Jonathan Kellerman - When The Bough Breaks

I sped up and down two blocks before pulling to the curb and parking near an alley behind a three - story building that housed a Latin grocery on the ground floor and apartments on the upper two.

A quick look shot backward confirmed that he was still coming.

I got out of the car and ducked into the alley, which stunk of rotting produce and urine. Empty and broken wine bottles littered the pavement. A hundred feet away was a loading dock, unattended, its steel doors closed and bolted. A dozen vehicles were illegally parked on both sides; exit from the alley was blocked by a half - ton pickup left perpendicular to the walls. Somewhere off in the distance a mariachi band played "Cielito Lindo." A cat screeched. Horns honked out on the boulevard. A baby cried.

I peeked my head out and retracted it. He was half a block away. I got ready for him. When he began crossing the alley I said in a stage whisper: "Hey, man. I got what you need."

That stopped him. He looked at me with great love, thinking he'd found salvation. It threw him off when I grabbed him by his scrawny arm and pulled him into the alley. I dragged him several feet until we'd found cover behind an old Chevy with peeling paint and two flat tires. I slammed him against the wall. His hands went up protectively. I pushed them down and pinioned both of them with one of my own. He struggled but he had no strength. It was like tussling with a toddler.

"Whadyou want, man?"

"Answers, Rafael. Remember me? I visited you a few days ago. With Raquel."

"Hey, yeah, sure," he said, but there was only confusion in the watery hazel eyes. Snot ran down one nostril and into his mouth. He let it sit there a while before reaching up with his tongue and trying to flick it away. "Yeah, I remember, man. With Raquel, sure, man." He looked up and down the alley.

"You remember, then, that I'm investigating your sister's murder."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Elena. Bad stuff, man." He said it without feeling. His sister had been sliced up and all he could think of was that he needed a packet of white powder that could be transformed into his own special type of milk. I'd read dozens of tomes on addiction, but it was there, in that alley, that the true power of the needle became clear to me.

"She had tapes, Rafael. Where are they?",

"Hey, man, I don' know shit about tapes." He struggled to break loose. I slammed him against the wall again. "Oh, man, I'm hurting, just let me go fix myself up and then I talk to you about tapes. Okay, man?"

"No. I want to know now, Rafael. Where are the tapes?"

"I don' know, man, I told you that!" He was whining like a three - year - old, snot faced and growing more frantic with each passing second.

"I think you do and I want to know."

He bounced in my grasp, clattering like a sack of loose bones.

"Lemme go, motherfucker!" he gasped.

"Your sister was murdered, Rafael. Turned into hamburger. I saw pictures of what she looked like. Whoever did it to her took their time. It hurt her. And you're willing to deal with them."

"I don' know what you're talkin' about, man."

More struggling, another slam against the wall. He sagged this time, closed his eyes and for a moment I thought I'd knocked him out. But he opened them, licked his lips and gave a dry, hacking cough.

"You were off the stuff, Rafael. Then you started shooting up again. Right after Elena's death. Where'd you get the dough? How much did you sell her out for?"

"I don' know nothin'." He shook spastically. "Lemme go. I don' know nothin'."

"Your own sister," I said. "And you sold out to her murderers for the price of a fix."

"Puleeze, mister. Lemme go."

"Not until you talk. I don't have time to waste time with you. I want to know where those tapes are. You don't tell me soon I'll take you home with me, tie you up and let you go cold turkey in the corner. Imagine that - think how bad you hurt now, Rafael. Think how much worse it's going to get."

He crumpled.

"I gave them to some dude," he stuttered.

"For how much?"

"Not money, man. Stuff. He gave me stuff. Enough for a week's fixing. Good stuff. Now lemme go. I gotta appointment."

"Who was the guy?"

"Just some dude. Anglo. Like you."

"What did he look like?"

"I don' know, man, I can't think straight."

"The corner, Rafael. Tied up."

"Twenny - five, six. Short. Built good, solid. Real straight - lookin'. Light hair, over the forehead, okay?"

He'd described Tim Kruger.

"Why did he say he wanted the tapes?"

"He dint say, man, I dint ask. He had good stuff, you unnerstand?"

"Didn't you wonder? Your sister was dead and you didn't wonder why some stranger would give you smack for her tapes?"

"Hey, man, I dint wonder, I don' wonder. I don' think. I just go flyin'. I gotta go flyin' now. I'm hurtin', man. Lemme go."

"Did your brother know about this?"

"No! He kill me, man. You hurt me, but he kill me, you unnerstand? Don' tell him!"

"What was on the tapes, Rafael?"

"I dunno. I don' listen, man!"

On principle I refused to believe him.

"The corner. Tied up. Bone dry."

"Jus" some kid talkin', man, I swear that's it. I dint hear the whole thing, but when he offered me the stuff for them I took a listen before I gave them to the dude. Some kid talkin' to my sister. She's listenin' and sayin' tell me more and he's talkin'."

"About what?"

"I don' know man. It started to get heavy, the kid's cryin', Elena's cryin', I switched it off. I don' wanna know."

"What were they crying about, Rafael?"

"I don' know, man, something about how somebody hurt the kid, Elena's asking' him if they hurt him, he's sayin' yes, she's cryin', then the kid's cryin', too."

"What else?"

"That's it."

I throttled him just hard enough to rattle his teeth.

"You wan' me to make something' up, I can do it, man, but that's all I know!"

He cried out, snuffling and sucking for air.

I held him at arm's length, then let go. He looked at me unbelievingly, slithered against the wall, found a space between the Chevy and a rusted Dodge van. Staring at me, he wiped his nose, passed between the two cars and made a run for freedom.

I drove to a gas station at Virgil and Sunset, filled up, and used the pay phone to call La Casa de los Nifios. The receptionist with the upbeat voice answered. Slipping into a drawl I asked her for Kruger.

"Mr. Kruger isn't in, today, sir. He'll be in tomorrow."

"Oh yeah, that's right! He told me he'd be off the day I got in."

"Would you care to leave a message, sir?"

"Heck no. I'm an old friend from school. Tim and I go way back. I just blew in on a business trip - I'm selling tool and die, Becker Machine Works, San Antonio, Texas - and I was supposed to look old Tim up. He gave me his number at home but I must have lost it. Do you have it?"

"I'm sorry, sir, we're not supposed to give out personal information."

"I can dig that. But like I say, Tim and me are tight. Why don't you call him at home, tell him old Jeff Saxon's on the line, ready to drop in but stuck without the address."

A clatter of ringing phones sounded in the background.

"One moment, sir."

When she returned I asked her:

"You call him yet, ma'am?"

"No - I - it's rather busy right now, Mr…"

"Saxon, Jeff Saxon. You call old Tim and tell him old Jeff Saxon's in town to see him, I guarantee you he'll be - "

"Why don't I just give you the number?" She recited seven digits, the first two of which signified a beach cities location.

"Thank you much, I believe Tim told me he lived near the beach - that far from the airport?"

"Mr. Kruger lives in Santa Monica. It's about a twenty - minute ride."

"Hey, that's not bad - maybe I'll just drop in on him, kind of a surprise, what do you think?"