Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

“Just checking. There is another option, but it would be too risky before the property settlement has been completed.”

“What’s that?”

“For five hundred dollars I can have him sufficiently damaged so he’ll never be able to piss without crying.”

“Democracy, huh?” He laughed.

“Free enterprise. Fee for service. Anyway, it’s just an option.”

“Don’t exercise it, Mal.”

“Relax, Alex. Just theorizing.”

“What about the police?”

“Forget it. We have no evidence it was him. I mean we both know it but there’s no proof, right? And they’re not going to fingerprint a rat because sending rodents to your loved ones is no felony. Maybe,” he laughed, “we could get Animal Regulation on it. A stern lecture and a night at the pound?”

“Wouldn’t they at least go out and talk to him?”

“Not with the workload they’ve got. If it had been more explicit, something that constituted a threat, maybe. ‘Here’s to You Motherfucking Shyster’ won’t do, I’m afraid — the cops feel the same way he does about lawyers. I’m going to file a report just for the record, but don’t count on help from the blue guys.”

“I know someone on the force.”

“Metermaids don’t carry much weight, fella.”

“How about detectives?”

“That’s different. Give him a call. You want me to talk to him, I will.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Great. Let me know how it goes. And Alex — sorry for the hassle.” He sounded eager to get off the phone. At three and a half bucks a minute it doesn’t pay to give it away free for any length of time.

“One more thing, Mal.”

“What’s that?”

“Call the judge. If she hasn’t gotten a care package yet, warn her she may.”

“I’ve already called her bailiff. Scratch up a few more brownie points for our side.”

“Describe this asshole as precisely as you can,” said Milo.

“My size almost exactly. Say five eleven, one seventy-five. Raw-boned, muscles. Long face, a reddish tan like construction workers get, busted nose, big jaw. Wears Indian jewelry — two rings, one on each hand. A scorpion and a snake. A couple of tattoos on the left arm. Bad dresser.”

“Eye color?”

“Brown. Bloodshot. A binge drinker. Brown hair combed back, greasy kid stuff.”

“Sounds like a shitkicker.”

“Exactly.”

“And this Bedabye Motel’s where he lives?”

“As of a couple of days ago. He may be living in his truck for all I know.”

“I know a couple of guys in Foothill Division. If I can get one of them in particular to go down and talk to this Moody, your troubles’ll be over. Guy name of Fordebrand. Has the worse breath you’ve ever smelled. Five minutes of face to face with him and the asshole will repent.”

I laughed but my heart wasn’t in it.

“He got to you, huh?”

“I’ve had better mornings.”

“If you’re spooked and wanna stay at my place, feel free.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

“If you change your mind, let me know. Meanwhile, be careful. He may be just an asshole and a wiseguy, but I don’t have to tell you about crazies. Keep your eyes open, pal.”

I spent most of the day doing mundane things and appearing outwardly relaxed. But I was in what I call my karate state — a heightened level of consciousness typified by perceptual vigilance. The senses are finely tuned to a point, just short of paranoia, where looking over one’s shoulder at frequent intervals seems perfectly normal.

To get that way I avoid alcohol and heavy foods, do limbering exercises and practice katas — karate dances — until exhausted. Then I relax with a half hour of self-hypnosis and auto-suggest hyper-alertness.

I learned it from my martial arts instructor, a Czech Jew named Jaroslav, who had honed his self-preservation skills fleeing the Nazis. I sought his advice during the first weeks after the Casa de Los Ninos affair, when the wires in my jaw made me feel helpless and nightmares were frequent visitors. The regimen he taught me had helped me mend where it counted — in my head.

I was ready, I told myself, for anything Richard Moody had in store.

I was dressing to go out for dinner when the service called.

“Good evening, Dr. D., it’s Kathy.”

“Hi, Kathy.”

“Sorry to bother you but I’ve got a Beverly Lucas on the line. She says it’s an emergency.”

“No problem. Put her on, please.”

“Okay. Have a nice night, Doc.”

“You too.”

The phone hissed as the lines connected.

“Bev?”

“Alex? I’ve got to talk t’you.”

There was loud music in the background — synthesized drums, screaming guitars, and a heart-stopping bass. I could barely hear her.

“What’s up?”

“Can’t talk about it here — using the bar phone. Are you busy right now?”

“No. Where are you calling from?”

“The Unicorn. In Westwood. Please. I need to talk to you.”

She sounded on edge but it was hard to tell with all that noise. I knew the place, a combination bistro-discotheque (bisco?) that catered to the upscale singles crowd. Once Robin and I had stopped in for a bite after a movie but had left quickly, finding the ambience too nakedly predatory.

“I was just about to have dinner,” I said. “Want to meet somewhere?”

“How ‘bout right here? I’ll put my name down for a table and it’ll be ready when you get here.”

Dinner at the Unicorn wasn’t an appealing prospect — the noise level seemed likely to curdle the gastric juices — but I told her I’d be there in fifteen minutes.

Traffic in the Village was heavy and I was late getting there. The Unicorn was a narcissist’s paradise, mirrored on every surface except the floor. Hanging Boston ferns, half a dozen fake Tiffany lamps, and some brass and wood trim had been tossed in, but the mirrors were the essence of the place.

To the right was a smallish restaurant, twenty tables draped with parrot green damask, to the left a glassed-in disco where couples boogied to a live band, the glass shimmying with the backbeat. In between was the lounge. Even the bar was covered with reflective glass, its base a display of trendy footwear.

The lounge was dim and packed with bodies. I edged my way through the throng, surrounded by laughing faces in triplicate, quadruplicate, unsure what was real, what was illusion. The place was a damned funhouse.

She was sitting at the bar next to a chesty guy in a body shirt. He alternated between trying to make time with her, guzzling light beer, and visually trawling the crowd for a more hopeful prospect. She nodded from time to time but was clearly preoccupied.

I elbowed my way next to her. She was staring at a tall glass half-filled with foamy pink liquid, lots of candied fruit, and a paper parasol. One hand twirled the parasol.

“Alex.” She wore a lemon-colored Danskin top and matching satin jogging shorts. Her legs were sheathed from ankle to knee with yellow and white warmers that matched her running shoes. She had on lots of makeup and plenty of jewelry — at work she’d always been conservative with both. A glittery sweatband circled her forehead. “Thanks for comin’.” She leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were warm. Body Shirt got up and left.

“Bet that table’s ready,” she said.

“Let’s check.” I took her arm and we wedged through waves of flesh. Plenty of male eyes followed her exit but she didn’t seem to notice.

There was a bit of confusion because she’d given the maitre d’ the name ‘Luke’ and hadn’t told me, but we got it straightened out and were seated in a corner table under a colossal Creeping Charlie.