Текст книги "The Gift of Death"
Автор книги: Sam Ripley
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
15
The Beverly Hills Fertility Clinic looked like a large white cube, more like an art gallery than a medical practice. Built in the mid-Fifties by a follower of Richard Neutra for Dan Zinnerman, a top Hollywood agent, it occupied a prime slice of real estate, an expanse of lawn sandwiched between Maple and Elm Drives. After the death of Zinnerman the house became subject to a legal order; apparently Zinnerman had been living beyond his means for years and had died a couple of million dollars in debt. His three sons were in dispute about what should happen to the house and the case spent years in the California court system. The house lay empty for years, its clean white lines becoming soiled by age and neglect. Finally, when the judgement was settled and the house was sold most of the money went to pay the huge legal bill.
The property was bought by a developer – a former actor who specialised in obtaining mid-twentieth century modern houses – who then quickly sold it, untouched, to a conglomerate of medics. The doctors wanted to create a high-end gynaecological clinic, offering a first class service to rich Hollywood wives, but soon they realised that there was more money to be made from assisted fertility. The medics borrowed from the banks to restore the house – the lead practitioner, Dr Tom Cruger, was an architectural freak who lived in a Frank Lloyd Wright designed home in the Hollywood hills – and so today it stood as a symbol of clean, efficient modernity.
As Kate and Cassie stepped out of the car and into the parking lot of the clinic they could hear the flow of traffic on Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevards, but the trickle of innumerable water fountains helped disguise the sound. The garden was immaculate with its shaped beds full of bird of paradise flowers and blood red hibiscus plants, its grove of orange and lemon trees and its driveway of palms.
‘Would you mind if I stayed out here in the garden while you went inside for your appointment?’ asked Cassie.
Kate looked over as the police car turned into the parking space next to her.
‘I guess it’s okay, as long as you stay within sight of the cops. And I suppose I won’t be long.’
‘Great. Will you walk me over to a space beneath a tree and near that – what is it I can smell? – yes, near to the jasmine.’
Kate took Cassie’s arm and started to walk slowly around the garden, searching out the plant until she found its tendrils snaking along a pergola, its white flowers emanating a sickly sweet smell.
‘I always found jasmine a little overwhelming, but I think I need a bit of sensory overload today,’ she said, laughing. ‘Take my mind off other things.’
Kate smiled. ‘Okay, now why don’t you sit here,’ she said, gesturing to a space on the lawn, before realising that Cassie could not see her. She blushed slightly at her own stupidity. ‘I’ll help you down onto the grass. But promise me you won’t move from here. The sergeant can see you from his car, and before I go in I’ll make sure he keeps you in sight. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Cassie, lowering herself down onto the lawn. ‘What’s the tree here above me? I can hear the wind in its leaves. But I think they’re quite small and fine, almost slithers of leaves.’
Kate looked up. ‘I think it’s a jacaranda, but it’s not in bloom.’
The vibrant blue flower of the jacaranda tree was her father’s favourite colour. When she was a child each May they would take a driving tour of the jacarandas in the neighbourhood, before coming back to the beach house to enjoy a picnic lunch under their own tall tree on the terrace. ‘It’s the greatest colour in the whole of LA, don’t you think?’ her father would say and she would have to agree.
‘Okay, I’ll leave you here,’ said Kate, forcing the memory from her mind. ‘You’ll be fine?’
‘Sure. Now go. Don’t be late.’
Kate walked across the grass and on to the gravel path that led up towards the entrance. As she stepped into the double height room she was bathed in a gentle white light that streamed in through the side windows. The whiteness of the interior was blinding and, for a moment, she felt as though she had just entered an operating theatre, and that she was a patient about to undergo surgery.
‘Hello, Miss Cramer,’ said a middle-aged blonde, looking up from her computer screen.
‘Hi, Frances,’ said Kate, approaching the chrome and glass desk.
‘Are you here to see Dr Cruger?’
‘That’s right. Back again, I’m afraid.’
Frances smiled with the disinterest of the professional. ‘Let’s see. That’s right. I’ve got you down here for an appointment at 11:30. If you want to take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.’ She picked up the telephone on her desk and quietly spoke into it.
Kate sat in a Le Courbusier-style chrome and black leather cube chair as she waited for the phone on the secretary’s desk to flash, the signal that the doctor was ready to see her. Her previous visits to the clinic had always been invested with an odd mix of emotions – sadness, expectation, anxiety, anger, jealousy, the possibility of joy. But never, until today, had she felt suspicious. She wasn’t proud of the way she was feeling, and she wished the cloud of doubt would lift from her. But what other explanation was there? How else could somebody have discovered that she was pregnant? Most bizarrely, how had a stranger found out before her?
She looked at Frances with eyes poisoned by suspicion. She knew by her very presence at the clinic that Kate was trying for a child. And, of course, she would have had access to her files. But there was no way she could have known that the cluster of cells implanted into her on January 3 would have resulted in pregnancy. After all, although the success rate of the clinic was one of the best in the country, for women in her age group it was still only 36 per cent. As Kate tried to blink the distrust away the light on Frances’ phone flashed. The doctor was ready to see her. As she stood up Kate still did not have a clue about what she was going to say.
‘Hi, Kate, come in,’ said the doctor, stretching out his hand and gesturing towards the chair. ‘Frances said you sounded a little upset on the phone. How are you feeling?’
‘Apart from having my head in the toilet bowl all day you mean?’
‘Have you tried ginger? Lemon? And there are also some –‘
‘It’s actually something else that’s bothering me.’
‘Well, you know you can talk to me about anything.’
The assertion tripped off his tongue too easily, she thought. From the beginning she had interpreted his smooth manner as natural confidence. Now she wasn’t so sure.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she said, playing for time.
Dr Cruger waited for her to elaborate. Kate studied his guileless blue eyes, his thinning blond hair, the whiteness of his eyelashes and his unlined face. There was something not quite right about him. Something that kept needling her somewhere at the back of her mind, something she couldn’t quite articulate. Was it the fact that, for a man in his mid-forties, he looked too young, too boyish? Yes, but not only that. What worried her more was the feeling she got that he was trying too hard to be trustworthy, almost as if he was playing a part. Why hadn’t she picked up on this before?
‘How much do you trust your staff, Dr Cruger?’
‘Implicitly. Why do you ask?’
Although it had been in the news, she just couldn’t bring herself to tell him the whole truth.
‘I’ve been sent a card congratulating me on my pregnancy.’
‘And?’
‘It arrived before even I knew I was carrying a child.’
The blood seemed to drain from his face.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I. That’s why I hoped you might be able to help me out.’
‘It didn’t cause you any distress, I hope. The card? At least it was a message of congratulations.’
‘Yes, but that’s beside the point,’ she said, trying to remain calm. She had to stick to her story.
‘If the card arrived before you suspected then presumably that was before you came in here for confirmation?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘So what makes you think it’s anything to do with the clinic? Have you been unhappy with the service you received here?’
‘No, not at all,’ she said, smiling, trying to diffuse the tension in the air. ‘As you can imagine it was quite a shock. A nice shock, but a shock all the same.’ She felt slightly nauseous as she remembered what had really been sent to her. ‘But I just wanted to reassure myself that you hadn’t had a problem here. With staff or a security breach. I’ve got a few contacts in the media and I would hate to have to –‘
The veiled threat of exposure was enough to force him to talk.
‘I’m going to be honest, Kate. I wasn’t going to say anything before, but –‘
‘But what?’
‘A few weeks ago we had a break in. Some drugs were stolen from the lab here, bottles of anaesthetic, pain relief, and also a laptop from the reception area. We weren’t too worried as the computer is password protected, and we change the access code every week, usually a randomly-generated string of numbers and letters.’
‘And you didn’t think about reporting it to the police?’
‘As you know we pride ourselves on our discretion. We simply couldn’t afford to let something like this leak out. We need our clientele to feel they can trust us.’
‘And now -?’
‘Now?’
‘When you know that there is a likelihood that the information on your database could have been accessed?’
‘No, no, that’s an improbability. There’s no way the code could have been broken. No way that –‘
‘Dr Cruger, you know as well as I do that there are people capable of hacking into anything.’
‘Yes, but even so, if what you are telling me is true then there would have been nothing on our database to indicate that you were pregnant. As you said, even you didn’t yet know about your condition.’
The two stared at each other in silence.
‘So what are you going to do? Are you going to go to the police?’
‘Kate, I know it’s been a difficult time for you recently,’ said Cruger, looking at her with concern. ‘The last time you came here you told me about your decision to split from your partner. Trust me, I know the pressure the fertility program puts on couples, and I’ve seen it happen time and again. And then, in your case, the added difficulty of breaking up from your partner and the prospect of bringing up the child alone. And then from what I’ve read in the Times about your recent – discovery – I think all of us here would understand if –‘
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Nothing. Just that I don’t think necessarily you should be blaming us. I know you may feel angry about what has happened, but there could be an innocent explanation.’
‘Such as?’
‘That the card could have been sent by a friend, by someone close to you. Have you talked to your partner about this?’
‘So you think Josh could have sent it?‘
‘I’m not saying anything for certain, but it is a possibility.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘What if he sent the card out of spite? Because he was convinced you weren’t pregnant? Maybe he thought that, now that your relationship is over, there’s little chance you would ever get pregnant.’
‘It’s not possible.’
‘To be fair, I think it’s a more realistic proposition than the likelihood of someone breaking in here to steal a computer, which was protected by a security password, which actually didn’t hold the information about your pregnancy. Do you see, what you are suggesting just isn’t logical.’
She had to admit to herself that he had a point.
‘And I really would rather not take this to the police,’ continued Dr Cruger. ‘In fact, from the evidence you’ve presented to me this morning, well, I don’t think it would be enough for them to take seriously.’
‘I see,’ said Kate. ‘And none of your other patients have reported any – any – discrepancies? And breaches? Strange letters, parcels?’
‘No, nothing of the sort. Which makes me certain that the two incidents – the break in and your “card” – aren’t connected. I really do think you should talk to your partner about this.’
She felt the muscles around her mouth tighten. For a moment she could not speak.
‘Look, Kate. If you want me to refer you to somebody, I know a couple of doctors who are at the top of the field. There’s one in particular I think –‘
‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary,’ said Kate, rising from her chair. ‘But if anything else happens, you will let me know, won’t you? If anybody else gets sent anything suspicious or -’
‘Yes, of course. Of course I will.’
He walked her across his office to a back door that led out onto a side exit. Cruger was proud of his design, a system which meant that clients arriving for their appointments never had to see the ones leaving.
‘And if there is anything else you’d like to talk about just give me a call,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’ll be seeing you in – is it three weeks – for a check-up. Frances will be in touch to schedule the appointment.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, her mouth dry and bitter-tasting.
‘I’m sure you’ll find that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation,’ he said, pausing by the door. ‘Don’t’ worry, Kate. I’m confident that your pregnancy will be a happy and stress-free one. It’s my job to make sure that’s the case. Try to take it easy. Okay?’
She nodded, smiled and said goodbye. As she stepped out into the sunlight she knew that she would not be going back to the clinic. She would find another gynaecologist and ask for all her records to be transferred.
There was probably nothing sinister about Cruger. She understood his point of view, his position made perfect sense. Indeed, if she had been the doctor and a patient had walked into her office with the same story she too would most likely have reacted in the same way. It was his capacity for emotional manipulation that she objected to – that and the way he had implied she was somehow vaguely hysterical.
She walked down a gravel path back towards the front of the clinic, from where she could see Cassie, still sitting in the same position under the jacaranda tree.
But there was somebody sitting next to her. A woman with blonde hair.
‘Excuse me? What you are doing?’ asked Kate, as she approached.
‘Oh, hi, Kate,’ said Cassie, looking up. ‘It’s okay. We were just having a nice chat –‘
‘Can you tell me who you are?’
‘I’m Cynthia Ross from the Times,’ said the blonde, smartly-dressed woman, standing up.
‘What?’ said Cassie, looking confused, distressed. ‘You didn’t say –‘
‘Yeah, I bet she didn’t,’ said Kate.
‘And you must be Dr Cramer, am I right?’ said the reporter, extending her hand.
‘Come on Cassie, we’re leaving,’ she said, turning her back.
‘Listen, hold on a second. I know you must be upset, and I’m sorry to disturb you, but do you have any idea who might be behind all of this?’
‘No comment,’ snapped Kate, leading Cassie by the hand towards the car.
‘The baby in the water? The fingertips? And now the human tongue?’
‘I said no comment.’
‘If Gleason is dead, who do you think could be doing it? If you give me your stories, we can work together, help track them down. We’ve got resources, connections, sometimes more than the police. And you might need all the help you can get now that you’re preg-‘
The reporter never got the chance to finish her sentence.
‘What did you say?’ asked Kate, staring into a pair of cold blue eyes.
‘Your friend here was just telling me that she was waiting for you to come out of the clinic. And that you were expecting.’
Kate couldn’t be angry with Cassie.
‘You solicited that information without identifying yourself as a journalist.’
‘So?’
‘You took advantage of a blind woman and gained her confidence – for what? Some juicy titbit about my private life? Have you ever thought you’re working for the wrong newspaper, Ms Ross?’
‘I’m just doing my job, give me a break here.’
At that moment, Kate wanted to punch her in the face. But she resisted. Only just.
Perhaps there was another way forwards.
‘What’s your number?’ she said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, give me your cell phone number.’
‘Okay,’ she said, looking puzzled. ‘Does that mean you’re going to talk to me?’
‘Look, Ms Ross. Frankly, I don’t like you. But I’m prepared to put that to one side. If – and at this moment it is still a big if – I agree to ‘talk’ as you put it, I will do so not to help you out, but to try and find the fucker playing these sick games. But let’s get this straight. If I see any mention of my pregnancy in the paper then the deal – the “story” – is off. No argument. Do you understand?’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Great.’
‘I’ll call you,’ said Kate, helping Cassie into the car. ‘And remember? I don’t want to see you hanging around either Cassie or me until I’ve decided. I’ll give you my answer in 24 hours.’
16
Harper slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator and overtook a truck on the 110. He’d just been sent the first address of the men on his hit list and wanted to question Charles Garrison in person. He asked Jennifer Curtis to accompany him to see if she could pick up any signs of psychopathology beyond what one would normally expect from a brutal wife beater.
‘It’s the next exit,’ said Jennifer. ‘Here.’
He quickly swerved into the right lane and took the exit that led into South Central; nobody he knew called it by its new name of South LA. He drove down East Slauson Avenue and then took a left onto South Main Street, past a row of fast food outlets, a pawn shop, and a run-down liquor store. The area was famous for the violence of its rival Latino and black gangs, but although they were brutal at least their objective was clear – race hatred and territorial protection. What he was looking for was much more unnerving – a murderer with a motive yet unknown, someone whose crimes linked him to a dead serial killer.
‘Nice neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘Quite a come down for Garrison. He was living in Inglewood before his arrest. Worked as a high end information technologist at Ernst and Cable. Earnt in the high two hundreds. Must be hard for him.’
‘Yeah, like we should feel sorry for him,’ said Jennifer sharply.
‘Do you think it could be him, from what you’ve read about his case?’
‘Difficult to say,’ said Jennifer, sighing. ‘I suppose the motivation is there. Feels angry and bitter at the justice system for the way he has been treated, the way he has slipped down the social scale. Possibly still believes himself to be innocent and that he was just giving his wife what he thought she deserved. Maybe Gleason promised him certain things – money, drugs, information, contacts, who knows – when he was in prison and now he’s fulfilling his side of the bargain.’
‘But he hasn’t committed any other crimes since he came out of San Quentin.’
‘No. He’s kept to the injunction not to go near his wife and son and it seems like he’s been trying to get his life back together. He’s done a bit of work at a local cyber cafe, but that was just a one-off freelance job. Obviously it’s been harder than he thought.’
Harper turned into a street of single storey buildings, most of which were pre-fabricated. Faded newspaper blew down the walkway; a discarded TV set lay abandoned by the roadside and a soiled mattress had been propped up by a low-lying wall. He slowed down and checked the numbers of the houses.
‘Here it is,’ said Jennifer. ‘Just on the left.’
‘Okay. Let’s pay Garrison a friendly call.’
They stopped outside a building that looked more like a shack than a house. Flesh coloured paint peeled off the front wall, revealing blotches of dark red beneath. The roof – nothing more than lengths of corrugated metal fixed together by old nails – leached a rust-coloured discharge down the outside walls. The two windows that faced the front lot looked as if they had been covered over from the inside with squares of black plastic.
Harper and Curtis walked up the weed-lined front path to the front door, automatically feeling for the guns that were concealed beneath their jackets. Harper knocked twice on the flimsy wooden door. There was no answer.
‘Did we get a cell phone number for him?’ asked Josh.
‘There’s nothing registered in his name. Too broke, I guess.’
Harper knocked again, but the force of his hand caused one of the thin wood panels to splinter. Curtis give him a look of warning, but he just shook his head. As he pushed with his shoulder a piece of wood that seemed to hold the door together fissured and, after another blow, the lock – a single bar of metal – broke.
‘We really should have a warrant,’ Jennifer whispered.
‘To hell with that,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got time to be polite, I’m afraid. And anyway, it looks as though the lock’s been tampered with.’
‘I can’t imagine there’d be anything to steal.’
He reached around the door to feel for the light switch. He found it on the wall and flipped it. Nothing happened. He kicked open the door, letting some light into the darkened space.
‘Garrison?’ he called out. ‘LAPD!’
There was no sound from within the house except the creaking of the roof and the buzz of an ancient icebox in the kitchen at the back. The lounge consisted of an old, stained sofa, part of its insides spilling out onto the floor, and a TV on a low table. The walls were mottled with patches of damp and the air smelt old and foul.
They could sense no one was in the house, but they had to be sure. Harper and Curtis moved through the building quickly but carefully, guarding each other with their weapons as they checked each room. Then they walked around the house, stepping over pieces of garbage that had accumulated over the years, and back inside.
Harper tried the lights again but there was no spark.
‘Looks like Garrison’s supply has been cut,’ he said.
‘I guess he can’t’ afford to the pay the bills.’
‘Guess so.’
Curtis walked into the small, dank kitchen. The stench from the drains – a putrid mix of decaying vegetable matter and decomposing sewage – turned her stomach. For a moment, standing in the dark, smelly kitchen, she felt sorry for the way Garrison’s life had downspiralled. But then she recalled the pictures in the police file of his wife after that last beating. Her face had looked like a gigantic, mutated mushroom, swollen out of all proportion and covered with abrasions, bruises and open wounds.
‘The bastard,’ she said under her breath, as anger burnt away
‘Over here – look,’ said Harper, calling from the lounge.
Josh squatted down by the TV set. He was looking at something on the floor, his black eyes intent, concentrated.
‘What is it?’ asked Curtis.
‘A map. Of New Mexico.’
She came behind him, bending down and moving her head closer towards his shoulder. Josh felt her breath on his neck.
‘It’s open on the page that -’
‘Is that where -?’
‘Yep – where Garrison’s former wife lives, with their son.’
Josh took out his cell and called Helen Holt, back at the investigation room in downtown LA. He asked her to get him a number for the chief detective at the New Mexico Police Department and the current address for Garrison’s former wife. Three minutes later Helen called back with the information.
‘You need to speak to Francisco Ruben on 877 865 454,’ she said. ‘And Garrison’s former wife, Karen, has changed her name. She’s now Yvonne Kimber.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Yep. I don’t know whether this is important but tomorrow is Garrison’s son’s 13th birthday.’
‘Oh, shit.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Garrison has disappeared. And we found a map open on the page for New Mexico.’
The line went quiet.
‘Helen?’
He could tell that she was angry with him for not sharing the information earlier.
‘We’re still waiting on the rest of those addresses to come through.’ Her voice was formal, icily polite. ‘But it should be any time now.’
‘Great.’
‘And Lansing has arrived at the prison. He’s going to call in at the end of the day.’
‘Fine. Let’s talk later.’ He paused. ‘And thanks Helen. I know how much you would like to be out there, but you know what you are doing is invaluable. I just want you to know you’re doing a great job. That piece of information about Garrison’s son could be really important.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
He cut the line and immediately dialled Ruben’s number in New Mexico. Harper went through the protocol to securely identify himself before outlining the situation.
‘Garrison could not only be a danger to his former wife and son,’ said Harper, ‘but he’s also a potential suspect in an ongoing case here in LA.’
‘What kind of thing?’ said Ruben.
‘Threatening parcels. The murder of a small child. And ripping the tongue out of a homeless man. Oh, and the amputation of some fingertips that have yet to be identified.’
‘Nice.’
‘So if you could put out a call for him to be arrested then –‘
‘I’m afraid that won’t be -.’ Interference on the line reduced his voice to a series of crackles.
‘I’m sorry?’ Harper walked away from Curtis and moved further down the street in an effort to improve the reception.
‘I said,’ Ruben’s voice came through clearer now. ‘I said, that won’t be necessary.’
‘Why?’
‘One of my men called in two hours ago with the information on a middle-aged white male who had been beaten to death next to his vehicle on the highway into New Mexico. He hasn’t been formally identified, but documents on his person show him to be a Charles Garrison, born May 13 1955. Whoever did it must have taken all his cash, but left everything else including his wallet.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Sorry?’
The line started to break up again.
‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this straight away?’
‘The reception is really bad –‘
‘Never mind. Thanks.’ He cut the line. ‘Fuck,’ he said to himself again, running his hand through his hair in frustration and leaning against his car.
‘Is there a problem?’ Jennifer said walking up to him.
‘Garrison is dead. Beaten to death in New Mexico.’
‘What is going on?’ she said, her voice tinged with a note of fear.
‘I haven’t got a fucking clue,’ he said. ‘But I do know one thing. We’re being fucked with. Whoever is doing this is having a fucking great time watching us fuck around. Shit.’ He banged his fist against the bonnet of the car, causing a slight indentation. He brought his knuckles up towards his mouth. ‘Fuck, that hurt.’
He remembered the lock on the door, the map on the floor by the TV. Had someone broken into Garrison’s house in an effort to find out where he had gone? His death was certainly no coincidence. But the events of the last three weeks just didn’t seem to hold together. He tried to separate each one in sequence so as to try and gain an overview.
First Kate discovers a dead child floating outside her beach house. Then she finds out she is pregnant. Cassie Verlinger, the blind girl, is sent a package of fingertips and then Jordan Weislander opens up his icebox to find a tongue nestling amongst some cuts of veal. Now Garrison, a criminal who served time in the same prison as Gleason, is murdered, beaten to death. And then what about those other cases that had been reported to his office – the murder of the child porn enthusiast, Raymond Cutler, and the weird overdose of that drug dealer in Silverlake?
What was happening to LA? Sure, it had always been a violent city. Now it seemed like it was fast mutating into the crime capital of the world. At particularly difficult or stressful times he had wondered whether it was all worth it. Certainly he’d had that argument with Kate many times. She felt like she couldn’t take it any more. At the time, he was pleased that she had made that decision to resign from her job. Although she didn’t have to experience some of the vileness he encountered during the course of his work, he could tell that at times it was too much for her. He always maintained that he wanted to carry on. He was doing a public duty. But now? He felt like he was drowning in a tide of evil, a filthy darkness filling up his lungs. He thought of Kate. Kate and the baby she was carrying. He couldn’t let her die. Even if they never really communicated again – and, shit, why should she want to talk to him after Jules – he vowed he would protect her. And his baby. He thought of that baby girl Kate had found in the sea and was surprised by a wave of emotion that was almost too much for him to bear.
‘Josh – are you okay?’ asked Jennifer, touching him lightly on his shoulder.
‘Sorry, yep, fine. Just a bit freaked out.’ He coughed.
He called Helen on his secure line and told her the news. He gave her Garrison’s address and asked her to send over a fingerprint and forensics team.
‘And what about the addresses of the remaining four men?’
‘I’m told they will be with us in the next thirty minutes.’
‘You may need to put some pressure on. We need that information now. Otherwise –‘
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ve got a feeling there’s something else to this case besides Gleason.’
