With scholarly justification?
Because some lives just weren't worth living?
So he wasn't really a murderer.
He was a freelance bioethicist.
29
The only thing i hadn't gotten to was Twisted Science, the critique of The Brain Drain, and though I couldn't see what it could add, I checked it out and took it home with me.
One message at my service. Milo's home number but the caller was Dr. Richard Silverman.
Rick and Milo had lived together for years but he and I rarely spoke. He was more prone to listening than talking. Reserved, meticulous, fit, always well-dressed, he was a striking contrast to Milo's aesthetic impairment and some people saw the two of them as an odd couple. I knew they were both thoughtful, driven, highly self-critical, had suffered deeply from being homosexual, had taken a long time to find their niche, both as individuals and members of a couple. Both buried themselves in bloody work- Rick spent over one hundred hours a week as a senior E.R. physician at Cedars-Sinai- and their time together was often silent.
He said, “Thanks, Alex. How's everything?”
“Great. With you?”
“Fine, fine. Listen, I just wanted to ask how Helena Dahl's doing- nothing confidential, just if she's okay.”
“I haven't seen her recently, Rick.”
“Oh.”
“Something wrong?”
“Well,” he said, “she quit the hospital yesterday, no explanation. I guess what's happened to her could unnerve anybody.”
“It's tough,” I said.
“I met the brother once. Not through her. He came in with a gunshot case, never mentioned being her brother, and I wasn't paying attention to nametags. But someone told me later.”
“Helena wasn't on duty?”
“No, not that particular night.”
“Anything unusual about him?”
“Not really. Big guy, young, very quiet, could have stepped right out of an LAPD recruiting poster. Back when that was the type they recruited. I was struck by the fact that he never bothered to ask for Helena, thought maybe he knew she was off. But when I told her he'd been in, she looked surprised. Anyway, I don't want to pry. Take care. If you do see her, say hi.”
“Will do.”
He laughed. “Say hi to Milo, too. You're probably seeing him more than I am. This case- the retarded kids- it's really disturbing him. Not that he's been talking about it. But he's been tossing in his sleep.”
It was two-thirty. I hadn't come up with a thing on the DVLL killings. Robin was out for the afternoon, the house was too damn big, and the day seemed hollow.
I'd pushed Helena and Nolan to the back of my mind but Rick's call got me ruminating again.
What had caused her to make such a complete break?
Those family photos in Nolan's garage? Primal memories that strong?
She was tough and competent on the job but isolated in her private life.
More like her brother than she'd realized?
Had his self-destruction gotten her wondering about where she'd end up? Paths that hadn't been taken?
Depression ran in families. Had I missed something?
I called her home. The phone kept ringing and worst-case scenarios flashed through my head.
I thought about Nolan's showing up at the E.R., never asking for her.
Even when we were little kids we went our separate ways. Just ignored each other. Is that normal?
That kind of distance could pass for civility when life's rhythms remained shallow. But when things went bad, it could lead to the worst kind of guilt.
Parents dead, abandoned by her husband when he moved to North Carolina.
Going to work each day at the E.R., performing heroics. Coming home to…?
Had the reliable engine finally broken down?
I had nothing to do and decided to take a drive out to her house.
Maybe I'd find her in a bathrobe on the sofa, watching soap operas and stuffing her face with junk food. Maybe she'd get angry at the intrusion and I'd feel like a fool.
I could live with that.
It took forty-five minutes to reach the west end of the Valley and another ten to find her address in Woodland Hills.
The house was a small yellow structure of no particular style on a hot, wide side street lined with mature bottlebrush trees in full bloom. Red flowers and sticky patches from the trees littered the sidewalks and California jays dove among the branches. The sun bore down through the haze and even though I couldn't hear the freeway, I could smell it.
The front lawn was dry and needed mowing. Big, shapeless margarita daisy bushes pushed up against the front porch. No sign of her Mustang in the driveway and the garage door was shut. The mailbox was empty and my ring and knock went unanswered.
Two cars in the driveway next door, a white minivan and a white Acura.
I went over there. The ceramic plaque beneath the bell said THE MILLERS under a crucifix, and looked homemade. A window air conditioner played a waltz.
I rang and the brass cover on the peephole snicked back.
“Yes?” Male voice.
“My name is Dr. Alex Delaware. I'm a friend of your neighbor, Helena Dahl. She hasn't been around for a while and some of us have been getting a little concerned.”
“Um… one second.”
The door opened and cold air hit my face. A couple in their late twenties looked me over. He was tall, dark, bearded, with a sunburned nose, and wore a pink Hawaiian shirt, denim shorts, no shoes. The can of Sprite in his hand was sweating but he wasn't.
The woman next to him was slim, broad-shouldered, nice-looking, with butter-colored multiflipped hair sporting two curlers on top. An electric blue T-shirt was tucked into black shorts and her nails were long and pearly white.
“Who's concerned about Helena?” he said.
“Her friends, people she works with at Cedars.”
No answer.
I said, “She quit her job without explaining why. Has she left town?”
He gave a reluctant nod, but didn't say more. Behind him was a neatly appointed living room, home-shopping show on a big screen hawking a pearl necklace with matching earrings, only 234 left.
“We just wanted to know how she's doing,” I said. “Do you know about her brother?”
He nodded. “He never came around. At least not since we've lived here, which is two years.”
The woman said, “But they both grew up here. It was their parents' house.” Southern accent. “Helena said he was a police officer. How strange, what he did.”
“Any idea where she is?” I said.
“She said she was going on vacation,” said the man. He took a drink from the can and offered it to his wife but she shook her head.
“Did she mention where?”
“No,” he said.
“When did she leave?”
“What'd you say your name was?”
I repeated it and held out my business card and my police-consultant badge.
“You're police, too?”
“I work with them sometimes but that has nothing to do with Officer Dahl.”
His posture loosened. “My work's kind of related to police work. I teach traffic school, just opened my own business- you're sure this doesn't have anything to do with him- investigating his death, for insurance or something like that?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I'm just concerned about Helena.”
“Well, she just went away to get some rest. At least that's what she said, and can you blame her?”
I shook my head.
“Poor thing,” said the woman.
Her husband stuck out his hand. “Greg Miller, this is Kathy.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“She left yesterday,” he said. “Pardon the suspicion, but you can't be too careful, all the stuff that goes on, nowadays. We're trying to get a block association together, in order to look out for each other. Helena asked us to watch her house while she was gone.”
“Crime problems in the neighborhood?” I said.