The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(22)

Andrea Bauer crossed stick-legs and looked up at the ceiling. “It was a couple of years ago. I was full-up at the Skaggs facility but a caseworker called and just about begged. There was a vacancy at my place in San Diego, it’s the largest—twenty residents—but the worker felt the move would be difficult for Benny, his experiences had been rather limited.”

I said, “Emotionally or geographically?”

“Both. From what I gathered, he’d lived with mother in Echo Park then with his fosters only half a mile from there. The worker described him as having the mind of a child though I learned later she was selling Benny short.”

I said, “He functioned higher than she thought.”

“Most people don’t understand but I’m sure you do, Dr. Delaware. The concept of mental age is given more credit than it deserves—mind of a six-year-old, mind of a ten-year-old. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

I shook my head. “A slow adult is qualitatively different than a normal child.”

She turned to Milo. “What your psychologist means, Lieutenant, is that an adult with cognitive impairment can function low on one measure and high on another. Benny was a prime example. His reading skills were just about nil but his vocabulary was pretty darn good—you’d meet him and think he was okay. On top of that, he could function socially and had no physical stigmata—small stature but he looked normal…no pain? You’re sure?”

Milo said, “He died by a single gunshot that would’ve been rapidly fatal.”

Andrea Bauer sank an inch. “Oh, God, how grotesque. And you have no idea who could’ve done this?”

Milo said, “Not yet. Could we go back to his history, for a sec? You had no vacancies but you found a way.”

“I had to do some shuffling, make sure no one else was put at a disadvantage. I’d just accepted a resident at Skaggs but she hadn’t moved in yet. Williams syndrome, slightly lower-functioning than Benny but one part of that diagnosis is extreme sociability. On top of that, she’d moved around a bit so I thought she might be okay in San Diego. So off she went and Benny got the slot at Skaggs.”

She recrossed her legs. “Small victories, gentlemen. That’s how you need to look at it.”

I said, “You take a personal interest in the residents.”

“There’s no reason to work with people unless you’re interested in them.”

She edged closer to the table, grazed a water bottle with her fingernails. Clipped utilitarian nails but nothing ascetic about her: The hoodie was cashmere, a four-carat diamond stud glinted from each ear, and a platinum ring set with a round yellow diamond at least twice that weight banded her left ring finger.

“That probably sounds glib but I mean it,” she said. “I never set out to run facilities, fell into it after my husband died. He owned all kinds of things—office buildings, apartments, shopping centers, reinsurance companies, and just before his stroke, he picked up four dozen old age homes and drug rehab centers as part of some sort of trade. I was ready to sell everything, wanted no part of warehousing human beings. But then I thought, Hey, it’s been years since I’ve worked with human beings, why not give it a try? So I held on to a few locations. The goal was to create spaces for unaddicted people born with cognitive problems. Nothing grand. Bill—my husband, was all about grand, I’d had enough of grand.”

“Something manageable,” I said.

“I’m not going to sit here and tell you I’m Saint Andrea. The state and county pay me handsomely for each resident but every penny is plowed back, I make no profit. Don’t need to, Bill set me up.” Fleeting smile. “Grandly.”

“Are all your places Level One?”

“The one in San Diego—that was my first, it used to be an old age home—is larger so we have a few Level Twos. But I stay away from anything below that. The point is to offer maximal quality of life in a relaxed manner. You visited Skaggs. Did it seem anything other than comfy and nurturing?”

Milo said, “It seemed nice, ma’am.”

“When Bill ran it, it housed addicts and was painted a horrid pea green.”

She rolled the edge of a cashmere sleeve, looked down at a diamond-studded Lady Rolex. “Got to get over to Disney Hall. Tedious meeting, but one commits.”

Milo said, “Is there anything else we should know about Benny?”

Head shake. No movement of hair. “On the drive down I tried to pick my brain but came up with nothing. What seems likely to me is this was a robbery—a mugging that went wrong or just one of those crazy random things.”

“Did Benny carry money around?”

“When they leave the facility, we give them ten singles and a limited-use cellphone. Two numbers programmed: 911 or the facility. But maybe someone wanted the phone, didn’t know it was useless. Kids kill each other over shoes, why not a phone?”

I said, “We were told Benny had a job at an art gallery.”

“Marcella arranged that,” said Andrea Bauer. “And for the first week she or a student volunteer walked him to and fro. He learned quickly, had an excellent sense of focus.”

Milo said, “Meaning?”

“He could divine a route, set a goal, and reach it, Lieutenant. That’s what Dr. Delaware and I meant about mental age. In some ways, Benny was like a fully operational adult. If we felt he was in danger, we’d never have allowed it.”