"At the hospital itself, maybe four months. He'd been working for Jim in Pathology for two months, I think."
"And what did he actually do?"
"Cleaned equipment, ran errands, answered the phone. It was all routine. They'd taught him to do a few lab tests and sometimes he monitored machinery, but I can't imagine his job entailed anything that would endanger his life."
"He had his degree from UCST by then, I gather," I said, repeating what Bobby'd told me.
"That's right. He was working temporarily, hoping to get accepted to med school. His first applications had been turned down."
"How come?"
"Oh, he got cocky and only applied to about five schools. He'd always been an excellent student and he'd never failed at anything in his life. He miscalculated. Med schools are ferociously competitive and he simply didn't get accepted to the ones he tried for. It set him back on his heels for a time, but he'd rallied, I think. I know he felt the job with Dr. Fraker was valuable, because it gave him some exposure to disciplines he wouldn't otherwise have known about until much later in the game."
"What else was going on in his life at that point?"
"Not a lot. He went to work. He dated. He did some weight lifting, surfed now and then. He went to movies, went out to dinner with us. It all seemed very ordinary at the time and it seems very ordinary looking back."
There was another avenue I needed to explore and I wondered how she would react. "Were he and Kitty involved with one another sexually?"
"Ah. Well, I can't really answer that. I have no idea.".
"But it's possible."
"I suppose so, though I don't think it's likely. Derek and I have been together since she was thirteen. Bobby was eighteen, nineteen, something like that. Out of the house at any rate. I do think Kitty was smitten with him. I don't know how he felt about her, but I can't believe a thirteen-year-old would interest him in the least."
"She's grown up pretty fast from what I've seen."
She crossed her legs restlessly, wrapping one around the other. "I don't understand why you're pursuing this point."
"I need to know what was going on. He was anxious about her tonight and more than relieved when he found out she was all right. I wondered how deep the connections ran."
"Oh. I see. A lot of his emotionalism is the aftermath of the accident. From what I'm told, it's not uncommon for people who've suffered head injury. He's moody now. Impatient. And he overreacts. He weeps easily and he gets very frustrated with himself."
"Is part of that the memory loss?"
"Yes," she said. "What makes it hard is he can never predict where the losses will occur. Sometimes he can remember the most inconsequential things, then he'll tnrn around and forget his own birthdate. Or he'll blank out on someone altogether, maybe someone he's known all his life. That's one of the reasons he's seeing Leo Kleinert. To help him cope with the personality changes."
"He told me Kitty was seeing Dr. Kleinert, too. Was that for the anorexia?"
"Kitty's been impossible from the first."
"Well, I gathered that much. What was it about?"
"Ask Derek. I'm the wrong person to consult about her. I did try, but I don't give a damn anymore. Even this business tonight. I know it sounds cruel, but I can't take it seriously. She does it to herself. It's her life. Let her do anything she wants as long as it doesn't affect the rest of us. She can drop dead for all I care."
"It looks like her behavior affects you whether you like it or not," I ventured carefully. This was clearly touchy stuff and I didn't want to antagonize her.
"I'm afraid that's true, but I've had it. Something's got to change. I'm tired of playing games and I'm sick of watching her manipulate Derek."
I shifted the subject slightly, probing a question I'd been curious about. "You think the drugs were actually hers?"
"Of course. She's been stoned since she walked in my front door. It's been such a bone of contention between Derek and me I can hardly speak of it. She's ruining our relationship." She closed her mouth and composed herself, then said, "What makes you put it that way?"
"About the drugs? It seems odd to me, that's all," I said. "I can't believe she'd leave them in her bed-table drawer in a Ziploc bag for starters and I can't believe she'd have pills in that quantity. Do you know what that stuff is worth?"
"She has an allowance of two hundred dollars a month," Glen said crisply. "I've argued and cajoled until I'm blue in the face, but what's the point? Derek insists. The money comes out of his own account."
"Even so, it's pretty high-level stuff. She'd have to have an incredible connection somewhere."
"I'm sure Kitty has her little ways."
I let the subject pass and made a mental note for myself I'd recently made the acquaintance of one of Santa Teresa High School's more enterprising drug dealers and he might be able to identify her source. He might even be her source, for all I knew. He'd promised me he'd shut down his operation, but that was like a wino promising to buy a sandwich with the dollar you'd donated in good faith. Who were we trying to kid here?
"Maybe we should let it go for now," I said. "I'm sure this day has seemed long enough. I'd like to have the name and telephone number of Bobby's old girl friend if you have it, and I'll probably want to talk to Rick's parents, too. Can you tell me how to get in touch with them?"
"I'll give you both numbers," she said. She got up and crossed to a little antique rosewood desk with pigeonholes and tiny drawers along the top. She opened one of the large drawers below and took out a monogrammed leather address book.
"Beautiful desk," I murmured. This was like telling the Queen of England she has nice jewels.
"Thank you," Glen said idly, while she leafed through the address book. "I bought it at an auction in London last year. I'd hesitate to tell you how much I paid for it."
"Oh, give it a whirl," I said, fascinated. I was getting giddy hanging out with these people,
"Twenty-six thousand dollars," she murmured, running a finger down the page.
I could feel myself shrug philosophically. Hey, big deal. Twenty-six grand was as nothing to her. I wondered what she paid for underwear. I wondered what she paid for cars.
"Here it is." She scribbled the information on a scratch pad and tore off a leaf, which she passed to me.
"You'll find Rick's parents rather difficult, I suspect," she said.
"How so?"
"Because they blame Bobby for his death."
"How does he handle that?"
"Not well. Sometimes I think he believes it himself, which is all the more reason to get to the bottom of this."
"Can I ask you one more thing?"
"Of course."
"Is it 'Glen' as in 'West Glen'?"
"The other way around," she said. "I wasn't named for the road. The road was named for me."
By the time I got back in my car, I had a lot of information to digest. It was 9:30, fully dark, and too chilly for a black gauze tunic that ended six inches above my knees. I took a few minutes to wiggle out of my pantyhose and hunch into my long pants. I dropped the high heels into the backseat and pulled on my sandals again, then started the car and put it in reverse. I backed around in a semicircle, looking for a way out. I spotted the second arm of the drive and followed it, catching a glimpse of the rear of the house. There were four illuminated terraces, each with a reflecting "pool, shimmering black by night, probably giving back sequential images of the mountains by day, like a series of overlapping photographs.
I reached West Glen and turned left, heading toward town. There'd been no indication that Derek had gotten home and I thought I'd try to catch him at St. Terry's before he left. Idly, I wondered what it'd be like to have a city street named after me. Kinsey Avenue. Kinsey Road. Not bad. I figured I could learn to live with the tribute if it came my way.
Chapter 6
Santa Teresa Hospital, by night, looks like an enormous art deco wedding cake, iced with exterior lights: three tiers of creamy white, with a square piece missing in front where the entranceway has been cut out. Visiting hours must have been over because I found a parking space right across the street. I locked my car, crossed, and headed up the circular driveway. There was a large portico and covered walk leading up to double doors that shushed open as I approached. Inside, the lobby lights had been dimmed like the interior of an airplane on a night flight. To my left was the deserted coffee shop, one waitress still at work, dressed in a white uniform almost like a nurses. To my right was the gift shop with a window display done up with the hospital equivalent of naughty lingerie. The whole place smelled like cold carnations in a florist's refrigerated case.