True Detectives

Moe called Dr. Alex Delaware, co

“Is this an emergency, sir?” said the operator.

“Not a medical emergency, ma'am. I'm an LAPD detective.”

“A new one?”

Moe stiffened. “Pardon?”

“The doctor always gets called by Detective Sturgis. Is it that kind of thing-murder?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Hold on.”

Seconds later, Delaware came on the line. Without getting into details, Moe asked if he and Aaron could come by to discuss a case. Not sure what Delaware's financial arrangement was with the department. Not knowing what he'd say if Delaware brought that up.

“I'm out the door, Moe, court appearance in Beverly Hills. But even if I'm called to testify, I should be free by four, so let's aim for a quarter to five. My place would be best. I need to check in with my dog.”

Driving above the converted bridle path that wound above Beverly Glen, finally sighting the crisp, white contours of Delaware's house high up, nestled among pines and redwoods and sycamores, Aaron thought: This is the endpoint of the dream, beyond cool, look at this, dead-silent when you needed to meditate on something, talk about green-and that sky, you'd never know it's L.A. and only a short drive to Westwood Village, downtown Beverly Hills, the Strip, anywhere you want to go, really. Guy probably sees hawks all the time. Wonder if his drive is a ragtop, have to be, how could you fully enjoy this with metal over your head, and this place, whoa, bigger than it seemed at first glance-full two stories, interesting angles, obviously custom architecture, nice the way they positioned it on the lot, not intrusive, fits great into the landscape, talk about contemporary-cool, the interior's probably just as fresh and clean, maybe bamboo floors, vaulted ceilings, all that nice natural lighting, maybe even a home theater… nope, it's an old Seville. Nice shape, though… maybe there's a convertible in the garage… great landscaping…

One day…

Moe thought: Nice house.

Dr. Alex Delaware thought: Both of them, sitting on my couch, looking uncomfortable.

Like patients.

Like a married couple barely clinging to civility.

He'd worked with the brothers on the marsh murders, had sensed a complicated relationship.

You didn't need to be a psychologist to figure that out.

Alex had been on the stand for nearly an hour in Beverly Hills, avoiding unsubtle pressure from a predatory divorce lawyer to say something stupid for the record. Arriving back home twenty minutes before Reed and Fox showed up, he'd taken Blanche outside for a garden bathroom break, refreshed her water, gave her the attention she craved. Robin was out on a wood-buying trip in Ojai, due back around eight. No time to get out of his court clothes-charcoal pin-striped suit, yellow shirt, maroon tie-but he'd peeled off his jacket, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, fortified himself with black coffee by the time the doorbell rang.

Now the little blond French bulldog sat in his lap and smiled at the detectives, turning on all that feminine charisma.

Aaron Fox smiled back.

Moe Reed, all business, said, “Thanks for meeting with us, Doc.”

“No prob. What's up?”

“It's kind of involved.”

“By the time I hear about it, it usually is.”

Reed did most of the talking and Fox seemed okay with that, though Alex did catch him fighting the urge to interrupt. Each time, the older brother sat back with a resigned look and drummed his fingers on his knees. Birth order was a potent factor.

When the summation ended, Alex said, “I see what you mean. What do you think I can do for you?”

Moe Reed said, “First off, what can you tell us about Mason Book's mental status?”

Delaware shook his head, loosened his tie, rubbed behind the dog's bat-ears. “Diagnosis at a distance is a loser's game, guys. If you're asking could Book be psychotic and not be treated with drugs while hospitalized, it's theoretically possible.”

“But not likely?”

“First-line treatment for schizophrenia is medication. It works well for many patients, but not all. If Book hasn't responded in the past-or if he still has an addiction problem-I can see a careful psychiatrist stepping back and observing. Any idea who his primary doc was?”

Head shakes.

“If you find out, let me know.”

Aaron Fox clicked his BlackBerry.

Reed said, “What does that mean, stepping back? They put him in a hospital bed and just watched him?”

“Admitted for observation,” said Alex. “When in doubt, do no harm.”

“On the VIP ward?”

“Better yet.”

Fox said, “He's definitely still doping, Doc. Like I said, I found weed and Mexican brown at Carrillo.”

“He's doping,” said Alex, “or his pal is.”

“Book and Ax Dement drove out there together, Doc. You think a dope fiend could just sit by and watch his compadre get high?”

“Granted, it's unlikely. So let's stick with the drug thing for a moment. Maybe Book was hospitalized for detox.”

“For just a week?”

“A week would be inadequate, but what if he changed his mind before he cleaned up and walked out? There was no involuntary hold. He wasn't even in the psych ward. Which tells us something.”

Reed said, “He's crazy, he'd have to go in the psych ward?”

Alex thought. “Generally, but celebrity bends rules.”

Reed said, “Everywhere those people sleep becomes a five-star hotel. Book wants to leave Cedars, who's going to argue with him?”

Alex said, “Are you certain he received no medication the entire stay?”

Reed looked at Fox. Fox said, “We're not sure of anything, the information comes from a secondary source.”

“More like tertiary,” said his brother.

Fox didn't argue.

Alex said, “Someone told someone who told someone.” He sat back in his battered leather desk chair. The surface of the desk was clear.

The whole office was pin-neat. Aaron approved. He said, “The source is generally reliable but, sure, we'd prefer photos and a YouTube video.”

We. Making it sound like they were a team, but from their body language Alex wasn't convinced.

He ran his hand through dark curls and looked off to the right, focusing on a George Bellows boxing lithograph good at stimulating his thoughts. His eyes were gray-aqua, clear, piercing, active, almost alarming in their intensity.

The little bulldog yawned, flews fluttering, closed her eyes, went to sleep. “Sorry I can't be specific, guys. Book could be psychotic, phobic, drug-impaired, clinically depressed, choose your diagnosis. Or he was hospitalized for something nonpsychiatric.”

“Something physical?” said Reed. “Then why couch it as a suicide attempt?”

Fox said, “Exactly.”

“Or,” said Alex, “it could be a mixture of the two. If the pictures I've seen are accurate, he's a really ski

The brothers stared at him.

Reed said, “Some kind of eating disorder?”

“In Book's profession, it's an occupational hazard. And not limited to women. But still identified with women. Being tagged anorexic or bulimic could be more damaging to a male actor's career than a suicide attempt. Ignorant folk might consider self-starvation too feminine for a leading man.”

Fox said, “Suicide, on the other hand, can be thought of as chic.”

“Unfortunately, in some circles, there is a certain romanticism attached to it. People love the whole notion of a tortured soul, especially when it comes to the arts. The final act of Romeo and Juliet doesn't feature two kids wasting away or jamming their fingers down their throats.”

Reed said, “Guy gets into some kind of medical situation, checks in for nutrition and fluids, leaves when he's no longer in danger. That would explain no meds.”

“It would, but I'm just guessing,” said Alex. “And I'm not sure Book's mental status is all that relevant to your case.”