Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 15

Chapter

15

Custody interviews kept me busy until noon on Friday. I drank coffee, had a sandwich, returned to something I’d woken up thinking about, and phoned Milo at his desk.

He said, “Still dealing with the real world?”

“As opposed to?”

“The surreal, reeking underbelly of our city.”

“The chamber of commerce should put that on a brochure,” I said. “I’m calling because of what Marty Kehoe said about living with O’Brien in Culver City. That could explain why O’Brien chose to drive there to dump Marissa rather than leave her closer to his apartment in Hollywood.”

“Sticking with his old comfort zone?” he said. “Sure. So?”

“More than that,” I said. “What if he’d had other emergencies with drugged women who’d survived. A woman left impaired could also inspire revenge and a Culver City link could narrow down the search. I looked up hospitals and urgent-care centers and it’s a short list. One hospital and four smaller facilities.”

“Sean and Alicia already looked for priors, Alex. Zip.”

“How’d they go about it?”

“Checked our files for victims left outside hospitals. All they came up with were a couple of male drunks who’d been beaten up and dumped.”

I said, “Would a woman found lying outside with no evidence she’d been dumped get into your files? Especially if it was classified as a medical emergency and there was no criminal investigation?”

“In the best of worlds it would,” he said. “Could it slide under the radar? Sure. Meaning good luck finding out.”

“A malpractice suit would leave a paper trail.”

“If it went to trial, it would. If it settled with a non-disclosure agreement, forget it.”

“Okay, just thought I’d pass it along.”

Silence. “Gimme that short list.”

—

When he’d finished copying, he said, “Long as I have you, might as well give you an update. Such as it is. Marissa’s car was found in South L.A., stripped. So someone stole it and had their way with it, which tells us nothing about where her last party was. Petra impounded it and it’s being printed. I got Marissa’s phone records and there’s no activity a couple of hours before she was likely dead. And nothing postmortem so O’Brien probably did toss it.”

I said, “Well before he got her to his place so the towers didn’t point there.”

“That’s what I’m figuring. There’s no prior phone contact between the two of them but I did find one number they both called. Another online outfit that runs pop-up PR events. You apply to attend, if they approve you, you get to party. Marissa called it three days before she died, O’Brien, ten days before.”

I said, “Another list for her. Maybe a job application for him. Working the door, like Kehoe said, while searching for prey.”

“Slimy bastard—it’s weird being seconded to Hollywood and focusing on him. That’s what Shubb called it. Seconded. Anyway, the number’s disconnected, I emailed, am waiting for them to get back to me. Still haven’t heard from Thailand so I’m not holding my breath. What else…Petra and Raul’s canvass of O’Brien’s neighborhood turned up three reports of a guy skulking around the building a few hours before the sniping. Medium size, dark hoodie, one person thought he was Caucasian, the other two said they couldn’t tell. All were impaired to some extent and skulking’s pretty much routine in that neighborhood. Bottom line: useless.”

“Was he carrying anything resembling a rifle case?”

“Wouldn’t that have been peachy. Nope, just a guy. The people in O’Brien’s building saw nothing weird that night though a few of them described O’Brien as obnoxious and having women come and go frequently. Petra and Raul will be heading back to the building next door to try a second round of door-knocks. Size of the place, they’ll probably need to rinse and repeat. I did some phoning around on Boykins and Parmenter. Turns out Crips World is a rapidly changing environment. No one in the gang squad or any of their informants has a clue about either of them.”

“Fleeting fame,” I said.

“Hey, it’s L.A. Any other suggestions?”

“You mind if I ask around at the Culver City facilities?”

“Why would I mind?”

“Don’t want to get in Alicia and Sean’s way.”

“They already did their thing. What do you figure you can accomplish that they couldn’t?”

“I might know people.”

“Then have them call my people and we’ll do lunch,” he said. “Sure, why not, it’ll free the kids up to keep probing any links between Boykins, Parmenter, and O’Brien. Which I still think could be relevant.”

—

I spent the next hour and a half scouring the web for overdose victims, left dead or alive in or near health facilities. Beginning with L.A. County then expanding throughout the state. Nothing but Marissa French came up, not even the two intoxicated males Alicia and Sean had found in the crime files.

Push the clutch, switch gears.

I phoned Lee Falkenburg, a pediatric neuropsychologist with whom I sometimes cross-referred. I’d worked with Lee years ago at Western Pediatric hospital doing research on the neurological effects of cancer radiation. Smart and industrious, she’d gone on to open up a private office in Beverly Hills and a payment-optional learning disabilities clinic for the working poor in Inglewood near the northern rim of Culver City.

The Bedford Drive office had expanded to a six-psychologist group. I got voicemail offering a numerical menu.

For Dr. Falkenburg, press 1.

Compliance led me to Lee’s away-message. She had a beach house in Carpenteria. End of the week, probably off to enjoy the sand. I’d just identified myself when she cut in.

“Hi, Alex. Something interesting?”

“Yes, but not a referral.”

“That’s okay, we’ve got more work than we can handle. Is it one of your police-y things?”

I explained.

She said, “Poor girl, that is so sad. I’ve had a few patients with GHB neurotoxicity, mostly teens with lingering memory issues. But no, I haven’t heard about anyone being dumped anywhere and I’ve got no connections to any of those urgent cares. I am on the staff of Cal Culver so I could ask.”

“That would be great.”

“No problem, Alex. Except you know what might happen if there was an incident and the patient didn’t do well and the lawyers got involved.”

“Tight lips,” I said.

“I was thinking more in anal terms.”

“Official sphincters freeze.”

She laughed. “But I’ll give it a try.”

“Really appreciate it, Lee.”

“No prob. Now, can you get my Becka one of those ride-alongs with the cops? She’s addicted to gory crime shows.”

I remembered a small girl, red-haired, freckled, precocious. “How old is Becka?”

“Twelve.”

I laughed. “Don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Lee said, “Yeah, the joys of impending adolescence, those mushy frontal lobes. Of course, it’s totally inappropriate. As are her viewing habits, but you choose your battles. When I told someone at the last neuropsych meeting the programs she streamed he looked at me as if I was an abuser. But he’s always been an insufferable prig and I know I can tell you stuff because you don’t get all judgy.”

I said, “How about a visit to the police academy?”

“Where’s that?”

“Elysian Park. Jack Webb donated most of it.”

“The Dragnet guy? Sounds interesting,” she said. “Maybe I’ll tag along. No, scratch that, if I want to go she’ll say that sucks.”

—

I went back online, began looking for hospital-related victim dumps in other states, found plenty.

Seattle, Vegas, Albuquerque, Washington, D.C., St. Louis, Chicago, New York. According to Marty Kehoe, Paul O’Brien had hailed from somewhere in the East. But all the cases on record were gang-related or domestics and each had occurred while O’Brien lived in L.A.

It was nearly four p.m. when I pushed away from my screen. Time to go out to Robin’s studio, learn her work plans and her dinner preferences.

I’d just stepped out of the office when the buzz of my phone on the desktop brought me back.

On the screen: Big Guy.

I said, “What’s up?”

Milo said, “Just learned of another .308 sniping, four months before Parmenter. We’ve been sticking to L.A. County, this one was in Ventura and it’s a definite, the bullet matches. The cop who caught the case heard about O’Brien, brought it down here personally to the lab and pushed to have it tested. They haven’t gotten around to telling me but she just did.”

“Who got shot?”

“Woman in a rowboat,” he said. “Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, right? You up to view the scene tomorrow? At the least it’ll be pretty.”