CHAPTER 28

Erica Weiss phoned back while I was in the shower. I dried off and reached her at her office.

“What an experience, Doctor. You okay?” Like many referrals, she was just a phone voice to me. Fast-talking, high-energy, peppy as a cheerleader.

“I’m fine. Any word on Hauser?”

“Haven’t checked yet. What exactly transpired?”

When I finished the re-tell, she was peppier. “His malpractice carrier will be thrilled to learn the ante just got upped. Idiot just cooked his goose well-done. When can I depose you?”

“Everything’s in the police report,” I said.

“Even so. When’s convenient for you?”

Never. “How about tomorrow?”

“I was thinking more like today.”

“It’s short notice.”

“Those poor women could use their settlements, Doctor.”

“Try me late in the afternoon.”

“You’re a doll,” she said. “I’ll come to you with the court reporter. Just name the place.”

“Let’s talk later.”

“Commitment-shy? Sure, whatever works, but please make it sooner rather than later.”

* * *

Billy Dowd’s address was on the south side of Beverly Hills, a short walk to Roxbury Park. Last year, I’d witnessed a shoot-out at the park that had never made the papers. This was Beverly Hills, with its aura of safety and ninety-second police response.

Lots of Spanish-style duplexes from the twenties on the block. Billy’s was pink with leaded windows, a red-clay roof, and exuberant plaster moldings. An unfenced gateway led to a tile-inlaid stairway that climbed to the second floor. The overhang created a shaded entry nook for the ground-floor unit.

The wrought-iron mailbox inside the left-hand gatepost was unmarked. I climbed to the upstairs unit and knocked on a heavy carved door. The peep-window was blocked by a wooden slat but it stayed closed as the door opened.

A brunette in a white nylon uniform dress looked at me while combing her hair. Coarse hair chopped boyish meant short brisk strokes. She was fortyish with a dangerous tan, a beakish nose, and close-set black eyes. Santa Monica Hospital name tag above her left breast: A. Holzer, R.N.

A strange man showing up unannounced didn’t perturb her.

“Can I help you?” Some kind of Teutonic accent.

“Billy Dowd lives downstairs?”

“Yes, but he’s not here.”

I showed her my police consultant I.D. Expired six months ago. Very few people are detail-oriented. A. Holzer barely glanced at it. “Police? About Billy?”

“One of Billy and his brother’s employees was involved in some trouble.”

“Oh— you wish to speak to Billy about that?”

“Actually, I’m here to see you.”

“Me? Why?”

“You look after Billy?”

“Look after?” She laughed. “He’s a grown man.”

“Physically he is,” I said.

The hand around the hairbrush turned glossy. “I don’t understand why you are asking these questions. Billy is all right?”

“He’s fine. These are routine questions. Sounds as if you like him.”