on."
The tinkling of ice in a glass. "As I said, my father was terrified of death. The more he read about it, and those who explore and worship it, the more frightened he became. If his many fans had realized how pathetic a figure he was in real life, they would have abandoned him in droves. In the last few years his fame was a curse. He could not go out in public without being asked for his autograph. He learned to disguise himself."
Burke smiled. "You're not suggesting that's why he . . ."
"Yes, that's why he began to wear women's clothing. To go out in drag. According to my father, it was the only way he could escape the house without being troubled."
Cross-dressing for privacy? It read as total nonsense. Burke could not tell if she believed her own rationalization, so he said nothing.
"And by the way," Nicole continued, "even discussing the themes he wrote about began to give him anxiety attacks. A supreme karmic joke, wouldn't you say?"
"It sounds that way," Burke replied. "May I have a glass of water, Nicole?"
The fact that he had used her first name increased the static dangling in the air. Burke rose and strolled over to the bar. He moved to the other end and reached out with his right hand. Nicole Stryker poured club soda into a crystal goblet, added ice, and slid it down the bar so their fingers would not touch. It was clear that she felt something, too.
"Was he on medication for these attacks?" Burke was thinking of drugs like Ativan and their sedating effect, also how dangerous they were when combined with alcohol.
Nicole Stryker shook her head. "Not in the way you're thinking," she says. "He saw a psycho- pharmacologist named Markoff at UCLA and was prescribed an anti-depressant."
"Do you recall which one?"
"No."
Burke searched his memory bank. "An SSRI, like Lexapro?"
"I've forgotten. That sounds right. Whatever it was, it didn't make him further depressed. In fact quite the opposite. He became more agitated."
"Did your father do recreational drugs of any kind?"
"Not that I know of, but it wouldn't surprise me. My father . . . experimented with life, Mr. Burke."
"That prescription you mentioned? I would like to know what it was." Burke drank the club soda. The fizz tickled his upper lip.
"If it isn't in the police report I will find out."
Nicole reached into her pocket and slid a set of keys across the bar. Burke let them sit on the polished wood. He arched an eyebrow. "The keys to his house and home office," Nicole said. "The police were far more concerned about the crime scene and said they'd get there tomorrow. I doubt you will have any trouble going through his things tonight."
"Okay."
"Search all you want." Nicole Stryker seemed weary. "Remember that this was a man who loved scary stories and secret passageways, so be vigilant. You may find books, women's clothing, religious artifacts, and all manner of strangeness, Mr. Burke. Do not be distracted from your primary purpose. I want to know what really happened up in that hotel suite. And why."
SIX
The premium coffee shop was furnished in forest green colors with silver metal bars and extended from the outer wall of a large-chain bookstore like some stark, metastasized growth. Jack Burke was seated at a corner table with a long yellow note pad, a sharpened pencil, and a stack of paperback books written by Peter Stryker. Burke was a speed-reader, and some college girls at a nearby table watch in awe as his eyes and practiced fingers raced through the pages.
"You take lessons to do that?"
"Huh?" He shook his head. There were two of them. One was a lanky blonde in cut-off jeans and a red halter top, the other a plump and slightly busty brunette in a blue pants suit. They were likely students at nearby Cal State Northridge or one of the other colleges. Burke wondered, not for the first time, why pretty girls always seemed to have another, less attractive female along for company. Perhaps so they could have an audience as they
The tinkling of ice in a glass. "As I said, my father was terrified of death. The more he read about it, and those who explore and worship it, the more frightened he became. If his many fans had realized how pathetic a figure he was in real life, they would have abandoned him in droves. In the last few years his fame was a curse. He could not go out in public without being asked for his autograph. He learned to disguise himself."
Burke smiled. "You're not suggesting that's why he . . ."
"Yes, that's why he began to wear women's clothing. To go out in drag. According to my father, it was the only way he could escape the house without being troubled."
Cross-dressing for privacy? It read as total nonsense. Burke could not tell if she believed her own rationalization, so he said nothing.
"And by the way," Nicole continued, "even discussing the themes he wrote about began to give him anxiety attacks. A supreme karmic joke, wouldn't you say?"
"It sounds that way," Burke replied. "May I have a glass of water, Nicole?"
The fact that he had used her first name increased the static dangling in the air. Burke rose and strolled over to the bar. He moved to the other end and reached out with his right hand. Nicole Stryker poured club soda into a crystal goblet, added ice, and slid it down the bar so their fingers would not touch. It was clear that she felt something, too.
"Was he on medication for these attacks?" Burke was thinking of drugs like Ativan and their sedating effect, also how dangerous they were when combined with alcohol.
Nicole Stryker shook her head. "Not in the way you're thinking," she says. "He saw a psycho- pharmacologist named Markoff at UCLA and was prescribed an anti-depressant."
"Do you recall which one?"
"No."
Burke searched his memory bank. "An SSRI, like Lexapro?"
"I've forgotten. That sounds right. Whatever it was, it didn't make him further depressed. In fact quite the opposite. He became more agitated."
"Did your father do recreational drugs of any kind?"
"Not that I know of, but it wouldn't surprise me. My father . . . experimented with life, Mr. Burke."
"That prescription you mentioned? I would like to know what it was." Burke drank the club soda. The fizz tickled his upper lip.
"If it isn't in the police report I will find out."
Nicole reached into her pocket and slid a set of keys across the bar. Burke let them sit on the polished wood. He arched an eyebrow. "The keys to his house and home office," Nicole said. "The police were far more concerned about the crime scene and said they'd get there tomorrow. I doubt you will have any trouble going through his things tonight."
"Okay."
"Search all you want." Nicole Stryker seemed weary. "Remember that this was a man who loved scary stories and secret passageways, so be vigilant. You may find books, women's clothing, religious artifacts, and all manner of strangeness, Mr. Burke. Do not be distracted from your primary purpose. I want to know what really happened up in that hotel suite. And why."
SIX
The premium coffee shop was furnished in forest green colors with silver metal bars and extended from the outer wall of a large-chain bookstore like some stark, metastasized growth. Jack Burke was seated at a corner table with a long yellow note pad, a sharpened pencil, and a stack of paperback books written by Peter Stryker. Burke was a speed-reader, and some college girls at a nearby table watch in awe as his eyes and practiced fingers raced through the pages.
"You take lessons to do that?"
"Huh?" He shook his head. There were two of them. One was a lanky blonde in cut-off jeans and a red halter top, the other a plump and slightly busty brunette in a blue pants suit. They were likely students at nearby Cal State Northridge or one of the other colleges. Burke wondered, not for the first time, why pretty girls always seemed to have another, less attractive female along for company. Perhaps so they could have an audience as they
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