Breakdown, p.30
Breakdown, page 30
J. Yarmuth Loach said, “I can tell you something.”
Moftizadeh said, “Hold on—”
“I can tell you why. The first domestic was…what happened to her. She knew Zelda didn’t fall over, outside. Enid had locked her in the house for two days. Kept her in the cellar. Fed her soup. The domestic wasn’t supposed to see it but she disobeyed Enid and went downstairs to sweep the steps and heard something and got a key.”
Milo said, “Soup.”
Loach nodded. “Canned vegetable soup. She…fortified it.”
“With?”
“Something from her garden,” said Loach. “She likes doing it. Devising her own pesticides.”
Nguyen and Milo sat back down. “If Mr. Loach is willing to write down what he just said, along with a statement specifying his awareness that Imelda Soriano was a premeditated homicide that he helped cover up, I’ll go with after the fact. Even on her.”
Moftizadeh said, “Appreciate that offer, John, but we really need more.”
“Once he’s convicted, if you petition for reduced sentence based on infirmity, I won’t challenge you. He could be out in a short time.”
Loach said, “I’ll take it.”
Moftizadeh said, “Yarmie—”
“I’ll take it. I can’t stay here.” As if ready to check out of an inferior hotel.
Nguyen said, “You have more stationery in your briefcase?”
“I do, John.”
“Get it out. Start composing, Mr. Loach.”
—
The handwritten addendum was examined and agreed upon. Two pages in Loach’s shaky hand, signed and dated.
Nguyen placed both sheets in his pocket.
Moftizadeh said, “In view of the reduced charges, let’s revisit the issue of bail. Give me something reasonable.”
“Reasonable being…”
“What Mr. Loach can actually pay. It’s in your best interests, John. He’ll be of far greater utility to you once he’s out of this terrible environment.”
John Nguyen smiled. “I could go with that logic if it was only three victims, Fahriz.”
“Pardon?” said Moftizadeh.
“Have I said something confusing? We’ve got your client’s story on three murders but there’s a fourth.”
“I don’t under—”
“Three plus one equals four, Fahriz.”
Moftizadeh turned to Loach. Loach’s eyes bugged.
“What the hell’s going on, John?”
Nguyen said, “Fresh evidence. Out-of-the-oven evidence. Fill them in, Lieutenant.”
Milo said, “A man named Roderick Salton—your client’s assistant—was murdered by poisoning prior to the other three homicides. That crime took place nowhere near Mrs. DePauw’s property and, in fact, Mrs. DePauw was out of town. Unlike Mr. Loach who, on the day in question, used his corporate credit card to pay for lunch at the Water Garden restaurant. Food for two, wine for one. Which makes sense because Mr. Salton was a Mormon.”
“That’s an assumption—”
“Restaurant staff identify Mr. Loach and Mr. Salton as dining together that day. One server describes the atmosphere as shifting from friendly at the beginning of the meal to tense by the end. Given Mrs. DePauw’s proclivity for poison, we checked her whereabouts and she was at the Grand Hyatt in Lake Tahoe. She flew in privately the previous night, returned two days later to L.A. by commercial jet.”
Loach blurted, “Of course she was gone. She went there for an alibi!”
Nguyen said, “That was the plan the two of you cooked up?”
“I—”
Moftizadeh barked, “Quiet, Yarmie!”
Loach buried his head in his arms and began mewling.
No sympathy from his lawyer, just morbid fascination.
Milo said, “I’m sure Mr. Loach is correct. Mrs. DePauw went to Tahoe to establish an alibi after she furnished Mr. Loach with a toxic substance from her garden called aconitum. Deadly stuff, Mr. Loach slipped it into Mr. Salton’s food. By the end of the day, Mr. Salton was dead, his body dumped after dark near the courthouse on Hill and Washington.”
Nguyen said, “A neighborhood and a facility that Mr. Loach knew well, as he’d filed papers there on behalf of Mrs. DePauw on various real estate disputes.”
Moftizadeh’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. “Without admitting acceptance of this…tale, what possible motive would my client have to kill this Salting person? And what evidence do you have that remotely supports such a fanciful—”
“Sal-ton,” said Milo, spelling it. “The motive was similar to Soriano and Santos. Mr. Salton knew too much. But unlike Soriano and Santos, he had the ability to do something about it.”
“How in the world—”
“Hear me out, Counselor. We know for a fact that Zelda Chase entered Mr. Loach’s office and made statements about Mr. Loach killing her mother years ago.”
Nguyen said, “Which was taken for psychotic ranting but was obviously true.”
“That,” said Moftizadeh, “is categorically false. We just—”
“You spun a yarn,” said Nguyen. “We’ve got it on paper.”
“This is absolutely—”
Milo said, “What Zelda Chase told Roderick Salton sparked his curiosity enough for him to look into her claims. We have his fingerprints on documents obtained from Mr. Loach’s files on Mrs. DePauw. Specifically, papers pertaining to Zelda Chase. Being a moral person, Mr. Salton raised the issue with Mr. Loach. Being an immoral person, Mr. Loach suggested they discuss it over lunch and contacted Mrs. DePauw. Who did her Bad Chef bit.”
“The rest,” said Nguyen, “was history for poor Mr. Salton. Nasty death, he suffered. So whatever happens on Chase, Soriano, and Santos, your client’s going down on Salton. With special circumstances.”
“Ridiculous,” said Moftizadeh, regarding his mute, hunched client with horror. “Tell them, so, Yarm. This is a yarn, never happened.”
J. Yarmuth Loach sat up slowly. Looked at each of us. Belched again.
Then he vomited all over the table.
CHAPTER
43
Enid DePauw and J. Yarmuth Loach remained in jail. He began refusing food and had to be intubated in the medical ward. Flip Moftizadeh persisted in filing requests for bail based on a variety of theories. All were refused.
Prisoner DePauw, the once-popular, self-described “mentor of disadvantaged girls,” saw her social status slip when it was learned that two of her victims were Latina and that one, Imelda Soriano, had been distantly related to a neighbor of a member of the Chicas Locas gang. On the thirteenth day of her incarceration, she was ambushed and beaten and ended up in the infirmary. Once treated, she was sent to a one-prisoner isolation cell and compelled to wear orange scrubs.
Going to trial would take a while, but John Nguyen felt serene about his prospects. Milo said, “I’m on an optimism diet but I’ll splurge.”
I added my enthusiasm to the mix but my heart felt as if dry rocks had replaced tissue and blood. The likeliest reality was Ovid Chase had met a terrible end—despite what Chet Brett had told me, one of those living-rough horrors of the street.
Or, even worse, something cold and horrific at the hands of DePauw and Loach.
Either way, long buried where he’d never be found.
I needed to stop imagining.
—
I was working on that with little success when John Nguyen called and asked me to submit to an interview by an L.A. Times reporter. The four murders had captured the public’s attention and the paper wanted a “human interest follow-up.”
I said, “She the one Milo talked to?”
“Myrna Strickland. She talked to both of us.”
“He said she was annoying.”
“She’s a journalist, Alex.”
“What exactly does she want?”
“Your name came up in the court docs and she’s curious about a psychologist’s take, the whole mental health thing, oppression of the helpless. My advice is talk to her, otherwise she’ll find someone else who tells her what she wants to hear. She asked for your private number, I said I’d talk to you first. Can I give it to her?”
“Okay. What shouldn’t I tell her, John?”
“Anything beyond the basics of the case.”
“Meaning?”
“Try not to get too emo, if you know what I mean. Newspaper hacks are zombie aliens who steal our thoughts and mutate them into something they can digest.”
—
Myrna Strickland called me that day and said, “A phoner will be fine, Doctor.”
She was clear about her goal: I was to expound on “entitled white perpetrators versus low-income victims of color and those from the disabled community.”
I said, “What about Rod Salton?”
A beat. “The Mormon? Well, he’s a minority, too. At least, if you’re not in Utah. But I’m going to concentrate on the others.”
I stuck to the basics and she grew bored.
“That’s all, Doctor. Thanks.”
“There’s another victim no one’s talking about.”
“Like who?”
“The most vulnerable victim of all. A child.”
“There’s no child mentioned in anything I got from the D.A.”
“Zelda Chase had a son who’d be eleven if he was alive.”
A beat. “You’re saying he’s not?”
“He hasn’t been seen for several years. He’d also be an heir to the DePauw estate. So there’d be a motive to kill him.”
“Wow,” she said. “I’m putting my tape recorder back on.”
When I finished, she said, “Prince and Pauper, totally consistent with my theme.”
—
The story ran two days later, with “the tragedy and mystery of a throwaway child repeatedly victimized by the system” its primary focus.
The following afternoon, my service phoned with a message to call a Maureen Bolt.
Unfamiliar name, no reason stated, a 310 number. I’d just finished a session with one of the kids in the latest custody dispute, was collecting my thoughts and trying to figure out what to write down and what to leave out. Another couple of hours was spent on my report. It was early evening before I returned the call.
A melodious female voice said, “Hello.”
“This is Dr. Delaware returning Ms. Bolt’s call.”
“Hello, Alex. If I might. You don’t know me but I know about you. You worked with my husband, Lou Sherman.”
“I actually tried to reach you. The med school had you listed as Maureen Sherman.”
“I was working as a clinical social worker under my maiden name when I met Lou, by the time I retired, changing it didn’t make sense. Now here I am, contacting you. I suspect for the same reason you looked for me. Can we meet? I’m pretty much open time-wise and I’m not far from you, Studio City, just over the hill, half a mile east of Beverly Glen.”
“That is close.”
“Lou told me about your house in the Glen, said you’d described a great view. He always wanted a place with a view. We never got around to that. Would you be able to come over tomorrow?”
“I could drop by tonight.”
“No,” she said, “tomorrow would be better. Say four p.m.?”
“I’ll be there.”
“I figured you would,” she said. “Lou said you were one of the most thorough people he’d ever met.”
CHAPTER
44
Ten-minute drive, a side street I’d passed thousands of times.
Miss one shred of information and you might as well be on another planet.
The neighborhood began with unobtrusive houses on pleasant, gently winding streets. The address Maureen Bolt had provided took me another mile east, into a section of older, larger structures.
My destination was a two-story whiteboard colonial with a brick motor court and green-shuttered windows. A silver Porsche 911 and a copper-colored Volvo station wagon shared the court. Behind the house rose a fifty-foot crown of Aleppo pines, evoking Enid DePauw’s forest-shrouded poison patch.
It didn’t take much to make me think of that.
The woman who stood in the doorway wore a white silk tunic patterned with pink flowers, black leggings, and silver sandals. Sixtyish, amply hipped, she had a pink-cheeked pixie face capped by steel-gray hair. Average height; in heels she’d have towered over Lou.
She had a hand out well before I got out of the Seville. Soft skin, just enough firmness to her grip.
“Thanks for coming, Alex. Nice to have a face to go with the name.”
She ushered me into a two-story foyer topped by a bronze chandelier. Down three steps was a living room set up with overstuffed furniture and cane-backed chairs, everything directed toward a fireplace with a book-topped mantel. Art consisted of a few rainy Paris street scenes, the kind of stuff relegated to the final lots of obscure auctions. Crimson-and-olive-striped drapes were drawn across the rear wall, blocking the only windows and dimming the entire house.
Funereal; that seemed an odd choice for a cheerful woman and I wondered about it as Maureen Bolt guided me up a short hallway. A couple more paintings—flowers in vases. I found myself surprised by the capital-T traditional décor.
What had I expected? Acoma pottery and a Hanukkah lamp?
She stopped at the first open door. “Here we are.”
Stepping aside, she waved me into a birch-paneled study lined with books. Another fireplace, the surround green marble, hosted a collection of Japanese vases. A writing desk sat atop a worn Persian rug, its weathered leather surface hosting a blotter and a pipe rack. Shutters were drawn. Soft light came from two floor lamps. A tufted red leather chesterfield faced a brown leather couch not unlike mine. Lou had seen patients here.
A man sat in the center of the couch and for one absurd moment I wondered if I’d been beckoned to treat someone.
He stood, looked straight at me, and tried to smile.
Maureen Bolt said, “Alex, this is Derek Sherman, Lou’s nephew. Derek, Dr. Delaware. I’ll leave you to it.”
Once she’d left and closed the door, the office felt smaller.
Derek Sherman said, “Nice to meet you, Doctor.” Brief handshake; his palm was damp.
I said, “Same here,” and studied him. His appearance had already triggered a storm of possibilities.
Forty or so, small and spare like Lou, with an unlined bronze face under dense, black, side-parted hair. Round-lens pewter eyeglasses framed wide black eyes. A stubble goatee, compulsively shaped and flecked with gray, emphasized a firm chin. His cheekbones were set high and cleanly defined. He wore a black polo shirt, tapered seersucker pants, brown deck shoes with fresh white soles. The gold watch on his right wrist looked expensive. So did the diamond wedding band on his left hand.
A well-put-together man, the kind who’d look neat and composed without much effort. Today, beads of sweat had collected alongside his nose and his lips ticced.
He said, “I guess you should take the chair. That’s where Uncle sat.”
I said, “When he saw patients.”
“That and just being Uncle. When I was younger and came here for family things, he’d joke about it. ‘Got a problem, kid? Take a load off and get some free therapy.’ He had a great sense of humor.”
“He did.”
Derek Sherman winced. “He’s my only uncle. Was. My dad was his younger brother. Not a doctor, a truck driver. He’s gone, too. So is my mom.”
His shoulders dropped, as if recalled loss suddenly weighed on him. He sat back down, in the precise spot he’d occupied when I arrived. I took the tufted chair.
“I’m sure it was a surprise, Auntie Mo calling you. That article in the paper made me realize I needed to do something.”
He exhaled. “I’m Ovid’s dad. He’s fine. I wanted you to know.”
I was seated but felt as if I were falling. Taking time to order my thoughts, failing and talking through the buzz, I said, “That’s great to hear. Thank you.”
“He seems to be doing okay. With his mother’s death, I mean. Maybe I’m missing something. Maybe you can tell me what I should look for. I knew about you, should’ve contacted you sooner, but there didn’t seem to be a reason…it’s complicated.”
Pressing his palms together, he sat up straighter. “Uncle was a dedicated psychiatrist but now you understand that his interest in Zelda and Ovid went beyond that. That’s the reason he consulted you all those years ago—I guess I should backtrack. If you want to know the whole story.”
“I do if you’re comfortable talking about it.”
“Normally,” said Derek Sherman, “I wouldn’t be, I’m a private person but Uncle made me comfortable talking about it. Insisted I deal with it properly. And he was right. So sure, I’ll tell you. This must’ve been rough for you. I’m sorry. You deserve to understand.”
He got up, walked to the desk, removed a briar from the pipe rack, sat back down and began rubbing the burnished wooden bowl.
“I used to come in here and he’d let me do this, I loved the feel of these things. The smell of the place, back when Uncle smoked. One time, I was probably eight, everyone was out back and I snuck in and loaded up with tobacco and tried to light up. When Uncle found me I was sick to my stomach from sucking in fumes…all right, the short version: I’m Ovid’s dad but Zelda and I never had a relationship.”
He looked away, passed the pipe from hand to hand, began waving it in tiny concentric circles. “There’s no way to make it sound better than it was. It was a one-night stand.”
His eyes swung back to me.
I said, “It happens.”
“I appreciate you being a professional. Like Uncle, trained to suspend judgment.”
He inhaled slowly, let his breath out quickly. “I’m an architect, used to work at a firm in the Bay Area, got assigned to a project down here. Tasting room in Malibu for a big Napa winery. I was commuting back and forth but when it got too late, I’d stay at a single in Santa Monica my bosses rented for me. Not near the beach, the basics, pretty depressing. I was lonely, unattached, had never been much of a bar person but I began trying various lounges. Fantasizing about meeting women, even just for company. I wasn’t too successful, socializing isn’t my strong point. The night I met Zelda I was pretty low. Overworked, dealing with egos and an unrealistic budget. I decided to kick it up and went to the lounge at the Loews Hotel, which was close to my apartment but a little intimidating, size-wise and cost-wise. Zelda was at the next table, also alone. I know it sounds trite but our eyes met and there was some kind of chemistry. She was gorgeous, way above my pay grade, but something about her smile relaxed me. A gentleness. And she wasn’t dressed like a party girl. Simple blouse and skirt, I figured her for an office worker. Anyway, our eyes kept meeting and finally I built up the courage to ask her to join me and she did. She was easy to talk to—actually, that’s not accurate. She didn’t talk much and didn’t make me feel I had to, which was even better. Sweet and quiet, a little spacey—I’d say something and she didn’t seem to hear. But the main thing was no attitude. I tended to get intimidated back then. My dad wasn’t like Uncle Lou. He was a rough character.”
