-table book on the great mansions of Newport, Rhode Island. A quarter hour later, Ken came down. He’d removed his jacket and his shirt was wrinkled.
“Can I get you a drink or something?”
“No, thanks. Do you want to sleep, too?”
He made a hard, angry sound that could have been a laugh or a cough. “I guess I should tell you what happened.”
“It doesn’t have to be now.”