Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“Not exactly ironclad.”

“Oh, there’s a good chance she did it,” said Lhermitte. “Or had someone else do it for her. Matter of fact, I’d bet on her being responsible. Two days after she was interviewed, she was gone, no forwarding.”

“I’d like to send you a picture of Qeesha-”

“Then you’d have to do it by what my grand-babies call snail mail. Got no computer, no fax machine, only one phone in the house, a rotary, as old as me, made of Bakelite. Tell you what, though, I’ll make a call and see if someone still on the job can help you.”

“Appreciate it, sir. Did Charlene actually live in the fire zone?”

“Don’t know if she did or she didn’t,” said Lhermitte. “I’ll ask about that, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

By the time a New Orleans detective named Mark Montecino had emailed asking for Milo’s fax number, Milo had already pulled up two NCIC mug shots of Charlene Rae Chambers, female black, brown and brown, five four, one oh two. A DOB that would make her twenty-seven.

Her record was unimpressive: five-year-old bust for soliciting prostitution, four-year-old bust for battery on a peace officer, both filed at a precinct in Brooklyn. Dismissal on the first, four days in jail for the second.

“Couldn’t have been heavy-duty battery,” he said.

Even disheveled and wild-eyed with fright, Charlene Chambers had photographed pretty.

I said, “She looks scared.”

“That she does.”

His fax beeped. Out slid a solicitation mug shot from New Orleans. Now she was beautiful and more composed than during her previous arrests. On the paper Mark Montecino had written, She didn’t live near the fire .

Milo ran her through the data banks. She’d never paid taxes or registered for Social Security in New York, Louisiana, Idaho, or California. No driver’s license, no registered vehicle, red or otherwise.

“Running away,” he said, “but not because she was scared of Clyde. She was worried she’d be collared for his murder. Church folk in Idaho were charitable so she took advantage. An opportunity came up here in L.A., and she was gone.”

I said, “I know it’s a stereotype but New Orleans and voodoo aren’t strangers and waxy bones sounds like something that could be part of a hex.”

“Let’s find out,” he said, turning back to his screen. “First time in a long time I’m not feeling hexed.”

Websites on New Orleans voodoo pulled up nothing about waxed infant skeletons. The closest match was a Day of the Dead offering to the ancestral spirit Gede that sometimes included bones.

Milo looked up the date of the rite. “November first. Months off.”

I said, “People improvise.”

“Some local whack concocted his own private sacrifice?”

“Making it up’s a lot easier and more lucrative than studying theology, Big Guy. Do-it-yourself religion’s the SoCal way.”

“Another Charlie Manson. Wonderful.”

“To a devout woman like Adriana, black-arts worship would’ve been the worst kind of heresy. But Qeesha could have been attracted to an occult group because it reminded her of her time in New Orleans. If it started to bother her and she wanted out and told Adriana about it, I’m betting Adriana would’ve jumped at helping her.”

“It was Qeesha picking her up in that red car.”

“Doesn’t sound as if unregistered wheels would be a problem for Qeesha.”

“Coupla old friends trying to escape the zombie horde.”

I said, “What if Qeesha’s involvement with the horde included getting pregnant? With Daddy being a loony warlock who ended up killing her and the baby? Adriana went looking for them, paid for her loyalty.”

“Adriana bailed on the Changs three months ago but she got shot a few days ago. What happened during the interim, Alex? Are we talking about a patient bunch of freaks? Because there’s no evidence she was confined. Zero signs of abuse on her body and those lig marks were relatively fresh.”

“Maybe she was careful, snooping around without showing herself. Until she did.”

He rubbed his face. “A picture just flashed in my head.”

“Black-robed ghouls chanting ominously in the moonlight?”

“You’re getting a little scary, dude.”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Ph.D.’s in psych,” I said. “The state grants us a license to mind-read.”

“What am I thinking now?”

“You’re back in Bizarro World with no damn leads.”

“Oh, man,” he said. “This case ever closes, we’re definitely playing the stock market.”

His desk phone jangled.

Dr. Clarice Jernigan said, “New lab result. Your victim Adriana Betts was dosed up before she was shot. Nothing illegal, her blood showed high concentrations of diphenhydramine. Your basic firstgeneration antihistamine, what they put in Benadryl.”

“How much is high, Doc?”

“Not a lethal dosage but enough to sedate her profoundly or put her out completely.”

“She was knocked out first, then shot.”

“That’s the sequence, Milo. To me it says a calculated offender operating in a highly structured manner. Seeing as her murder is probably related to that infant skeleton, we’re obviously dealing with someone who operates on a different psychiatric plane. Have you spoken to Delaware recently?”

I said, “Right here, Clarice.”

“Hi, Alex. I’m thinking a sociopath with some looseness of thought around the edges, or someone downright deranged who manages to keep his craziness under wraps. Not necessarily schizophrenic but maybe an isolated paranoid delusion. Make sense?”

“It does, Clarice. I’m also wondering if we’ve got a killer who lacks physical strength.”

“He uses a downer to incapacitate her? Sure, why not? What’s your take on the baby?”

“Beyond cruel.”

“Sorry I asked.”

After she hung up, Milo said, “Lack of physical strength. As in female?”

“Ray Lhermitte pegs Qeesha as a likely murderer. What if she acquired a taste for power and became a cult queen?”

“No warlock,” he said, “a nasty little witch. That’s turning it a whole new way. You’re saying she killed Adriana? What’s the motive? And why bring Adriana back to L.A. to do it?”

“Could’ve been something religious,” I said. “Uncomfortable truths about the cult. Adriana was outraged, threatened to go to the cops. That could explain the diphenhydramine. A relatively humane way to eliminate a former friend.”

“Then why shoot her in the head? Why not just poison her straight out?”

I had no answer for that.

He said, “Qeesha as Devil Spawn. We keep jumping around like frogs on a griddle. Sit around long enough, we can probably come up with another hundred scenarios.”

He stood, hitched his trousers. “One way or the other, I need to look for Ms. D’Embo aka Chambers aka God-Knows-Who-Else.”

I said, “If she’s driving unregistered wheels she could wrongly assume that’s another layer of security.”

“So focus on the car, maybe it’s stolen.”

“Starting with people who frequent the park.”

“And there’s restricted parking at night, so check for citations. Yeah, I like it, it’s damn close to normal police work.”

Moe Reed and Sean Binchy reported nothing fruitful from the canvass of park employees, patrons, and nearby residents. Both would re-inquire about red cars and dark SUVs.

While Milo checked the grand theft auto file I stepped into the hall and phoned Holly Ruche.

She said, “I hope you’re not mad at me. For canceling.”

“I’m sure you had a good reason.”