Blood Test

“Come on,” he took my elbow. “Let’s go upstairs, get something liquid in you and then you can tell me what happened.”

As the crime scene crew busied themselves with the technical minutiae of murder I sat in my old leather sofa and drank Chivas. The shock was beginning to slough off; I realized I was still sick — chilled and weak. The Scotch went down warm and smooth. Across from me sat Milo and Del Hardy. The black detective was dapper, as always, in a shaped dark suit, peach-colored shirt, black tie, and spit-polished demiboots. He put on a pair of reading glasses and took notes.

“On the surface,” said Milo, “it looks like Moody had plans to torch your place and somebody followed him, caught him in the act, and took him out.” He thought for a moment. “There was a triangle, right? How do you like the boyfriend for the shooter role?”

“He didn’t seem the type to stalk a man like that.”

“Full name,” said Hardy, pen poised.

“Carlton Conley. He’s a carpenter for Aurora Studios. He and Moody were friends before it triangulated.”

Hardy scribbled. “Did he move in with the wife?”

“Yes. They’re all supposed to be up near Davis. On the advice of her lawyer.”

“The lawyer’s name?”

“Malcolm J. Worthy. Beverly Hills.”

“Better call him,” said Milo. “If Moody had a list he’d be on it. Find out the number up in Davis and check out if anything went down there — she’s still next of kin, has to be notified anyway. Have the local law go over there and read her face — see if she’s surprised by the news. Call the judge, too. Anyone else you can think of, Alex?”

“There was another psychologist involved in the case. Dr. Lawrence Daschoff. Lives in Brentwood. Office in Santa Monica.” I knew Larry’s office number by heart and gave it to them.

“What about Moody’s own lawyer?” asked Del. “If the joker thought his case had been botched he might lash out, right?”

“True. The guy’s name is Durkin. Emil or Elton or something like that.”

A grimace of recognition crossed the black detective’s face.

“Elridge,” he growled. “Fucker represented my ex-wife. Cleaned me out.”

“Well, then,” laughed Milo, “you can have the pleasure of interviewing him. Or consoling his widow.”

Hardy grumbled, closed his pad, and went into the kitchen and left to make the calls.

A crime scene tech beckoned from the door and Milo patted my shoulder and went out to talk to him. He returned in a few minutes.

“They found tire tracks,” he said. “Fat ones, like on a hot rod. Ring any bells?”

“Moody drove a truck.”

“They already looked at his wheels. No match.”

“Nothing else comes to mind.”

“There were six more gas cans in the truck, which supports the hit list theory. But it also doesn’t make sense. He was going to use three cans here. Let’s assume that he planned this out as some kind of structured revenge ritual, three cans per victim. Given a minimum of five victims — you, the other shrink, both lawyers, and the judge, that adds up to fifteen cans. Six left means nine used. Not counting you, that makes two prior attempts. If he planned on torching the family home, make it twelve and three possible priors. Even if the numbers are wrong it’s unlikely you were singled out for more gas than anyone else. Which means you probably weren’t his first stop. Why would the shooter follow him around town, watch him set two or three fires, risk being seen, and wait until the third to do the job?”

I puzzled over that.

“Only thing I can think of,” I said, “is this is a pretty secluded area. Lots of big trees, easy for a sniper to hide.”

“Maybe,” he said skeptically. “We’ll pursue the tire angle. The Hot Rod Killer. Catchy.”

He chewed on a hangnail, looked at me gravely.

“Got any enemies I don’t know about, pal?”

My stomach lurched. He’d put into words what had been fulminating in my mind. That I was the intended victim...

“Just the Casa de Los Ninos guys, and they’re behind bars. No one on the streets that I know of.”

“Way the system runs you never know whether they’re on the streets or not. We’ll run parole checks on all of them. Which’ll be in my best interests, too.”

He sipped coffee and leaned forward.

“I don’t want to raise your anxiety level, Alex, but there’s something we should deal with. Remember when you called me about the rat and I asked you to describe Moody? You told me you and he were almost exactly the same size and coloring.”

I nodded numbly.

“You’ve been in the house all day, sick in bed. Someone arriving after dark wouldn’t have known that. From a distance, the mistake would be easy to make.”

He waited a moment before continuing.

“It’s not pretty to think about, but we’ve got to consider it,” he said, almost apologetically. “In my gut I don’t think the Casa thing’ll pan out. What about the jokers you’ve run into on the Swope case?”