L.A. Mental Read Online Free

the ocean and raced for the switchback trail.
    With the beating Nick had taken on his fall, it was no surprise that he was still unconscious. Concussion was almost a given, and it might be far worse. But there was another grim possibility I couldn’t ignore. Victims who came around after prolonged submersion sometimes suffered brain damage from oxygen deprivation.
    Even if he survived his other injuries, I might have resuscitated a living corpse.

Four
    I t took maybe fifteen minutes to run to my car, make the call to 911, and get back to Nick. Help started arriving very soon after that, by land, air, and sea. A team from Malibu Search and Rescue—volunteers who risked their necks for nothing but the satisfaction of saving lives—came rappelling down the cliffs; the Coast Guard sent an MLB, a fast, tough boat designed for dangerous operations in heavy surf; and overhead, the lights of a helicopter from UCLA Medical Center appeared through the fog.
    The personnel were just as competent as they were quick. Within another few minutes, they’d hoisted Nick by sling to the hovering copter and gotten me on board the boat, wrapped in blankets with EMTs checking me over. I was a little bruised, but intact; the only things I really felt were my scraped-up bare feet.
    The sky was starting to lighten as the MLB pulled up onto Westward Beach, the closest place with vehicle access. I told the crew again how terrific they were and climbed out of the boat. Right away, I saw several media vans and a knot of reporters in the parking area. I hadn’t expected that; these kinds of incidents usually didn’t attract so much attention. But as soon as I thought about it, the reason was obvious. These kinds of incidents usually didn’t involve the bad-boy son of a prominent family.
    There were also a couple of L.A. County sheriff’s deputies and a man waiting for me who had the look of a plainclothes cop—late forties, solidly built, with a face that seemed friendly but suggested that you wouldn’t want to meet him in an interrogation cell.
    I should have expected this; of course the police would want my account. I took my time hobbling across the beach to him, trying to get my story together. With the situation turning so serious, my hiding the dope from Nick’s car was also more serious, and I wasn’t a quick-witted liar.
    But another ugly possibility was rising in my mind—that I might be under suspicion for assault or even attempted murder. The scenario was easy to construct. My anger at Nick had grown over the years of trouble he’d given me, and tonight was the last straw. We’d quarreled, and I’d lost my temper and shoved him over the cliff, but then, stricken by fear or remorse, managed to drag him out of the water. It was entirely plausible. Violent incidents where people gave in to bursts of rage, followed by equally sudden changes of heart, were common.
    And that would further explain the strong media presence. An implication of foul play would make for an even juicier story.
    â€œDr. Crandall, I’m Detective Sergeant Drabyak,” the waiting man said, flipping open a wallet badge. “Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”
    â€œI’m okay. Thanks.”
    â€œYou could stand to warm up, I bet. Let’s get you in my car.”
    â€œThat would be great. But I could really use some dry clothes. I’ve got some in my own car, if you wouldn’t mind taking me to it.”
    â€œGlad to,” he said. “Just out of curiosity, why’d you bring spare clothes?”
    Drabyak wasn’t wasting any time.
    â€œJust old habit,” I said. “If I’ve been running, swimming, a hike out in the foothills.”
    Drabyak nodded, apparently satisfied. Apparently.
    As we walked toward the parking area, the media cameras started flashing and the reporters closed in, thrusting microphones at me. Their faces loomed forward out of