Джонатан Келлерман - When the Bough Breaks

The sight of Milo taking notes made him even more nervous. He began bouncing up and down, a marionette at the hands of a palsied puppeteer.

“From nine to one-thirty – I stayed to the end. I helped clean up. I can tell you what they served. It was guacamole and nachos and there was Gallo jug wine and shrimp dip and–”

“Of course there’ll be lots of people who saw you there.”

“Sure,” he said, then stopped. “I– I didn’t really mingle much. I helped out, tending bar. I saw lots of people but I don’t know if any of them will remember me.” His voice had quieted to a whisper.

“That could be a problem, Roy.”

“Unless – no – yes – Mrs. Heatherington. She’s an older woman. She volunteers at church functions. She was cleaning up, too. And serving. I spent a lot of time talking to her – I can even tell you what we talked about. It was about collectibles – she collects Norman Rockwells and I collect Icarts.”

“Icarts?”

“You know, the Art Deco prints.”

The works of Louis Icart went for high prices these days. I wondered how a pharmacist could afford them.

“Mother gave me one when I was sixteen and they–” he searched for the right word “–captivated me. She gives them to me on my birthday and I pick up a few myself. Dr. Handler collected them, too, you know. That–” he let his words trail off.

“Oh, really? Did he show you his collection?”

Longstreth shook his head energetically.

“No. He had one in his office. I noticed it and we started talking. But he used it against me later on.”

“How’s that?”

“After the evaluation – you know I was sent to him by the court after I was caught–” he looked nervously at the Thrifty’s building “–shoplifting.” Tears filled his eyes. “For God’s sake, I took a tube of rubber cement at Sears and they caught me! I thought Mother would die from the shame. And I worried the School of Pharmacy would find out – it was horrible!”

“How did he use the fact that you collected Icarts against you?” asked Milo patiently.

“He kind of implied, never came out and said it, but phrased it so you knew what he meant but he couldn’t be pinned down.”

“Implied what, Roy?”

“That he could be bought off. That if I bribed him with an Icart or two – he even mentioned the ones he liked – he would write a favorable report.”

“Did you?”

“What? Bribe him? Not on your life. That would be dishonest!”

“And did he press the issue?”

Longstreth picked at his fingernails.

“Like I said, not so you could pin him down. He just said that I was a borderline case – psychopathic personality, or something less stigmatizing-anxiety reaction or something like that – that I could go either way. In the end he told Mother I was a psychopath.”

The wan face screwed up with rage.

“I’m glad he’s dead! There, I’ve said it! It’s what I thought the first time I read about it in the paper.”

“But you didn’t do it.”

“Of course not. I couldn’t. I run from evil, I don’t embrace it!”

“We’ll talk to Mrs. Heatherington, Roy.”

“Yes. Ask her about the nachos and the wine – I believe it was Gallo Hearty Burgundy. And there was fruit punch with slices of orange floating in it, too. In a cut glass bowl. And one of the women got sick on the floor at the end. I helped mop it up–”

“Thanks, Roy. You can go now.”

“Yes. I will.”

He turned around like a robot, a thin figure in a short blue druggist’s smock, and walked into Thrifty’s.

“He’s dispensing drugs?” I asked, incredulous.

“If he’s not in some whacko file he should be.” Milo pocketed his notepad and we walked to the car. “He look like a psychopath to you?”

“Not unless he’s the best actor on the face of the earth. Schizoid, withdrawn. Pre-schizophrenic, if anything.”

“Dangerous?”

“Who knows? Put him up against enough stress and he might blow. But I’d judge him more likely to go the hermit route – curl up in bed, play with himself, wither, stay that way for a decade or two while Mommy propped his pillows.”

“If that story about the Icarts is true it sheds some light on our beloved victim.”

“Handler? A real Dr. Schweitzer.”

“Yeah,” said Milo. “The kind of guy someone might want dead.”

We got on Coldwater Canyon before it clogged with the cars of commuters returning to their homes in the Valley, and made it to Burbank by half past four.

Presto Instant Print was one of scores of gray concrete edifices that filled the industrial park near the Burbank airport like so many oversized tombstones. The air smelled toxic and the flatulent roar of jets shattered the sky at regular intervals. I wondered about the life expectancy of those who spent their daylight hours here.

Maurice Bruno had come up in the world since his file had been compiled. He was now a vice-president, in charge of sales. He was also unavailable, we were told by his secretary, a lissome brunette with arched eyebrows and a mouth meant for saying no.

“Then give me his boss,” barked Milo. He shoved his badge under her nose. We were both hot and tired and discouraged. The last place we wanted to be stalled was Burbank.

“That would be Mr. Gershman,” she said as if discovering some new insight.

“Then that would be who I want to talk to.”

“Just one second.”

She wiggled off and came back with her clone in a blond wig.

“I’m Mr. Gershman’s secretary,” the clone announced.

It must be the poison in the air, I decided. It caused brain damage, eroded the cerebral cortex to the point where simple facts took on an aura of profundity.

Milo took a deep breath.

“We’d like to talk with Mr. Gershman.”

“May I inquire what it’s about?”

“No, you may not. Bring us to Gershman now.”

“Yes, sir.” The two secretaries looked at each other. Then the brunette pushed a buzzer and the blonde led us through double glass doors into an enormous production area filled with machines that chomped, stamped, bit, snarled, and smeared. A few people hung around the periphery of the rabid steel monsters, dull-eyed, loose-jawed, breathing in fumes that reeked of alcohol and acetone. The noise, alone, was enough to kill you.

She made a sudden left, probably hoping to lose us to the maws of one of the behemoths, but we hung on, following the movement of her swaying butt until we came to another set of double doors. These she pushed and let go, forcing Milo to fall forward to catch them. A short corridor, another set of doors, and we were confronted by silence so complete as to be overwhelming.

The executive suite at Presto Instant Print might have been on another planet. Plush, plum-colored carpets that you had to bargain with in order to reclaim your ankles, walls paneled in real walnut. Large doors of walnut burl with names made of brass letters tastefully centered on the wood. And silence.

The blonde stopped at the end of the hall, in front of an especially large door with especially tasteful gold letters that said Arthur M. Gershman, President . She let us into a waiting room the size of an average house, motioned us to sit in chairs that looked and felt like unbaked bread dough. Settling behind her desk, a contraption of plexiglass and rosewood that afforded the world a perfect view of her legs, she pushed a button on a console that belonged at NASA Control Center, moved her lips a bit, nodded, and stood up again.

“Mr. Gershman will see you now.”

The inner sanctum was as expected – the size of a cathedral, decorated like something conceived in the pages of Architectural Digest , softly lit and comfortable but hard-edged enough to keep you awake – but the man behind the desk was a complete surprise.