“Did it get physical?”
“No, but it could’ve if that one had her way.”
“She threatened Dr. Connie?”
“Her whole demeanor was enraged. Dr. Connie tried to convince her rationally. She wouldn’t listen. So of course, Dr. Connie tried to take the baby. And she held on even tighter, began screaming — it was ugly, let me tell you. We had a full waiting room, standing room only, donors hearing the commotion. So what could Dr. Connie do? She stepped aside. Then she called a lawyer. And that’s why I’m telling you you have to check that crazy lady out.”
“Dr. Connie must’ve been pretty upset.”
“Upset and angry,” said E. Broadbent. “That someone could be so selfish.”
“So she sued.”
“It cost her a fortune but she had her principles.”
“Was the case resolved?”
She frowned. “They brought in experts — the other side. They brought in sleazy hired guns. One of those psychiatrists who already had his mind made up because she flirted with him. Dr. Connie was so frustrated, she tried everything. The judge was a fool. Her lawyer was a fool.”
“So she lost.”
“For the time being.”
“She planned to re-file?”
“She talked about it. So that’s why I’m telling you: The only person crazy enough to do something this crazy was her. You want a name, I’ll give it to you: Cherie.” She spelled it. “Cherie Sykes, she’s been in prison, I’m sure you people have records on her. The baby is Rambla. I can only imagine what her life is now.”
Milo copied in his pad. Convincing prop; E. Broadbent nodded approvingly.
“Ma’am, this information you have about the sister’s past, did it come from Dr. Sykes?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you ever have the opportunity to observe Cherie Sykes prior to the confrontation?”
“No reason I would,” said E. Broadbent. “Dr. Sykes is — was”—two nicotine hits—“a brilliant woman. A pathologist. The other one? An addict.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
“I don’t think you need anything else. Got your work cut out for you.”
CHAPTER 20
I drove out of the lot, paused at Laurel Canyon. “Which way for steak?”
Milo said, “No way.” Long pause. “Two sides to every story.”
“Doesn’t mean more than one’s right.” I headed south toward the city.
“That cuts both ways, Alex. Yeah, she’s biased, but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”
“She’s wrong about a few things.”
“Oh,” he said. “That. You’re absolutely certain Ms. Cher-ree didn’t flirt with you?”
I glared at him.
“Just kidding. And despite any bullshit Connie might’ve handed Broadbent, her observation says plenty: No love lost between the sisters and now one sister is dead. Even if I accept your assessment that Ree doesn’t have it in her, she could have a friend who does. Like the kid’s da-da. Maybe that’s why she didn’t let on who he was, he’s a badass with anger-control issues, she’s stuck in a court battle, can’t afford to weaken her case. Unfortunately for Connie, Daddy decided to emerge from the shadows to protect his little nuclear family.”
“There was plenty of time to do that before the lawsuit. Would’ve spared Ree the expense and the stress.”
“Ounce of prevention?” He thought about that all the way to Moorpark. “Maybe Daddy was indisposed until recently.”
“Incarcerated?”
“It happens once in a while. And his being locked up would give Ree even more reason to not identify him. I’m gonna learn more about her social life. Does that mean she’s at the top of my list? She’s sure edging up against your loyal patient Efren. Now, kindly chauffeur me back to 310. Regards to Robin and the pooch.”
Code for Don’t call me I’ll call you.
He shut his eyes, slumped, allowed his lips to slacken.
I said, “You’re really not hungry.”
“Only for the truth.”
I dropped him back at the station, drove a block, phoned Ree Sykes. No answer, no voice mail.
The drive to her apartment took nearly an hour. As I transitioned from the Westside to Hollywood, blue skies faded to the gray of wet tissue paper, washed with clots of phlegmy yellow where the sun fought to poke through.
Hollywood Boulevard teemed with junkies, tweakers and offseason tourists clogging the sidewalks that fronted shlock-shops, fast-food outlets, and piercing parlors. Pedestrians stepped off curbs with no mind to vehicular threat. Rounding out the mix were odd individuals dressed like film characters jostling for attention and spare change. A black-and-white cruised in the slow lane but the officers inside were distracted by their own conversation.
Turning off onto Ree’s street lowered but didn’t kill the street noise. A distant steam drill chewed up asphalt and dislodged some small hairs from my inner ear. Someone shouted in Spanish. A truck used its Jake brake and the resulting sound was the biggest rattlesnake in the universe hissing a warning.
I found a space near Ree’s ten-plex. The door to her apartment was closed and her blinds were drawn. I knocked. A female voice shouted, “Yeah? What?”
Tough, annoyed. None of the gentleness I’d observed. Had that been an act? Had I made up my mind prematurely?
“It’s Dr. Delaware.”
The door opened. A woman, not Ree Sykes, said, “Doctor who?”
Midthirties, short, and flat-chested, she wore a brown T-shirt, camo cargo pants, pink-soled lace-up boots the color of blanched asparagus. Black spiky hair evoked a cockscomb. A hexagonal plug protruded midway between her lower lip and her assertive little shelf of a chin.
I repeated my name.
“I heard you. No one’s sick, Doc.”
“I’m here to see Cherie Sykes.”
“Then you’re out of luck. She bailed.”
“Moved out?”
“Hmm. Yeah, that’s another way to put it — hey, are you really a bill collector or some kind of repo dude? ’Cause she left her shitty furniture here and now I got to store it for sixty days. You help me find her, I’ll make it worth your while.”
I gave her my card.
She said, “Anyone can print one of these,” but appeared convinced. “Psychologist? She’s got mental problems?”
“The court appointed me to consult on a lawsuit she was involved in.”
“Her sister trying to steal her kid? That was actually real?”
“You had your doubts?”
“She’s a hippie flake, I took anything she told me with a grain of sustainable granola. She was always late with the rent. Last time I talked to her about it she said she’d forgotten because she was tied up in court. Cried a little, like that’s supposed to soften me up. So what do you want with her?”
“Follow-up.”
“The case ended? Who won?”
“She did.”
Laughter. “Sister was an even bigger loser, huh? Talk about an evil bitch, hassling your own sister for a rug-rat. I mean, you want a kid, have it yourself. Meanwhile Miss Woodstock Flashback owes me for this month and she’s bailed, so I’d be totally appreciative if the court system actually did something for a taxpaying citizen and informed me where the hell I can find her.”