Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“That’s it? What about the woman?”

Milo said, “Does it bother you at all?”

“What?”

“A baby.”

Her jaw tightened and her arms grew rigid. “Does it bother you ?”

“You bet.”

“Well, me, too,” she said. “So it’s settled, we both make our livings off other people’s misery but we’re still human.” She turned to me. “Guess that applies to you, too-the misery part. Tell me, did you coach him in all this psychological warfare?” She faced Milo again. “Does it bother me? Let’s put it this way: I’ve got one kid and it took me three miscarriages to get him, so no, I don’t get a thrill out of dead babies, don’t find them the least bit entertaining. Now what the hell else do you want to know?”

Milo said, “Sorry.”

“Screw the apology. Give me some meat to chew on.”

“We’ve identified the adult victim. Nothing in her past predisposes her to being murdered.”

“Name,” said LeMasters.

“Adriana Betts, originally from Idaho. She was religious, had no bad habits, worked as a nanny.”

“She took care of kids?”

“Yes.”

“That include babies?”

“In some cases.”

“That doesn’t sound like a connection to you?”

“Theoretically? Sure, Kelly, but we interviewed her employers and all their kids are alive and well. No one has a bad word to say about her.”

“Religious types can be hypocrites.”

“Anyone can.”

“What, you’re a Holy Roller? Despite what the church says about people like you?”

“Let’s stick with the case, Kelly.”

“I can’t see it,” said LeMasters. “Being Catholic and gay.” She laughed. “Unless you’re a parish priest.”

“You’re Catholic?”

“Once upon a time.”

“Nice to know you’ve got no biases.”

She frowned. “Where will you be taking the investigation?”

“Hard to say.”

“No, it’s not,” she said. “Everyone says you’re methodical as well as intuitive, always come up with a plan. So don’t hold back on me. What’s next?”

“Same answer, Kelly.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I go off-record and you give me generalities?”

“That’s because generalities are all I’ve got. I could feed you stuff that would spark your prurient interest, set you off on a useless maze-run. But it wouldn’t help my case, could even hurt it if you printed fallacious crap.”

“I thought we were working on trust here.”

“We are,” he said. “Have we reached our goal?”

“Of what?”

“Mutually advantageous buddy-hood.”

“Not even close,” she said. “I promised to keep everything under wraps and you gave me squat.”

He creased his brow. “I’m going to tell you something else but you have to pledge not to use it until I say otherwise. I mean that, Kelly. It’s essential.”

“Fine, fine. What?”

“Though of apparently sound moral character, Adriana Betts may have somehow gotten mixed up with bad people.”

“What kind of bad people?”

“This isn’t fact-based,” he said, “but possibly cult members.”

“Not fact-based? Then what?”

“Inference.”

“Yours or Dr. Delaware’s?”

“Mine.”

“You inferred from the body?” she said. “Some sort of ritual mutilation? I heard she was just shot.”

“Sorry, that’s all I can say, Kelly.”

“Church-girl in the clutches of Satan worshippers? Any freakos in particular?”

“Not even close,” he said. “I’ll be looking into that world, would welcome your input on the topic.”

“I don’t know squat about cults.”

“That makes two of us, Kelly.”

Her arms relaxed. Her eyes brightened. “Are we talking another Manson thing?”

“I sure hope not.”

“This town,” said LeMasters, “is Weirdo Central. Can you narrow it down at all?”

“Wish I could, Kelly, and you need to make sure no one knows we had this talk.”

“Like I said, I protect my sources.”

“I’m not talking legally, I mean total blackout.” His turn to move closer to her. Big black eyebrows dipped. He loomed. Kelly LeMasters shrank back. He filled another few inches of her personal space. She tried to stand her ground but the primal fear of something big and aggressive caused her to step back.

“Total,” he repeated. “You screw that up, I’ll never talk to you again and neither will anyone in the department.”

He’d lowered his voice. The resultant half whisper was movie-villain ominous.

LeMasters blinked. Forced herself to smile. “You’re threatening me?”

“I’m stating a contingency, Kelly. And here’s another one, just to show you what a nice guy I am: If you stick to your part of the deal, you’ll be the first one to know if I close the case.”

“ If , not when ?”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence, Kelly. Either way, you’ll scoop everyone. I promise.”

“How much lead time will I get?”

“Enough to close everyone out.”

“You can guarantee that?” she said. “What about your bosses?”

“Fuck ’em,” he growled.

His eyes were green slits.

Kelly LeMasters knew better than to argue.

We walked her back to Butler Avenue, watched her diminish to a beet-colored speck that turned east on Santa Monica and disappeared.

I said, “To paraphrase Persistent Kelly, what’s next?”

“I look into Mr. Wedd and you go about your normal life.”

“Whatever that means.”

“It means have a nice day. Relatively speaking.”

Holly Ruche showed up six minutes late. Blanche and I greeted her at the door. She said, “I generally don’t like dogs. But I’ve been thinking of getting one. For the baby.”

Worst reason in the world. I said, “I’m happy to keep her out of the office.”

“She’s like a therapy dog?”

“Not officially but she’s got enough credits for her own Ph.D.”

She looked down at Blanche.

Blanche beamed up at her.

She said, “What’s her name?”

“Blanche.”

“She’s kind of cute … almost like she’s smiling. Okay, I guess she can be there.”

“Up to you, Holly.”

“It’s okay. Yes, it’s definitely okay, she’s well behaved.” She took in the living room. “Stylish. You’re into contemporary.”

After a psychopath burns down your first house simplicity can be a tonic .

I smiled.

She said, “Have you been here long?”

“A while.”

“This neighborhood. Must’ve cost a fortune.”

“Let’s go to my office.”

Seated on the battered leather couch, she said, “Sorry. That crack about a fortune. No business of mine. I guess I’m just hyper about how much things cost. Especially real estate.”

“The decorating’s at a standstill?”

“Still in the talking stages.”

“You and Matt.”

She knitted her hands, gazed down. “Mostly me and me.”

“Kind of a monologue.”

She stroked her belly. She’d put on some girth and her face had grown fuller. Her hair was tied back functionally, tiny pimples paralleled her hairline. “I guess that’s part of why I’m here. He’s not available. Physically or emotionally. They go together, I guess. He works all the time.”

“Is that something new?”

Her lower lip curled. Tears seeped from under her lower lids and trickled onto her cheeks.

“I guess not,” she finally said. “I guess that’s the real problem. Nothing’s changed.”

I handed her a tissue. Kleenex should pay me a commission. “Matt’s always been work-oriented.”

“I respect that, Dr. Delaware. He’s super-responsible, that’s a big deal, right? He could be a slacker.”