Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

A onetime public defender long considered hostile to cops, Cleveland had morphed into a law-and-order stalwart following the chief’s endorsement of her reelection and some well-placed fund-raisers arranged by the chief’s retired-anchorwoman wife.

Cleveland and her labor-lawyer husband had only lived in the Cheviot house for seven months before putting it up for sale. Both had accepted jobs in D.C., she as an assistant attorney general, he as chief counsel for the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.

Cleveland’s first assignment would be heading a task force on financial shenanigans in the banking arena and the real estate website wondered if she could be objective, given a drop in the value of her investment due to the recession. An economic slump brought on, in part, by Wall Street’s addiction to junk mortgages.

I said, “Toss in two DBs a short hop away and it won’t be much of a broker’s carousel.”

“Idiots,” he growled. “Okay, go home, no sense sitting and watching me type.”

I moved out of the way and he bellied up to his keyboard. Entering his password, he logged onto NCIC. The screen froze. He cursed.

I said, “What about the jogger-Heather Goldfeder?”

“What about her? My resident geniuses said she didn’t know the victim.”

“She didn’t know the victim but the way the bones and the body were dumped suggests a bad guy familiar with the park. She runs there regularly so it’s possible she’s seen something or someone she doesn’t realize is relevant. A man casing the area or loitering near the jogging path.”

He loosened his tie, yanked it off. “I was going to get to her once I finished with missing persons.”

His phone rang again. Kelly LeMasters sounding excited about “touching base.”

Instead of picking up, he sat there and listened as LeMasters emphasized her interest in the old bones, offered an additional cell number, and hung up.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s do it.”

“Do what?”

“Check out little Heather.”

“You changed your mind.”

“I hate typing.”

He phoned the Goldfeder home. Heather’s father picked up, Milo introduced himself then listened for a while.

“Yes, I know that had to be difficult, Mr. Goldfeder … Doctor Goldfeder, sorry … yes, I’m sure it was. Which is one reason I’m calling you. We happen to have an expert psychologist and he’s available to offer some crisis …”

He hung up shaking his head.

I said, “No-go?”

“Quite the contrary, definite yes-go. ‘About time you people considered the human factor.’ ”

“Thanks for calling me an expert.”

“Onward.”

I pulled up in front of the Goldfeder home at ten the following morning. Going it alone because Milo felt “the pure psych angle would work best.”

The two-story Spanish Colonial was three blocks south of the dead woman’s dump site. Two white Priuses shared the driveway with an identically hued Porsche Cayenne SUV. One of the hybrids bore a Santa Monica College decal on the rear window. That vehicle was dust-streaked, its interior a jumble of paper, empty bottles, rumpled clothing. The other two were spotless.

I climbed a geranium-lined walkway to a stout oak door, raised a brass lion’s-head knocker and let it drop gently onto the wood. The man who answered wore green surgical sweats, baggy in most places but snug around bulky shoulders and lifter’s arms. Fifty or so, he had thinning dark hair, a small face conceding to gravity, a gray goatee more stubble than beard.

“Dr. Delaware? Howard Goldfeder.” The hand he offered was outsized, smooth at the palms, pink around the cuticles from frequent washing. I’d looked him up last night: ENT surgeon with a clinical professorship. Same for his wife, Arlene, Department of Ophthalmology.

Heather’s Facebook page had showed her as a pixie-faced cutie nearly overwhelmed by a storm cloud of dark hair. The page was thinly utilized, with only a smattering of friends. Favorite activities: running, more running. Phys. ed. major at SMC.

“Doctor,” I said.

“Howard’s fine.”

“So is Alex.”

“Given the context, I’ll stick with Howard and Dr. Delaware.”

“What context is that?”

“You’re here to work, I’m here as Heather’s dad. Speaking of which, how about we get things straight from the outset: Are you here to counsel my daughter about finding a corpse or to pry information out of her for the police? I’m asking because I thought it was a little weird for that lieutenant to offer the services of a psychologist out of the clear blue. Also, I did a little checking and you’re a serious guy, we’re both faculty crosstown. Why would someone with your credentials work for the cops? Do you have some sort of research project going on?”

I said, “I work with them, not for them, because I find it satisfying. In terms of your main concern, which is understandable, Lieutenant Sturgis would love any new information but my focus is going to be on Heather’s well-being. How’s she doing?”

Howard Goldfeder studied me. “Okay, I guess.”

“You have your doubts?”

“She can be a high-strung kid. C’mon in.”

“Anything else I should know before I talk to her?”

“My opinion is she exercises too much.”

The living room was vault-ceilinged, furnished in overstuffed chenille, suede, and brass-accented mahogany. A U-shaped staircase rose to a landing. Rails, risers, and newel posts gleamed. The furniture looked as if it was rarely used, every pillow plumped and dimpled, as if styled for a photo shoot. Persian rugs lay as flat as if they’d been stenciled onto the wide-plank floor. Mullion windows sparkled, fireplace tools glinted. If dust was present, it was hiding in fear.

Howard Goldfeder said, “My wife’s working, she’s an eye surgeon. I’ll go get Heather; if you need me, I’ll be in my study. How long do you figure this will take?”

“Probably no more than an hour.”

“I can handle that.”

I said, “What did Heather tell you about finding the body?”

“She was running,” said Goldfeder. “Like she usually does. Every day, rain or shine, she’s out the door between seven and nine, depending on her class schedule, does her six miles religiously. Sometimes she ups it as high as ten a day.”

“Rigorous.”

“That’s just morning, her afternoon run’s another three, four. That she does at the track at school.”

“Was she a high school athlete?”

“Not even close, couldn’t get her involved in anything extracurricular, she started after she graduated.” His lips pursed. “Obviously, you’re wondering if she’s got an eating disorder and honestly, we don’t think so. She doesn’t take in a lot of calories, true, and she’s vegan, I’m always on her to get more iron. But she’s always been a small eater and we have plenty of meals together so we can tell what she’s ingesting. In terms of bingeing and bulimia, there’s absolutely no sign of that. Her teeth are as perfect as the day her braces came off and I had her pediatrician look at her electrolytes just in case I was missing something and she’s in peak condition. Yes, she’s on the thin side, but she’s always been that way, just like my wife and my wife’s entire family. My side’s all the fatties, which is why I need to watch.”

Patting a flat abdomen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“In terms of finding the body-”

Goldfeder’s meaty shoulders drooped. “That was some drawn-out answer to a simple question, huh? I guess I’m not too concerned with a onetime thing like the body. It’s the general stuff that concerns me. Like the fact that she’s incredibly compulsive about her running but with everything else she slacks off totally. I won’t even tell you her GPA, it’s clearly way below what she’s capable of. That’s why she’s at SMC instead of the U.”