The booking ran from Wednesday, September 6, through Saturday, September 9, for a total of three nights. The guest had been given room four fifteen — nonsmoking, junior suite, king bed, single occupancy — at the conference rate.
I wrote down the name. While that probably would have sufficed for me to track him down, conveniently enough, the registry entry listed a cellphone number, so I wrote that down, too. The number had a 310 area code: Los Angeles.
Rennert with a jones for a fellow shrink.
To learn why, I’d have to call up this Alex Delaware dude.
Chapter 12
Dr. Alex Delaware didn’t have a personal website, but he’d merited joint full clinical professorships at USC’s Department of Psychology and med school. I found his faculty page. He specialized in children: anxiety, pain control, trauma, custody; he’d published extensively on the effects of chronic and terminal disease. He belonged to a handful of professional societies, consulted to Western Pediatric Medical Center, had won a graduate teaching award.
More interesting, he served as a police consultant.
At the CPA annual meeting, he’d delivered a lecture titled “Pediatric Forensic Evaluation: Separating Fact from Fiction.”
I called his office, expecting a receptionist or voicemail.
He picked up with a simple “Hello.”
I introduced myself.
“Alameda,” he said. Mellow voice, young-sounding for a guy with all that paper.
“I have some questions for you about Walter Rennert.”
Hoping for a reaction, getting none, I went on: “I understand you had a run-in with him recently.”
He said, “Would you mind giving me your badge number, please?”
I didn’t have a whole lot of standing. I complied.
“I’m going to have a friend of mine call your office.” His voice had taken on some steel. Still mellow, still even, but assertive without being abrasive. Someone who could hold his ground with a ranting drunk.
I said, “When do you think you’ll be getting back to me, Doctor?”
“After my friend clears you.”
Too mellow? Maybe he’d follow through. Maybe he wouldn’t.
I said, “Sure, thanks.”
A short while later Vitti came out to see me. “I just got pinged by some lieutenant at LAPD wanting to know if you’re legit.”
“For a case,” I said.
“Yeah, huh.” He scratched his pate. “Anyhow, I told him you’re a bastard.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“My pleasure.”
I phoned Delaware. “Are we okay to talk?”
“If you can make it quick. I have a patient in a few minutes.”
“How did you know Dr. Rennert?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “Not personally.”
“It sounds like he knew you.”
“He knew who I was, but that’s as far as it went,” Delaware said. “I haven’t had any contact with him in twenty years. More.”
“You did see him this last September eighth, though.”
“I was giving a lecture and he interrupted me. It wasn’t a conversation.”
As Cassandra Spitz had said. “What happened twenty years ago?”
“I served as an expert witness at a trial involving him.”
“The Donna Zhao case.”
A beat. “Yes. That’s become relevant again?”
“There were two trials, criminal and civil. Which were you a part of?”
“Civil.”
“Did you testify for the defense or the plaintiffs?”
“The plaintiffs hired me,” he said. “The testimony I gave was impartial.”
“Of course,” I said. “Can I ask what your testimony concerned?”
Delaware said, “Much as I’d like to get into this right now, we’re going to have to stop. My patient’s here.”
“I can try you back in an hour.”
“No can do, Deputy. I’m swamped.”
“Tonight, then.”
“I have dinner plans,” he said.
I said, “Dr. Delaware, are you aware that Walter Rennert is dead?”
Another beat, longer.
“I see,” he said. “Not a natural death?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “When did it happen?”
“Shortly after you two had your reunion.”
Now he had me answering questions. This guy was subtle.
I said, “I’m trying to get a sense of Dr. Rennert’s last few hours, and it’s looking like you were the last person to see or speak to him. I could really use your help in understanding what transpired that night.”
“Let me... I’m free to talk tomorrow between three and three thirty.”
“That works.”
“Or — you know what,” he said. “As it so happens, I’m headed north again in a few days. We could meet in person, if you prefer.”
Face-to-face almost always beats phone — body language, facial expressions, so forth. I’ve also found that, once people sit down with you, a kind of social glue sets in, and they open up more readily.
Or: Dr. A. Delaware, master forensic psychologist, wanting to check out my nonverbals, use his shrinky Jedi mind tricks to control the situation.
Or this was just a stall, giving himself time to come up with an unimpeachable story.
Other than a weird feeling, though, I had no cause to suspect him of wrongdoing.
Keep it cordial. “That’d be great, thanks.”
This time, he was booked in the city, at a hotel on Nob Hill. We arranged to meet in the bar.
Before we got off, he said, “I really am sorry to hear about Walter. We had our differences, but I always got the sense that he was basically a decent guy.”
Those differences were what I wanted to know about.
I said, “See you Thursday.”
Traffic into San Francisco was compliant, and I arrived at Delaware’s hotel with a few minutes to spare, staking out a lobby sofa that afforded a view of both the bar and the elevator. A jazz quartet played some song that was no doubt famous long ago. No clue. I’m tone deaf. I’m not even sure it was jazz.
I’d done a bit more digging on Delaware, found an undated hospital faculty headshot. Had to be an old photo. I saw a young man with pale, searching eyes, a square jaw, and a wide, straight mouth, all that symmetry topped by a loose mop of curly dark hair.
No reason to update it? A little Southern California vanity?
When he finally stepped from the elevator, I almost didn’t recognize him, because I was expecting someone who did not resemble the guy in the picture, which he did.
Aside from some gray flecks, a slight deepening of lines, he was the same person, middle height and solidly built, wearing a black turtleneck over black slacks. He must have a great plastic surgeon.
I watched him head for the bar. He placed his order, turned and leaned back, elbows up. Before leaving the office, I’d changed into street clothes, and as he scanned the lobby, his gaze passed over me without pausing.
His drink arrived. Drinks, plural.
Needing to steady his nerves?
He put down cash and took both glasses, walking slowly to avoid spilling.
Coming straight toward me.
At that pace it took him a good thirty seconds to reach me, allowing me ample opportunity to wonder how he’d spotted me.
He set the drinks on the end table and eased into an armchair.
“I’m that obvious,” I said.
He shrugged. “I know a lot of cops.”
He slid me one of the glasses, tall and clear, a lime wedge spiked on the rim. “Fizzy water okay?”
“Great. Thanks.”
He’d kept for himself a squat tumbler, a glistening sphere of ice lolling in amber liquid. He sipped. “I assume you’re working and don’t want anything harder. If you do, though, caveat emptor.” Jostling the ice ball, he smiled. “Eighteen bucks for Chivas?”