It wasn't exactly a hot scoop. In fact I believe we got it over the phone from police communications—no one actually went out to the scene. Is there anything you know that I should?"
"Nothing at all. Who's Maura Bannon?"
"Just a kid—student intern. Friend of Anne-Marie's, in fact. She's doing a semester of work study, little here, little there. She was the one who pushed for the piece—kind of a naive kid, Page 53
thought the shri... psychologist suicide angle was newsworthy. Those of us familiar with the real world were less impressed, but we let her stick it in the computer just to make her happy. Turns out Section One ends up using it as filler—the kid's thrilled. Want me to have her call you?"
"If she has anything to tell me."
"I doubt that she does." Pause. "Doc, the lady in question—did you know her well?"
My lie was reflexive. "Not really. It just came as a shock, seeing the name of someone I knew."
"Must have," said Ned, but his tone had turned wary. "You called Sturgis first, I assume."
"He's out of town."
"Aha. Listen, Doc, I don't want to be insensitive, but if there's something about the lady that would flesh out the story, I'd be open to hearing about it."
"There's nothing, Ned."
"Okay. Sorry for snooping—force of habit."
"That's all right. Talk to you soon, Ned."
At eleven-thirty I took a walk in the dark, trudging up the glen toward Mulholland, listening to crickets and night birds. When I got home an hour later, the phone was ringing.
"Hello."
"Dr. Delaware, this is Yvette at your service. I'm glad I caught you. A call came in for you twenty minutes ago from your wife up in San Luis Obispo. She left a message, wanted to make sure you got it."
Your wife. Slap-on-a-sunbum. They'd been making the same mistake for years. Once upon a time it had been amusing.
"What's the message?"
"She's on the move, will be hard to reach. She'll get in touch with you when she can."
"Did she leave a number?"
"No, she didn't, Dr. Delaware. You sound tired. Been working too hard?"
"Something like that."
"Stay well, Dr. Delaware."
"Same to you."
On the move. Hard to reach. It should have hurt. But I felt relieved, unburdened.
Page 54
Since Saturday I'd barely thought about Robin. Had filled my mind with Sharon.
I felt like an adulterer, ashamed but thrilled.
I crawled into bed and hugged myself to sleep. At two forty-five in the morning I woke up, wired and itchy. After throwing on some clothes I staggered down to the carport and started up the Seville. I drove south to Sunset, headed east through Beverly Hills and Boystown, toward the western tip of Hollywood and Nichols Canyon.
At that hour, even the Strip was dead. I kept the windows open, let the sharp chill gnaw at my face. At Fairfax, I turned left, traveled north, and swung onto Hollywood Boulevard.
Mention the boulevard to most people, and, inevitably, one of two images comes to mind: the good old days of Grauman's Chinese, the Walk of the Stars, black-tie premieres, a neon-flooded night scene. Or the street as it is today—slimy and vicious, promising random violence.
But west of that scene, just past La Brea, Hollywood Boulevard shows another face: a single mile of tree-lined residential neighborhood—decently maintained apartment buildings, old, stately churches, and only slightly tarnished two-story homes perched atop well-tended sloping lawns.
Looking down on this smudge of suburbia is a section of the Santa Monica mountain range that meanders through L.A. like a crooked spine. In this part of Hollywood the mountains seem to surge forward threateningly, pushing against the fragile dermis of civilization.
Nichols Canyon begins a couple of blocks east of Fairfax, a lane and a half of winding blacktop feeding off the north side of the boulevard and running parallel to a summer-dry wash. Small, rustic houses sit behind the wash, concealed by tangles of brush, accessible only over homemade footbridges. I passed a Department of
"Nothing at all. Who's Maura Bannon?"
"Just a kid—student intern. Friend of Anne-Marie's, in fact. She's doing a semester of work study, little here, little there. She was the one who pushed for the piece—kind of a naive kid, Page 53
thought the shri... psychologist suicide angle was newsworthy. Those of us familiar with the real world were less impressed, but we let her stick it in the computer just to make her happy. Turns out Section One ends up using it as filler—the kid's thrilled. Want me to have her call you?"
"If she has anything to tell me."
"I doubt that she does." Pause. "Doc, the lady in question—did you know her well?"
My lie was reflexive. "Not really. It just came as a shock, seeing the name of someone I knew."
"Must have," said Ned, but his tone had turned wary. "You called Sturgis first, I assume."
"He's out of town."
"Aha. Listen, Doc, I don't want to be insensitive, but if there's something about the lady that would flesh out the story, I'd be open to hearing about it."
"There's nothing, Ned."
"Okay. Sorry for snooping—force of habit."
"That's all right. Talk to you soon, Ned."
At eleven-thirty I took a walk in the dark, trudging up the glen toward Mulholland, listening to crickets and night birds. When I got home an hour later, the phone was ringing.
"Hello."
"Dr. Delaware, this is Yvette at your service. I'm glad I caught you. A call came in for you twenty minutes ago from your wife up in San Luis Obispo. She left a message, wanted to make sure you got it."
Your wife. Slap-on-a-sunbum. They'd been making the same mistake for years. Once upon a time it had been amusing.
"What's the message?"
"She's on the move, will be hard to reach. She'll get in touch with you when she can."
"Did she leave a number?"
"No, she didn't, Dr. Delaware. You sound tired. Been working too hard?"
"Something like that."
"Stay well, Dr. Delaware."
"Same to you."
On the move. Hard to reach. It should have hurt. But I felt relieved, unburdened.
Page 54
Since Saturday I'd barely thought about Robin. Had filled my mind with Sharon.
I felt like an adulterer, ashamed but thrilled.
I crawled into bed and hugged myself to sleep. At two forty-five in the morning I woke up, wired and itchy. After throwing on some clothes I staggered down to the carport and started up the Seville. I drove south to Sunset, headed east through Beverly Hills and Boystown, toward the western tip of Hollywood and Nichols Canyon.
At that hour, even the Strip was dead. I kept the windows open, let the sharp chill gnaw at my face. At Fairfax, I turned left, traveled north, and swung onto Hollywood Boulevard.
Mention the boulevard to most people, and, inevitably, one of two images comes to mind: the good old days of Grauman's Chinese, the Walk of the Stars, black-tie premieres, a neon-flooded night scene. Or the street as it is today—slimy and vicious, promising random violence.
But west of that scene, just past La Brea, Hollywood Boulevard shows another face: a single mile of tree-lined residential neighborhood—decently maintained apartment buildings, old, stately churches, and only slightly tarnished two-story homes perched atop well-tended sloping lawns.
Looking down on this smudge of suburbia is a section of the Santa Monica mountain range that meanders through L.A. like a crooked spine. In this part of Hollywood the mountains seem to surge forward threateningly, pushing against the fragile dermis of civilization.
Nichols Canyon begins a couple of blocks east of Fairfax, a lane and a half of winding blacktop feeding off the north side of the boulevard and running parallel to a summer-dry wash. Small, rustic houses sit behind the wash, concealed by tangles of brush, accessible only over homemade footbridges. I passed a Department of
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