Blood Test

The former Mrs. Richard Moody looked up at him, bewildered, cheeks feverishly rosy, bobbing her head in assent. She’d stuffed her milkmaid’s body into a light blue summer dress as frothy as high tide. The dress was ten years too young for her and I wondered if she’d confused new-found freedom with innocence.

Mal was decked out in classic Beverly Hills attorney mufti: Italian suit, silk shirt and tie, calfskin loafers with tassles. His hair was styled fashionably long and curly, his beard cut close to the skin. He had glossy nails and perfect teeth and a Malibu tan. When he saw me he winked and waved and gave Darlene one last pat. Then he held her hand in both of his and saw her to the door.

“Thanks for your help, Alex,” he said when he came back. Piles of papers remained on the table and he busied himself with packing them.

“It wasn’t fun,” I said.

“No. The ugly ones aren’t.” He meant it but there was a lilt in his voice.

“But you won.”

He stopped shuffling papers for a moment. “Yeah. Well, you know, that’s the business I’m in. Jousting.” He flipped his wrist and looked at a wafer-thin disc of gold. “I won’t say it pains me to dispose of a turkey like Mr. M.”

“You think he’ll take it? Just like that?”

He shrugged.

“Who knows? If he doesn’t we’ll just keep bringing in the heavy artillery.”

At two hundred dollars an hour. He lashed the suitcases to the rack.

“Hey listen, Alex, this wasn’t a stinker. For those I don’t call you — I’ve got hired guns up the wazoo. This was righteous, no?”

“We were on the right side.”

“Precissimoso. And I thank you again. Regards to the lady judge.”

“What do you think she wants?” I asked.

He grinned and slapped me on the back.

“Maybe she likes your style. Not a bad looking gal, heh? She’s single, you know?”

“Spinster?”

“Hell, no. Divorced. I handled her case.”

Her chambers were done in mahogany and rose, and permeated with the scent of flowers. She sat behind a glass-topped, carved wood desk upon which stood a cut-crystal vase filled with stalks of gladiolus. On the wall behind the desk were several photographs of two hulking blond teenage boys — in football jerseys, wetsuits, and evening wear.

“My gruesome twosome,” she said, following my eyes. “One’s at Stanford, the other’s selling firewood up at Arrowhead. No telling, eh, Doctor?”

“No telling.”

“Please have a seat.” She motioned me to a velvet sofa. When I’d settled she said, “Sorry if I was a little rough on you in there.”

“No problem.”

“I wanted to know if the fact that Mr. Moody wears women’s underwear was relevant to his mental status, and you refused to be pinned down.”

“I didn’t think his choice of lingerie had much to do with custody.”

She laughed. “I get two types of psych experts. The puffed-up, self-proclaimed authorities, so taken with themselves they think their opinions on any topic are sacrosanct, and the cautious ones, like you, who won’t give an opinion unless it’s backed up by a double-blind, controlled study.”

I shrugged. “At least you won’t get a Twinkie Defense out of me.”

“Touché. How about some wine?” She unlatched the doors of a credenza carved to match the desk and took out a bottle and two long-stemmed glasses.

“My pleasure, Your Honor.”

“In here, Diane. Is it Alexander?”

“Alex is fine.”

She poured red wine into the glasses. “This is a very fine cabernet that I save for the termination of particularly obnoxious cases. Positive reinforcement, if you will.”

I took the glass she offered.

“To justice,” she said, and we sipped. It was good wine and I told her so. It seemed to please her.

We drank in silence. She finished before I did and set down her glass.

“I want to talk to you about the Moodys. They’re off my docket but I can’t help thinking about the kids. I read your report and you have good insights on the family.”

“It took a while but they opened up.”

“Alex, are those children going to be all right?”

“I’ve asked myself the same thing. I wish I could tell you yes. It depends on whether or not the parents get their act together.”

She clicked her nails against the rim of the wineglass.

“Do you think he’ll kill her?”

The question startled me.

“Don’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind — the warning to the bailiff and all that.”

“That was meant to prevent an ugly scene,” I said, “but yes, I do think he could do it. The man’s unstable and profoundly depressed. When he gets low, he gets nasty and he’s never been lower than right now.”

“And he wears ladies’ panties.”

I laughed. “That too.”

“Refill?”

“Sure.”

She put the bottle aside and laced her fingers around the stem of her wineglass, an angular, attractive older woman, not afraid to let a few wrinkles show.

“A real loser, our Mr. Richard Moody. And maybe a killer.”

“If he gets in a killing mood, she’d be the obvious target. And the boyfriend — Conley.”

“Well,” she said, running the tip of her tongue over her lips, “one must be philosophical about such things. If he kills her it’s because she fucked the wrong guy. Just as long as he doesn’t kill someone innocent, like you or me.”