As Milo would say: Limited thinking, pal.
But limited or not, I couldn’t shake it.
I got home at one-thirty, found messages from Maura Bannon, the student reporter, and Detective Delano Hardy. Del was on another line when I called, so I pulled out the phone book and looked for a Dr. Weingarden in Beverly Hills.
There were two by that name, an Isaac on Bedford Drive and a Leslie, on Roxbury.
Isaac Weingarden answered his own phone. He sounded like an old man, with a soft, kindly voice and a Viennese accent. When I found out he was a psychiatrist, I was certain he was my man, but he denied knowing Sharon or Rasmsussen.
“You sound upset, young man. Is there anything I can do?”
“No thanks.”
I phoned Leslie Weingarden’s office. The receptionist said, “Doctor’s with a patient now.”
“Could you please tell him it’s about Dr. Sharon Ransom.”
“Him is a her. Hold on.”
I listened to Mantovani for several minutes. Then: “Doctor can’t be disturbed. She said to take your number and she’ll get back to you.”
“Could you just tell me if Dr. Weingarden refers to Dr. Ransom?”
Hesitation. “I have no idea, sir. I’m only passing along what the doctor told me.”
At two-fifteen Del Hardy called.
“Hi, Del. How’s it going?”
“Busy. With this heat coming on, it’s going to get busier. What can I do for you?”
I told him about Sharon, about seeing Cyril Trapp. About the quick sale of the house.
“Trapp, huh? Interesting.” But he didn’t sound interested. Though he was one of the few detectives cordial with Milo, that friendliness didn’t stretch into friendship. Trapp was a burden he wasn’t willing to share.
“Nichols Canyon is Hollywood Division,” he said. “So I wouldn’t even know who’s on it. With the workload we’ve got, all the divisions are trying to clear the routine ones quickly, do lots of stuff over the phone.”
“This quickly?”
“Not usually,” he said, “but you never can tell.”
I didn’t say anything.
He said, “You say she was a friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I could ask a few questions.”
“I’d really appreciate that, Del. The paper said no family members had been located. But I know she has a sister- a twin. I met her six years ago.”
I was their only little girl. Another surprise.
“Name?”
“Shirlee, with two e’s. She was disabled, lived in a board-and-care out in Glendale. South Brand, about a mile past the Galleria.”
“Name of the place?”
“I was only there once, never noticed.”
“I’ll check it out.” He lowered his voice. “Listen, about the Trapp thing. Captain wouldn’t be working some no-glory suicide. So his being up there was probably something personal- maybe a real estate thing. Some guys move in on properties, try to get ’ em cheap. Not in good taste, but you know how it is.”
“Donald Trump of the crime scene,” I said.
He laughed. “You got it. One other possibility- was the victim rich?”
“She came from money.”
“Then that could be it,” he said, sounding relieved. “Someone pushed a few buttons; the word came down from on high to keep it quiet, clear it quickly. Trapp used to be with Hollywood Division- maybe someone remembered that, called in a favor.”
“Personalized service?”
“Happens all the time. Main thing about being rich is having stuff no one else can have, right? Nowadays, anyone can buy a Mercedes on payments. Dope, clothes, same thing. But privacy- that’s the ultimate luxury in this town.”
“Okay,” I said. But I was wondering who’d pushed the buttons. Thought, immediately, of the old sheik at the party. There was no way to pursue that with Del, so I thanked him again.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Hear from Milo recently?”
“No. Have you? I think he’s due back Monday.”
“Not a word. The duty roster says he’s supposed to be back in the office Monday. Knowing Milo, that means he’ll be in town Saturday or Sunday, pacing around, cussing. And none too soon, far as I’m concerned. The vermin are out in force.”
After he hung up, I looked in the Yellow Pages for a rest home on South Brand, found nothing. A few minutes later Mal Worthy called to remind me of tomorrow’s deposition. He seemed worried about my state of mind, kept asking me if I was okay.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Perry Mason couldn’t get the better of me.”
“Mason was a wimp. Watch out for these insurance guys. By the way, Denise says definitely no more sessions for Darren. She wants to handle things by herself. But that’s off the record. As far as the other side’s concerned, the kid will be in treatment for the rest of his life. And beyond.”
“How’s Darren doing?”
“About the same.”
“Persuade her to continue treatment, Mal. If she wants someone else, I’ll get her a referral.”
“She’s pretty resolute, Alex, but I’ll keep trying. Meanwhile, I’m more concerned with helping her put food on the table. Ciao.”
I spent the next couple of hours preparing for the deposition, was interrupted by the phone.
“Dr. Delaware? Maura Bannon? L.A. Times?”
She sounded around thirteen, had a high voice with a slight lisp and a New England accent and turned her statements into questions.
“Hello, Ms. Bannon.”
“Ned Biondi gave me your number? I’m so glad I caught you- I wonder if we could meet?”
“For what purpose?”
“You knew Dr. Ransom, right? I thought maybe you could give me some background on her?”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“Oh?” She sounded crestfallen.
“I haven’t seen Dr. Ransom in years.”
“Oh. I just thought… Well, you know, I’m trying to give a well-rounded picture, establish some context? For the profile? It’s such a strange thing, a psychologist killing herself like that- man bites dog, you know? People would be interested in finding out why.”
“Have you learned anything more than what you put in your first article?”
“No, I haven’t, Dr. Delaware. Is there anything more to find out? Because if there is, I’d surely appreciate knowing about it. I think the police have been holding back on me. I’ve put several calls in to them, but no one’s returned them.” Pause. “I don’t think they’re taking me seriously.”
Privacy, the ultimate luxury.
“I’d like to help you,” I said, “but I really have nothing to add.”
“Mr. Biondi said-”
“If I led Mr. Biondi to believe any different, I’m sorry, Ms. Bannon.”
“Okay,” she said. “But if you find out anything, please let me know?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks, Dr. Delaware.”
I sat back, stared out the window, and felt the loneliness coming on.
Misery loves company- the bigger the other guy’s misery, the better the company. I called Newhall information and asked for a number on D.J. Rasmussen. No listing. Thinking of my only other connection to the young drunk, I phoned Dr. Leslie Weingarden’s office.
“I was just about to call you,” said the receptionist. “Doctor can see you after her last patient, around six.”
“I really don’t need an appointment. Just wanted to talk to her over the phone.”
“I’m telling you what she told me, Mr. Delaware.”
“Six will be fine.”
10
Leslie Weingarden’s building was a three-story, red brick Federal structure with limestone cornice and forest-green awnings, situated in the heart of Beverly Hills’ medical district. The interior was golden-oak raised paneling, green-and-rose carpeting. The directory listed several dozen tenants: M.D.’s, dentists, a handful of Ph.D.’s.
One of the Ph.D.’s caught my eye: KRUSE, P.P. SUITE 300. Made sense- this was couch row. But years before he’d had another address.