Silent Partner Read online

  Belch and a gurgle. He looked ready to throw up. I took another couple of steps back, waited.

  An unproductive dry retch. His eyes opened, stared at nothing.

  “I was her friend,” I repeated. “How about you?”

  He moaned. Dry-retched.

  “D.J.?”

  “Oh, man . . . you're . . .” He trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Fucking . . . with . . . my head.”

  “I'm not trying to,” I said. “Just trying to understand why she's dead.”

  More moaning.

  He ran his tongue over his lips, tried to spit and ended up drooling.

  “If she was more than just a friend, it could be harder on you,” I said. “Losing a therapist can be like losing a parent.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Was she your doctor, D.J.?”

  “Fuck you!” After several efforts he managed to get to his feet, came at me, fell upon me.

  Limp as a bundle of rags, his arms bulky but booze-dead, carrying no punch. I stopped him easily with a hand to the chest. Took hold of his arm and sat him back down.

  I showed him the cap and the keys.

  “Hey, man . . . what the . . .”

  “You're in no shape to drive. I'm holding on to these until you show me you've got it together.”

  “Fuck you.” Less conviction.

  “Talk to me, D.J. Then I'll be out of your hair.”

  “What . . . about?”

  “About being Dr. Ransom's patient?”

  Exaggerated shake of head. “Uh-uh . . . not . . . crazy.”

  “What's your connection to her?”

  “Bad back.”

  “Lot of pain?”

  “Hurt . . . fucking job.” Remembering, he bit his lip.

  “Dr. Ransom was helping you with the pain?”

  Nod. “And . . . after—” He made a feeble try for the keys. “Gimme my shit!”

  “After what?”

  “Gimme my shit, man!”

  “After she helped you with the pain, then what?”

  “Fuck you!” he screamed. The cords on his neck swelled; he punched out wildly, missed, tried to get up, couldn't lift his butt from the ground.

  I'd pushed a button. It set me thinking.

  “Fuck nothing after! Fuck nothing!” He flapped his arms, swore, tried to get up and buckled.

  “Who referred you to Dr. Ransom, D.J.?”

  Silence.

  I repeated the question.

  “Fu-uck you-u.”

  “There may be other patients who are feeling as bad as you do, D.J.”

  He gave a sick smile, then a feeble head shake. “Uh-uh.”

  “If we can find out who referred them, we can track them down. Help them.”

  “No . . . fuck . . . ingway.”

  “Someone should get in touch with them, D.J.”

  “I'm . . . You're some . . . fucking Robin Hood?”

  “A friend,” I said. “A psychologist, like her.”

  He looked around, seemed to be noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Where am I?”

  “Side of the road. Just down from Dr. Ransom's house.”

  “Who're you, some fucking . . . Robin Hood?”

  “A friend. Who referred you to her, D.J.?”

  “Doctor.”

  “Which doctor?”

  “Carmen.”

  “Dr. Carmen?”

  He giggled. “Carmen . . . doctor.”

  “Carmen's doctor?”

  Nod.

  “Who's Carmen?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “What's the name of Carmen's doctor?”

  A few more go-rounds before he said, “Bev . . . Hills Jew . . . Wein . . .”

  I wasn't sure if he was giving me a name or asking for a drink. “Wine?”

  “Dr. Weinfu-uck.”

  “Wein something? Weinstein? Weinberg?”

  “Garden, grow grow grow.”

  “Weingarden? Dr. Weingarden?”

  “Big . . . mouthed Jew.”

  He slumped and fell over, lay on his side.

  I nudged him. Dead to the world. After copying down the post-office box number on the truck door, I searched among the bottles in the cab, found one that was half full, and emptied it. Then I let the air out of two of the tires, removed one of the blankets from the truck bed, hid the keys under the remaining two, stashed the distributor cap in the bottom compartment of his tool box. Figuring if he could work all that out, he'd be sober enough to drive. Then I spread the blanket over him and left him to sleep it off.

  I drove away telling myself I'd use the post office box to reach him in a few days. Encourage him to get a new therapist.

  God knew he needed the help. Through the booze haze there'd been heavy potential for violence—one of those tightly wound, pressure-cooked young bulls who let things build to an excruciating level, then blow it off without warning with fists, brass knuckles, blades, chains, and guns.

  Not exactly your typical private-practice patient. Where had Sharon gotten him? How many others like him had she treated? And how many fragile personalities were on the verge of shattering because she'd no longer be there to hold them together?

  I recalled Rasmussen's sudden rage when I asked what had happened after the pain treatment was over.

  An ugly hunch that I couldn't justify, but one that refused to fade away, was that his relationship with Sharon had gone beyond treatment. Something strong enough to draw him back to her house. Searching? For what?

  Following in Trapp's footsteps . . .

  Could she have been sleeping with both of them? I realized I'd wondered the same thing about the old sheik at the party. About Kruse, years ago.

  Maybe I was getting carried away—projecting. Assuming sexual links that didn't exist, because my own entanglement with her had been carnal.

  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.”

  Chapter

  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.

  Leslie Weingarden's office was on the ground floor, toward the rear of the building. Her nameplate listed her specialties as Internal Medicine and Women's Health Issues. Her waiting room was small and decorated in budget good-cheer—white-and-gray miniprint paper, overstuffed white cotton chairs and Danish-modern tables, a scattering of art prints, a potted schefflera in a straw basket. No patients, but the remnants of the day's traffic were apparent: gum wrappers, an empty aspirin bottle and a used emery board on the coffee table, magazines splayed open on the chairs.

  I knocked on the glass partition, waited several seconds before it slid open. A Hispanic woman in her fifties looked out. “Can I help you?”

  “Dr. Delaware. I have an appointment with Dr. Weingarden.”

  “I'll let her know you're here.”

  I waited for half an hour, leafing through magazines, wondering if any of them had carried Paul Kruse's column. At six-thirty, the door to the inner office opened and a good-looking woman around thirty came out.

  She was petite, very slender, with frosted short hair and a lean, alert face. She wore dangling silver earrings, a white silk blouse, pleated dove-gray gabardine slacks, and gray suede pumps. A stethoscope hung from around her neck. Under it was a heavy gold chain. Her features were delicate and regular, her eyes almond-shaped and dark brown. Like Robin's. She wore little makeup. Didn't have to.

  I stood up.

  “Mr. Delaware? I'm Dr. Weingarden.” She held out her hand and I shook it. Her bones were tiny; her grip, firm and dry. She placed both hands on her hips. “What can I do for you?”

  “You referred patients to a psychologist named Sharon Ransom. I don't know if you've heard, but she's dead, committed suicide on Sunday. I wanted to talk to you about her. About getting in touch with those patients.”

  No trace of shock. “Yes, I read the paper. What's your involvement with her and her patients?”

  “Mostly personal, somewhat professional.” I handed her my card.

  She examined it. “You're a psycho
logist too. Then it's Dr. Delaware. Bea told me Mr.” She put the card in her pocket. “Were you her therapist?”

  The question surprised me. “No.”

  “Because she sure needed one.” Frown. “Why all the concern about her patients?”

  “I ran into one of them today. D.J. Rasmussen. He gave me your name.”

  That made her flinch but she said nothing.

  “He was drunk,” I said. “Stoned drunk, really out of it. My hunch is that he was unbalanced to begin with, and is now at risk for some kind of breakdown. Maybe violence. Losing a therapist can be like losing a parent. I've been wondering how many of her other—”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I understand all of that. But what I still don't get is your concern. What's your involvement in all of this?”

  I thought about the best way to answer. “Some of it's probably guilt. Sharon and I knew each other well—back in graduate school. I hadn't seen her for years, ran into her by chance at a party last Saturday. She seemed upset about something, asked if she could talk to me. We made a date. I had second thoughts and canceled the next day. That night, she killed herself. I guess I'm still wondering if I could have stopped it. I'd like to prevent any more grief, if I can.”

  She fingered her stethoscope and stared at me. “This is for real, isn't it? You don't work for some shyster lawyer, do you?”

  “Why would I?”

  She smiled. “So you want me to contact any patients I might have referred to her?”

  “And tell me about any other referral sources you're familiar with.”

  The smile got cold. “That would be difficult, Dr. Delaware. Not a good idea at all—not that there were that many referrals, anyway. And I have no idea who else referred to her. Though I sure feel sorry for them.”

  She stopped, seemed to be searching for words. “Sharon Ransom was a . . . She and I . . . Well, you tell me first. Why'd you break your date with her?”

  “I didn't want to get involved with her. She's . . . She was a complicated woman.”

  “She sure was.” She looked at her watch, removed the stethoscope. “All right, I'm going to make a call and check on you. If you're who you say you are, we'll talk. But I've got to eat first.”

  She left me in the waiting room, came back several moments later, and said, “Okay,” without looking at me.

  We walked a block to a coffee shop on Brighton. She ordered a tuna sandwich on rye and herb tea. I pushed rubbery scrambled eggs around on my plate.