Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

An elderly black guard was stationed at the door — there had been rapes in the neighborhood and the residents had screamed for security. He looked at our hospital badges and let us pass.

Valcroix’s apartment was on the second floor.

“It’s the one with the red door,” said Beverly, pointing.

The corridor and all the other doors were beige. Valcroix’s was scarlet and stood out like a wound.

“Amateur paint job?” I ran my hand over the wood, which was rough and bubbled. A segment from a doper comic had been pasted to the door — furry people popping pills and hallucinating in technicolor, their fantasies sexually explicit and excessive.

“Uh huh.”

She knocked several times. When there was no answer she bit her lip.

“Maybe he went out,” I suggested.

“No. He always stays home when he’s not on call. That was one thing that bothered me about our relationship. We never went out.”

I didn’t remind her that she’d spotted him in a restaurant with Nona Swope. No doubt he was one of those men as stingy about giving as he was greedy about taking. He’d do the least amount possible to enter a woman’s body. With her lowered expectations, Beverly would have been his dream. Until he got bored with her.

“I’m worried, Alex. I know he’s in there. He could be OD’ed on something.”

Nothing I said alleviated her anxiety. Finally, we went downstairs and convinced the guard to use his master key on the red door.

“I don’t know ’bout this, Doctor,” he said, but he unlocked the apartment.

The place was a sty. Dirty laundry was piled on the grubby carpet. The bed was unmade. On the nightstand was an ashtray brimming with marijuana roaches. Nearby was an engraved roach clip in the shape of a pair of female legs. Medical books and more doper comics coexisted in the paper blizzard that covered half the living room floor. The kitchen sink was a swamp of dirty dishes and cloudy water. A fly circled overhead.

No one was home.

Beverly walked through and unconsciously began straightening up. The guard looked at her quizzically.

“Come on,” I said with surprising vehemence. “He’s not here. Let’s get out.”

The guard cleared his throat.

She covered the bed, took a last look around, and left.

Outside the dorm she asked if we should call the police.

“What for?” I demanded sharply. “A grown man leaves his apartment? They’d never take it seriously. And for good reason.”

She looked wounded and wanted to discuss it further but I begged off. I was weary, my head hurt, my joints were sore; it felt like I was coming down with something. Besides, my altruism account was already badly overdrawn.

We crossed the street in silence and parted ways.

By the time I got home I felt really lousy — feverish, logy, and aching all over. There was a bright spot — an express letter from Robin confirming her departure from Tokyo in a week. One of the Japanese executives owned a condo on Kauai and he’d offered her the use of it. She was hoping I could meet her flight in Honolulu and set aside two weeks for fun and sun. I called Western Union and wired a Yes on all accounts.

A hot bath didn’t make me feel any better. Neither did a cool drink or self-hypnosis. I dragged myself downstairs to feed the koi but didn’t linger to watch them eat. Back in the house I fell into bed with the paper, the rest of the mail, and Leo Kottke on the stereo. But I found myself too drained to concentrate, and surrendered to sleep without a struggle.

By morning my malaise had matured to influenza. I took aspirin, drank lemon tea, and wished Robin were there to take care of me.

I kept the TV on for background noise and slept, on and off, all day. By evening I was feeling well enough to hobble out of bed and eat Jell-O. But even that tired me and soon I was back asleep.

In my dream I was adrift on an Arctic ice floe, seeking shelter from a violent hailstorm in a meager cardboard leanto. Each new fusillade shredded the cardboard, leaving me increasingly terrified and exposed.

I awoke naked and shivering. The hailstorm continued. Digital numbers glowed in the dark: 11:26. Through the window I saw clear black skies. The hail turned into bullets. Shotgun fire stinging the side of the house.

I dove to the floor, lay flat, belly-down, breathing hard.

More gunfire. A percussive pop, then the tinkle of broken glass. A cry of pain. A sickening dull sound, like a melon bursting under a sledgehammer. An engine starting. Automotive escape.

Then silence.

I crawled to the phone. Called the police. Asked for Milo. He was off-shift. Del Hardy, then. Please.

The black detective came to the phone. Between gasps I told him about the nightmare that had turned real.

He said he’d call Milo, both of them would be there code three.

Minutes later the wail of sirens stretched up the glen, trombones gone mad.

I put on a robe and stepped outside.

The redwood siding on the front of the house was peppered with holes and splintered in a dozen places. One window had been blown out.

I smelled hydrocarbons.

On the terrace were three open cans of gasoline. Wadded rags had been fashioned into oversized wicks and stuffed into the spouts. Oily footprints led to the edge of the landing and ended in a single smear of a skidmark. I looked over the railing.

A man sprawled face down and motionless in the Japanese garden.

I climbed down just as the black and whites pulled up. Walked barefoot to the garden, the stone cool under feet burning with fever. I called out. The man didn’t respond.

It was Richard Moody.

Half his face had been blown away. What remained was dog food. Or more precisely, fish food, for his head was submerged in my pond and the koi nibbled at it, sucking up the bloody water, relishing the novelty of a new snack.

Sickened, I tried to wave them away but the sight of me was a conditioned stimulus for feeding and they grew more enthusiastic, feasting and slurping, scaly gourmands. The big black and gold carp came half out of the water to get a mouthful. I could swear he grinned at me with whiskered lips.

Someone was at my side. I jumped.

“Easy, Alex.”

“Milo!”

He looked as if he’d crawled out of bed. He wore a lifeless windbreaker over a yellow Hang-Ten polo shirt and baggy jeans. His hair was a fright wig and his green eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

“Come on,” he took my elbow. “Let’s go upstairs, get something liquid in you and then you can tell me what happened.”

As the crime scene crew busied themselves with the technical minutiae of murder I sat in my old leather sofa and drank Chivas. The shock was beginning to slough off; I realized I was still sick — chilled and weak. The Scotch went down warm and smooth. Across from me sat Milo and Del Hardy. The black detective was dapper, as always, in a shaped dark suit, peach-colored shirt, black tie, and spit-polished demiboots. He put on a pair of reading glasses and took notes.

“On the surface,” said Milo, “it looks like Moody had plans to torch your place and somebody followed him, caught him in the act, and took him out.” He thought for a moment. “There was a triangle, right? How do you like the boyfriend for the shooter role?”

“He didn’t seem the type to stalk a man like that.”

“Full name,” said Hardy, pen poised.

“Carlton Conley. He’s a carpenter for Aurora Studios. He and Moody were friends before it triangulated.”

Hardy scribbled. “Did he move in with the wife?”

“Yes. They’re all supposed to be up near Davis. On the advice of her lawyer.”

“The lawyer’s name?”

“Malcolm J. Worthy. Beverly Hills.”