Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“Do you know who she went to work for?”

“Of course,” she said. “The Changs.”

“You know them?”

“No, but Adriana gave us their address so we could forward mail. They’re doctors.”

“Better financial bet,” said Bradley.

Milo said, “Did she get much mail for forwarding?”

“Actually, not a single piece. Even when she lived here it was just junk-coupons she gave to us. Oh, yeah, she also got occasional correspondence from her church back in Idaho.”

Susan said, “Tabernacle Something. I guess she was a fundamentalist. But it’s not like she was heavy-handed, some kind of Jesus freak.”

“Did she find a church in Portland?”

“She went every Sunday,” she said. “Ten to noon, that’s the only time she left for any stretch. Can’t tell you where the church was, though, because we never asked and she never said.”

“Anything else you think would help us?”

Bradley said, “Sue?”

Susan said, “No, sorry.”

Milo said, “How about the address in La Jolla?”

Susan said, “Hold on, I’ll find it.”

Seconds later, she was reading off the P.O.B. Milo had just called.

He gestured obscenely. “One more question: Did you find Adriana through an agency?”

“Nope,” said Bradley, “through an ad we ran in the paper.”

“It wasn’t as risky as it sounds,” said Susan. “We ran a background check through a friend, he does security for one of the hotels. He said she came up absolutely spotless.”

“Could we have his name?”

Silence. “That’s absolutely necessary?”

“There’s a problem, ma’am?”

“Well,” said Susan, “actually, he’s not a friend, he’s my brother and I’m not sure he’s allowed to freelance with the hotel account.”

“I promise not to get him in trouble, Ms. Van Dyne, just want to find out anything I can about Adriana.”

“Okay. Michael Ramsden. Here’s his number.”

“Appreciate it and if you think of anything, here’s mine.”

“It really makes no sense,” said Bradley. “Whoever did this has to be mentally ill or something.”

“Absolutely,” said Susan. “Adriana was so stable, Lucas adored her. I am not going to tell him what happened.”

Michael Ramsden was caught off-guard by the call from Milo.

He said, “Who?”

“Adriana Betts.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Hmm,” said Milo. “So I guess your sister lied.”

“Hold on-let me switch to another phone.” Moments later: “Are we talking the housekeeper?”

“Susan said you backgrounded her.”

“All I did was the basics, nothing anyone couldn’t do online, so I’d appreciate your not making a big deal of it.”

“Doing it on company time.”

“Coffee-break time,” said Ramsden. “My personal laptop, my sister was satisfied. You’re saying someone killed this girl?”

“Yes.”

“Whoa,” said Ramsden. “Well, there was nothing in her record to suggest that might happen.”

“Spotless?”

“That’s what the computer said.”

A scan of the UCSD med school faculty revealed that Donald Chang, M.D., was a fellow in vascular surgery and Lilly Chang, Ph.D., worked in Oncology as a cell biologist. He was in the operating room. She answered her extension.

“Adriana? Oh, no, that’s terrible. In L.A.?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Well,” she said, “I suppose that might explain it.”

“Explain what, Dr. Chang?”

“Her flaking on us,” she said. “At least that’s what we assumed. Not at the outset, mind you. Our initial worry was something had happened to her, because she’d always been so reliable, never even went out at night. Then about three months ago she said she was meeting a friend for dinner and never came back. We called the police, checked E.R.’s, were really worried. When she didn’t answer her phone we figured she’d bailed and got pretty irate, I have to tell you. Both of us work all day and now there was no one for May. We complained to the agency and they gave us a discount on her replacement.”

“What about her car?”

“She didn’t have one, used the bus or walked. Obviously that would restrict her but as I said, she wasn’t much for going out.”

“Until she was,” said Milo.

“Well, yes,” said Lilly Chang. “I’m so sorry to hear what happened to her. It happened in L.A.? That’s where she went?”

“Did she ever talk about L.A.?”

“Never,” said Lilly Chang.

“What agency did you get her from?”

“Happy Tots. They were highly apologetic.”

“What happened to Adriana’s personal effects?”

“The little she had we boxed and stored. It’s still there because, frankly, we forgot about it.”

“We’d like to come down and pick up the boxes.”

“Sure, they’re just sitting in our storage unit. There really wasn’t much.”

“How about we come down today?”

“This evening would be okay, I guess. After seven thirty, I’ve got meetings until six thirty, want to put May to bed myself.”

“No problem, Doctor. While we’re there, if we could chat a bit more with you and your husband that would be great.”

“There really isn’t anything to chat about.”

“I’m sure, Doctor, but this is a homicide and we need to be thorough.”

“Of course. But if you want Donald, it’ll have to be even later-no earlier than nine, probably closer to ten.”

“He keeps long hours.”

“Long would be good,” said Lilly Chang. “More like infinite.”

Milo phoned Happy Tots Child Care Specialists, spoke to a woman named Irma Rodriguez who sounded as if she was wrestling with abdominal pain.

“That one,” she said. “She sure fooled us.”

“About what, ma’am?”

“Thinking she was reliable. What trouble’s she gotten herself into?”

“Death,” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“She was murdered.”

“Oh good Lord,” said Rodriguez. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was, ma’am. How’d Adriana come to register with you?”

“She phoned us, emailed references from her previous employers, was lucky the job with the Changs came up right then. That’s a good solid job, I was p.o.’d at Adriana for treating them so shabbily.”

“What was Adriana like?”

“Well,” said Rodriguez, “usually I meet applicants face-to-face but with the quality of her references and the perfect background check, I figured she’d be okay.”

“Who supplied the references?”

“Hold on.”

Several moments of dead air before she returned. “Only one but it was good. Mr. and Mrs. Van Dyne from Portland, Oregon. Someone killed her, huh? You just never know.”

I called Robin, told her I’d either be home late or spend the night in San Diego, explained why.

She said, “A nanny. Everything seems to revolve around little ones.”

“Seems to,” I said, picturing a paper-doll chain of tiny skeletons.

“If you do come home tonight, wake me, no matter how late.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I miss your feet in the bed. The way you end up in some weird position and I’m stretching and groping to find you.”

“Love you.”

“That’s another way of saying it. Whoever drives, be careful.”

We left the station at five fifteen. Rather than brave rush-hour freeway traffic, Milo took surface streets to Playa Del Rey, where we had dinner at a dockside Italian place with C decor and A food.

He said, “Leave the driving to moi, you can have wine, Mr. Wingman.”

We both drank coffee and by seven thirty I was feeling keyed up but no clearer on who’d want to kill a near-saintly woman. Once we got on the 405 South, Milo turned quiet and I picked up my messages.