Dealing with someone else’s problems. Excellent; I was ready.
As I waited out on the terrace, a black LTD drove up. The passenger door opened and Milo’s bulk emerged. He wore a navy wind-breaker, baggy brown slacks, scuffed desert boots, white shirt, skinny tie. Even from this distance the tie’s colors were an intrusion: orange-rind paisley over week-old vegetable clippings. His olive vinyl attaché case swung at his side.
I said, “Morning, Big Guy.”
His reply wave was minimal.
Out of the driver’s side stepped a short, stocky woman in her thirties wearing a gunmetal-gray suit. Clipped dark hair, full face, excellent posture, as if she labored to stretch above five two. Clipped to the breast pocket of her jacket was a detective shield. She’d left the jacket unbuttoned, revealing a slice of white shirt and smidge of black — the strap of a nylon shoulder holster.
She made eye contact immediately, but we’d never met and her eyes had nothing much to say.
She let Milo lead the way as the two of them climbed the stairs.
Just before they reached the top, he said, “This is Detective Millie Rivera, North Hollywood Division. Millie, Dr. Alex Delaware.”
Rivera extended her hand. Her fingers were barely above child-sized, but her grip was solid — a pair of miniature pliers finding their mark and maintaining a hold. On top of that, she’d mastered that thumb-on-webbing trick women learn when they’ve had their hand squeezed too many times by macho fools.
I said, “Pleased to meet you,” and she let go. “What’s up, Big Guy?”
Milo said, “Let’s go inside.”
Typically, he beelines to the kitchen and raids the fridge. Sometimes, when there’s an especially knotty puzzle on his mind, he heads for my office and either commandeers my computer or stretches out on the leather couch, where he proceeds to think out loud or gripe about the policeman’s lot.
A few months ago I presented him with a gag invoice. Six-figure charge for “years of listening.” He looked at it, said, “Will a large pizza do as payment?”
This morning he went no farther than the living room, picking the nearest chair and plopping down heavily.
Detective Millie Rivera settled in an adjoining seat.
I said, “West L.A. and North Hollywood. Sounds complicated.”
Milo said, “It’s simple, Alex.” He motioned to the facing couch.
I sat.
Milo said, “The bad news is someone wants to kill you. The good news is it hasn’t happened, yet.”
I said, “Constance Sykes.”
The two of them looked at each other.
Millie Rivera said, “You’re aware of the plot?”
“I’m aware of her anger but never figured she’d go that far.” I recounted Connie’s non-threat.
Rivera said, “That didn’t alarm you, Doctor?”
“I’ve been looking over my shoulder.”
“The gate,” said Milo. “In your world that’s security?”
Rivera said, “So on some level you figured she was serious. Well, good guess, Doctor. She tried to hire a hit man.”
“You got him?”
“No, Doctor. He got us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re unbelievably lucky, Dr. Delaware. The only reason the plan wasn’t put into action was the person Dr. Sykes hired to kill you only wanted to be a broker and the person he turned to just happened to know you.” She smiled. “Apparently, there are bad guys who think you’re a good guy.”
Milo muttered, “The friends we keep.”
Rivera looked at him. He motioned her to go on.
“Here are the basics, Doctor. Sykes went to a not-so-solid citizen named Ramon Guzman who works for a company that cleans her offices at night. Guzman has a steady gig, now, but he’s gangbanger up the wazoo, spent time in Lompoc for agg assault. At this point we don’t know if Sykes actually knew about Guzman’s prison record, but since he’s covered with tats and looks like a badass, her assuming wouldn’t be a stretch. And turns out, she was right because Guzman had no problem getting involved in murder for hire, he just didn’t want to do the shooting because — get this — his eyes are bad, he didn’t want to mess up. So he took a thousand-dollar down payment from Sykes and turned to one of his senior homeboys, a gangster prince. And wonder of wonders, that guy called me. I know this joker’s entire family, they go way back criminal-wise. But Doctor, this is the first time I’ve ever been contacted directly by an upper-level bad actor. This one goes by the moniker Effo but his given name’s Efren Casagrande.”
My eyes widened.
Rivera said, “Obviously he was telling the truth about knowing you.”
I kept silent.
“Doctor?”
Milo said, “He thinks he can’t say anything, Millie. The old shrink-confidentiality thing.” To me: “Guess what, Alex, you’re free to express yourself because Mr. Casagrande let us know he was your patient. Though he was clear that it wasn’t for a ‘head problem.’ ”
They waited. I said nothing.
Rivera said, “Effo granted you permission to talk to us.”
Milo said, “So how ’bout you educate us so I don’t find myself writing a eulogy.”
I said, “He give you written authorization?”
He cursed. Pulled out his phone, punched numbers. “It’s me, Lieutenant Sturgis. Ready for a reunion, amigo? Hold on.”
Handing the phone to me.
I said, “Dr. Delaware.”
A familiar voice, older, deeper, ripe with amusement, said, “Yo, Doc. Long time. So how’s the lifestyle? Looks like you still got one.”
“Looks like it. Thanks.”
“Hey, you don’t think I’d let your ass — let you get with no lifestyle? Fuck that, Doc. Fuck that.”
“Appreciate it, Efren.”
“No prob — anyone else listening to this?”
“No.”
“Then let me tell you: I’m so fucking pissed some bitch would try to do that, I’m ready to kill her ass. You with that?”
I said, “Nope.”
Laughter. “Just kidding. Maybe. Yeah, okay, let’s both of us hang on to our lifestyles. Let’s both of us represent.”
“Good idea. How’re things going?”
“Mostly up, few downs, haven’t been in the E.R. since last Christmas.” Laughter. “Too much partying. You know. What can I say?”
“Season to be jolly,” I said. “Listen, anytime you want to—”
“Nah, I’m fine. And so are you. Try to stay that way, Doc.”
Click.
I handed the phone back to Milo.
He said, “Heartwarming,” and hummed a few bars of “Auld Lang Syne.”
Millie Rivera said, “Casagrande may be charming but he’s suspected in at least five murders. Doctor, you’ve got to be the luckiest man in L.A County.”
Milo said, “Let’s keep it that way. Now tell us every goddamn thing about this goddamn crazy lunatic who decided you don’t deserve to breathe anymore.”
Crazy lunatic. Redundant. It wasn’t the moment to get finicky about grammar.
I said, “A thousand down? How much more to complete the job?”
“Four,” said Millie Rivera.
“Five measly gees to snuff you out,” said Milo. His green eyes were hot. His pallid, pockmarked face was tight with rage.
I couldn’t help thinking some of that was directed at me.
CHAPTER
10
Back when I worked at Western Pediatric Medical Center, my main job was helping children with cancer and their families. But soon I began getting consults from departments other than Oncology, most frequently Endocrinology. And when I switched to private practice, Endo referrals continued.