Dr. Death

Triangles sliced into her abdomen, three of them. Her head drooped to her chest, so that I couldn't see her face. A black gaping necklace was visible along her jawline. A helmet of white hair, sparkling where it wasn't fly-crowded, said she'd once been Alice Zoghbie.

The man's khaki shorts had been removed and folded next to his left thigh. His blue polo shirt remained on but had been rolled up to his nipples. Big man, heavy, flabby. Stiff, reddish toupee-a hairpiece I'd seen on TV.

Triangles danced along the swell of Roy Haiselden's abdomen, too, distorted by his paunch. His head lolled to the right. Toward Alice Zoghbie, as if straining to listen to some secret she was imparting.

Not much remained of his face. His genitals had been removed and placed on the grass between his legs. They'd shriveled and shrunk and bugs congregated there with special enthusiasm.

The fingers of his left hand were entwined with Alice Zoghbie's.

The two of them, holding hands.

I'd broken into frosty sweat, wasn't breathing, but my brain was racing. My eyes shifted from the bodies to something else, off to the left, a few feet away. A wicker picnic basket. Propped against it, a tall green bottle, foil-topped. Champagne. Atop the basket, a pair of tiny, gold-lidded jars.

Too far for me to read the labels and I knew better than to disturb the crime scene.

Red jar, black jar. Caviar?

Champagne and caviar, an upscale picnic. Bare feet and her housedress said Alice and the man had no intention of going anywhere.

Posed.

The irony.

A bluebottle fly alighted on Alice Zoghbie's left breast, scuttled, paused, explored some more before taking off in flight-heading toward me.

I backed away. Retreated through the gate, knowing my prints were on the handle, it wouldn't be long before someone would want to talk to me. Leaving it open, I retraced my steps down the driveway, past the Audi, to the curb.

The old man had gone inside. The street had reverted to torpor. So many perfect lawns. Sparrows skittered. How long before the vultures arrived?

Inside the Seville, I breathed.

Last guy in L.A. without a damn cell phone.

I got out of there, drove to a gas station on Verdugo Road, sweat-drenched, collar tight. I parked near the pay phone, composed myself, got out. Other people pumped gas as I tried to look any way other than how I felt.

The killings were in Glendale PD jurisdiction, but to hell with that, I called Milo.

CHAPTER 32

"ANY IDEA WHEN he'll be back?"

"I think he went downtown to do some paperwork," said the clerk, a woman, one I didn't know. "I can transfer you to Detective Korn. He works with Detective Sturgis. Your name, sir?"

"No thanks," I said.

"You're sure?"

She sounded nice so I gave her the ugly details and hung up before she could respond.

I drove back to L.A., hoping for an empty house. Wanting time to breathe, to sort things out.

Repulsed, still shaken. Sweat came gushing out of my pores as the image of the bodies kept smacking me across the brain.

Milo and I had visited Alice Zoghbie five days ago.

No skin sloughing, no maggots, the begi

Propped, holding hands, a picnic.

Someone ca

Someone they knew. A confederate. Had to be.

The feelings of disgust didn't subside, but a new sensation joined them-strange, juvenile glee.

Not Eric, not Richard. No motive and both their whereabouts were well accounted for during the past two or three days. Same for Do

Propped against a tree. Geometry. Michael Burke's trademarks. Time to give Leimert Fusco's big black book another review.

Time to call Fusco-but Milo deserved to know first.

I was on the 134, driving much too fast, hoping for an empty house, thinking about Haiselden hiding from the civil suit only to encounter something much worse.

He'd probably been hiding out with Alice all along-I recalled the phone call she'd taken when Milo and I had visited. Afterward, she couldn't wait to get rid of us. Probably from her pal, wanting to know if the coast was clear.

The two of them waylaid right there in Alice's house. Someone they knew… someone respectable, trusted. A bright young doctor who'd apprenticed to Mate.

No doubt Glendale police had already been dispatched to the scene. Soon my prints on the gate would be lifted and within days they'd be matched to the Medical Board files in Sacramento.

Milo needed to know soon.

If I couldn't reach him, should I go straight to Fusco? The FBI man had said he was flying up to Seattle. Wanting to check on the unsolveds-something specific about the Seattle unsolveds?

The last Seattle victim-Marissa Bonpaine. Plastic hypodermic found on the forest floor. Cataloged and forgotten.

Not a coincidence. Couldn't be a coincidence.

Fusco had left me his beeper number and his local exchange, but both were back home in the Burke file. I pushed the Seville up to ninety.

I unlocked my front door. Robin's truck was gone- prayers answered. I raced to my office, feeling guilty about being quite so pleased.

I tried Milo again, got no answer, decided sooner was better than later and phoned Fusco's beeper and routing number. No callback from him, either. I was starting to feel like the last man on Earth. After another futile attempt to reach Milo, I punched in FBI headquarters at the Federal Building in Westwood and asked for Special Agent Fusco. The receptionist put me on hold, then transferred me to another woman with the throaty voice of a lounge singer who took my name and number.

"May I tell him what this is about, sir?"

"He'll know."

"He's out of the office. I'll give him the message."

I pulled out the big black accordion file, flung it open, stared at pictures of corpses against trees, geometrical wounds, the parallels inescapable.

All my theories about family breakdown, the Dosses, the Manitows, and it had come down to just another psychopath. I paged through police reports, found the Seattle cases, the data on Marissa Bonpaine, was halfway through the small print when the doorbell rang.

Leaving the file on the desk, I trotted to the front door. The peephole offered a fish-eye view of two people-a man and a woman, white, early thirties, expressionless.

Clean-cut duo. Missionaries? I could use some faith but was in no mood to be preached to.

"Yes?" I said, through the door.

I watched the woman's mouth move. "Dr. Delaware? FBI. May we please speak with you."

Throaty voice of a lounge singer.

Before I could answer, a badge filled the peephole. I opened the door.

The woman's lips were turned upward, but the smile appeared painful. Her badge was still out. "Special Agent Mary Donovan. This is Special Agent Mark Bratz. May we please come in, Dr. Delaware?"

Donovan was five-six or so with short light-brown hair, a strong jaw and a firm, busty, low-waisted body packed into a charcoal gray suit. Rosy complexion, an aura of confidence. Bratz was a half head taller with dark hair starting to thin, sleepy eyes and a round, vulnerable face. The skin around his jowls was raw, and a small Band-Aid was stuck under one ear. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, gray-and-navy tie.

I stepped back to let them enter. They stood in the entry hall, checking out the house, until I invited them to sit.

"Thanks for your time, Doctor," said Donovan, still smiling as she took the most comfortable chair. She carried a huge black cloth purse, which she placed on the floor.