Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“You think he’d actually go back?”

“Nothing succeeds like success.”

“Well,” he said, “the best I can do for surveillance is a couple of additional drive-bys per shift by sector cars. I know ’cause I’ve already asked, great minds and all that … maybe I’ll do an all-nighter … God, I’m hungry, how long will it take you to defrost a steak? Or a roast? Or half a cow?”

His phone chirped Ravel’s “Bolero.” He picked up, flashed a V. “That’s great, sir, I apprec-” The victory sign wilted as he listened for a long time.

He put the phone down and drank more water at the sink.

I said, “His Godliness ranting?”

“Lower the volume, it woulda been a rant. ‘Well, Sturgis, looks like your fucking victim is gonna be a fucking reality star for fifteen fucking minutes so get a decent fucking photo of her fucking dead face because you’ve got one fucking shot at this. And you better fucking be able to do something with it because I just swallowed a whole lot of fucking bullshit from a fucking piece-of-shit politician who’s got fucking White House connections.’ ”

I said, “When will the photo run?”

“Tonight at six. If I get my fucking ass in gear.” He smiled. “I believe I will.”

Ten-second flash at the tail end of the news. Three hours later, Milo phoned, exuberant. “Her name’s Adriana Betts and she’s originally from Boise. A cousin from Downey saw it and recognized her, called Adriana’s sister back in Idaho, the sister called me, emailed a photo. She’s flying down tomorrow, I booked Interrogation B at the Butler Avenue Hilton.”

“Did the sister have anything interesting to say about Adriana?”

“Wonderful person, not an enemy in the world, how could this happen, why do bad things happen to good people.”

That got me thinking about Jimmy Asherwood and I was hit with a strange, aching sympathy for a man I’d never known.

“Alex? You there?”

“Pardon?”

“I asked if you can make it tomorrow for the sister and you didn’t answer. Three p.m.”

“Yes,” I said.

“My favorite word.”

No DNA was needed to link Helene Johanson’s chromosomes to those of Adriana Betts.

Four years older than Adriana, Helene had a pleasant, square face, solid build, and chestnut hair that made her a near-twin to her sister. Watching her step into the interview room was unsettling: a dead woman come to life.

The match didn’t extend to style. Adriana had been found wearing a loose dress and budget shoes, both tagged by the coroner as “Walmart, made in China.” Helene’s preferences ran to designer jeans with rhinestone accents, a formfitting black ribbed top under a fringed caramel suede jacket, snakeskin cowboy boots. Her nails were polished rose-pink. The diamond studs in her ears looked real. So did the Lady Rolex on her left wrist and the Gucci bag from which she pulled out a silk, lace-edged handkerchief.

HAJ monogram on one corner. She took in the room, dried a corner of one eye.

Milo said, “Thanks for getting here so quickly, Ms. Johanson. I’m sorry it had to be for such a terrible reason.”

Helene Johanson said, “I’m sure you hear this all the time but I can’t believe this is real.”

“I hear it often, ma’am, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Are you able to talk about Adriana?”

“I’m here,” she said, with no conviction. “I guess it’s better than watching the bulls get castrated.”

“Pardon?”

“We ranch beef cattle outside of Bliss. Red and Black Angus for the organic market. This is the week some of the boys become less-than-boys. The noise and the smell are terrible, I always leave. But I’d rather be doing that than this .” She slapped the handkerchief on the table. “Lieutenant, what happened to my sister ?”

“What we know so far is she was shot in a park.”

“During the day?”

“At night, ma’am.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” said Helene Johanson. “What would Adriana be doing in a park at night? Did she make a wrong turn into a slum or something?”

“Actually, it’s a very nice neighborhood. A place called Cheviot Park. Did Adriana ever mention it?”

“No, she didn’t mention L.A., period. Why would she? She lived in San Diego.”

“Really,” said Milo. “When did she move there?”

“Around a year ago. Before that, she was a year in Portland. Why would she be in a park in L.A.?”

“Did she know anyone here?”

“Not that she ever mentioned.”

“What brought her to San Diego?”

“Same thing as Portland,” said Johanson. “A job. Babysitting. Not like a teenager doing it part-time, a real job, working for a family. She loved it. Loved children.” Her face crumpled. “Now she’ll never have any of her own-can I call my husband?”

“Sure,” said Milo.

She took a while to locate her cell in her purse, speed-dialed, spoke to “Danny” and cried.

When she hung up, Milo said, “Ms. Johanson, anything you can tell us about Adriana will be helpful. The kind of person she was, who her friends were.”

“The kind of person she was … is a good person. A wonderful person. There wasn’t a mean cell in Adriana’s body. She was kind and sincere. Very religious. We were brought up Methodist but she went for something more intense. Religion was important to her. She taught Sunday school. Preschoolers-she always loved the little ones.”

“In terms of her friends-”

“Her church group. Even before she switched. She always hung with the good kids.”

“Who’d she hang with in California?”

She twisted a diamond stud. “I guess this is the point where I tell you we weren’t close. And feel crappy about it. The entire flight I was thinking of why I didn’t pay Adriana more attention. Even if she didn’t ask for it, I should’ve included her more … I’m sorry, I don’t know. Don’t know much about her life since she left Idaho.”

“Why’d she leave Portland?”

“The people she worked for couldn’t afford her. Adriana had grown attached to the little boy but there was no choice.”

“Did she get her jobs through an employment agency?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

Milo said, “Do you have her address? In Portland, as well, if you recall.”

Head shake. “Sorry.”

“What about a phone number?”

“All she gave me was her cell.” She scrolled her own phone, read off the number. Not committed to memory; the sisters hadn’t talked often.

Milo said, “Did she tell you anything about her San Diego employers?”

“They were doctors-medical professors.”

I said, “At UC San Diego?”

“All she told me was one of them did research on cancer, Adriana was impressed by that. But I can’t tell you if it was the husband or the wife.”

“Was she happy with the job?”

“Adriana was happy about everything, she was a happy person-oh, here’s something, the little girl was adopted. Korean or Chinese, some kind of Asian.” Her eyes brightened. “Oh, yeah, her name was May, Adriana said she was adorable.”

“How long ago did you have that conversation?”

Helene Johanson’s eyes wandered. “Too long ago. Right after she started.”

Milo said, “This may sound like a stupid question, ma’am, but did Adriana have any enemies?”

“No, everyone loved Adriana. And I can’t see her falling in with a bad crowd, that wasn’t her. She liked quiet things, reading, crocheting-she’d make blankets for her church friends’ babies.”

“What about her personal relationships?”

“With men?”

“Yes.”

“She had a boyfriend in high school. Dwayne Hightower, his family farmed a big spread near where Danny and I run our Angus. Great family, everyone thought Dwayne and Adriana would be married after high school graduation. Then Dwayne got himself killed in a tractor accident and Adriana never wanted to date.” She sniffled. “All those years doing for others. It’s so unfair.”