I thought of Nolan's apartment. Mattress on the floor, no food in the fridge, the dingy furniture. Even accounting for the trashing, not exactly a swinging bachelor lair.
A loner. Flirting with all sorts of philosophies, shifting from one political extreme to the other.
Had self-denial been the latest?
Or had he divested himself of material pleasures because he just didn't care anymore?
Or wanted to punish himself.
Lehmann had used the word sin but when I'd asked him about guilt he'd said he wasn't a priest.
Somewhere along the line, had he judged Nolan?
Had Nolan judged himself? Passed sentence and carried out the execution?
For what?
I pictured the young cop in Go-Ji's, surrounded by the night denizens he'd been assigned to rein in.
Drawing out his service gun, putting it in his mouth.
Symbolic, as so many suicides are?
Final fellatio?
Stripping himself bare in front of other sinners?
Policemen committed suicide more frequently than civilians, but few did it publicly.
“Ready?” Robin called from the door.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Let's tango.”
16
The Observer
The psychologist.
His presence complicated matters: attend to him or Sturgis?
Sturgis was the professional, but so far all the big policeman had done was stay in his office all day.
On the phone, probably.
Predictable.
The psychologist was a bit more adventurous. He'd gone on two outings.
Perhaps he could be used to advantage.
The first trip had been to that duplex on Sycamore to meet the pleasant-looking but tense-faced blond woman.
Her tension made him think: patient? Some kind of on-the-street therapy?
Of course, there was another possibility: a girlfriend; the guy was stepping out on the woman with the auburn hair who lived with him. A beauty, some kind of sculptress. He'd seen her carrying blocks of wood from her truck to the rear of the house.
He watched the psychologist and the unhappy woman talk, then go inside the duplex. Liaison with one while the other one chipped away?
The blond woman was trim and nice-looking but nothing like the sculptress. And the two times he'd seen the sculptress with the psychologist the affection had seemed genuine. Touching each other a lot, that eagerness.
But logic had little to do with human behavior.
Terrible things had taught him about the self-destructive element that ran through the human soul like a polluted stream.
They stayed inside for twenty minutes, then went out to the garage. The psychologist didn't seem to be relating to her in a romantic way, but maybe they were having a rough time.
No, there was no hostility. She was talking and he was listening as if he cared.
Attentive, but maintaining distance.
Professional distance?
So she probably was a patient.
Or a sister. It definitely didn't look romantic.
He copied down the license plate number on the blond woman's Mustang, waited til the two of them had driven off, then sauntered to the rear of the duplex in his electrician's uniform and let himself through the rear door by popping an absurd lock.
Pretty clear why the woman had looked so miserable.
Burglarized.
He poked around in the debris, found utility bills with the name Nolan Dahl on them that matched the address. Later that night, after a cold-sandwich-and-bottled-water dinner and some praying with insufficient conviction, he turned on his computer, hacked into the Department of Motor Vehicles file, and ran the woman's license plates.
Helena Allison Dahl, thirty years old, blond hair, blue eyes, an address in Woodland Hills.
Ex-wife of the burglarized Nolan?
So where was Nolan?
Or maybe the guy was an irate husband who'd ruined his own place to get back at the wife.
She'd call her therapist for something like that.
One thing seemed likely: nothing to do with murder.
Which made sense. Sturgis would be concentrating full-time on Irit, but the psychologist would have a whole other life. To him, Irit would be just another consultation.
Tentative conclusion: Outing number 1 didn't relate to any of his concerns.
Neither, as far as he could tell, did the second one.
Downtown, terrible traffic all the way, and following the psychologist's green Cadillac at a discreet distance had been difficult. Another challenge was finding parking for the van near the lot the psychologist chose without losing sight of that curly head for too long.
Getting into the limestone building, though, was easy.
No guard, and the electrician's uniform gave him that air of belonging.
The van, too.
Uniforms and vans. He'd spent so much of his life in them.
His main prop for the building was a nice little toolbox whose contents could serve as more than props. He carried it in his good hand and kept the bad one in his pocket because why attract unnecessary attention.
He made it to the lobby just as the psychologist entered the elevator, watched the lift rise to the top floor.
Moments later, up there himself, he examined the doorplates, trying to figure out where the guy had gone.
Law firms, accountants, investment bankers, and one Ph.D.
Another psychologist? The sign said only CONSULTANT.
Roone M. Lehmann, Ph.D.
One consultant visiting another.
Unless the psychologist was a major investor and had come to check out his holdings.
Unlikely. The guy lived nicely but not extravagantly. Lehmann the consultant was the best bet.
He copied the name down for a DMV run, ducked around a corner that gave him a view of Lehmann's door, pulled out his electric meter, and unscrewed an overhead light fixture. If any of the wood-paneled doors had opened, he was ready to probe and tinker and look official.
Nothing happened until nearly a half hour later when the psychologist stepped into the hall.
Out of Lehmann's office. Lehmann, a big, flabby-looking white-haired guy with bushy eyebrows, watched Delaware depart with no friendliness in his eyes. Stood there looking unhappy til Delaware was on the elevator.
Delaware seemed to surround himself with unhappy people.
Occupational hazard?
Finally, Lehmann went back inside.
The meeting had lasted twenty-eight minutes.
Brief consultation? About something relevant to him?
He screwed the fixture back in and put the meter in the box. Under the top tray of tools was a nine-millimeter automatic, not the one from the car, but the identical model, fully loaded, wrapped in black felt. With all the gear he was lugging he was a metal detector's dream.
So few buildings had metal detectors.
Even government buildings.
Last week an employee of the city's electronic-repair plant had come to work with a machine pistol and mowed down six coworkers.
So much madness and violence but people continued to pretend otherwise.
Crime and denial.
He understood that.
Back home, in the silence, he played.
The DMV listed Roone M. Lehmann, Ph.D., fifty-six, six one, 230, as living in Santa Monica.
The Thomas Guide map placed the address in one of the canyons that led down to Pacific Coast Highway.
Not all that far from Irit.
Another of life's little coincidences.
It was 8:00 P.M. and time to switch gears.
He phoned the West L.A. station and asked for Sturgis. A few moments later the big policeman came on the line. He hung up.
So the guy was still staying put.
Dedicated civil servant.
Back to the psychologist? Probably useless, but since the girl on the playground, nothing interesting had happened and he had to keep busy.
Keeping busy was his nature. It helped fight off the loneliness.
He drove to Beverly Glen and parked a ways down the road from the narrow pathway that curled up to the psychologist's and the sculptress's modern white house.