Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

We were face-to-face. He was concentrating on the sidewalk, didn’t notice. When my shadow intruded on his, his head rose and he gave a start and tried to move past me.

I blocked him. “Kevin?”

“Do I know you?”

“No, but you do know JayMar Laboratory Supplies.”

“Huh?”

I held my LAPD consultant I.D. badge close to my thigh, raised it just enough so he had to strain to read the part I wasn’t covering with my thumb.

Showcasing the always-impressive department seal while concealing my name and ambiguous title.

“Police?”

I said, “Could I have a moment of your time, Kevin?”

His mouth opened wide. So did the carved oak door, ejecting more suits, male and female, a large group buoyant with liberation, headed our way, laughing raucously.

Someone said, “Hey, Kev.”

The quarry waved.

I said, “I can show them the badge, too.”

His jaws clenched. “Don’t.”

“Your call, Kev.” Walking back to Wilshire, I returned to the sweater display, kept my eye on him while pretending to study my cell phone.

Co-workers coalesced around him. A woman said something and pointed across Wilshire. Smiling painfully, he shook his head. The group continued on, merry as carolers. Crossing the boulevard, they continued toward a restaurant on the ground floor of a black-glass office building.

El Bandito Grill.

A banner proclaimed Happy Hour!!!

Not for Kevin Dubinsky.

As I waited for him, he kicked one heel with the other. Contemplating an alternative. Failing to come up with one, he removed his glasses and swung them at his side as pipe-stem legs propelled him toward me.

When he got close, he mumbled, “What’s going on?”

I said, “How ’bout we walk while we chat?”

“Chat about what?”

“Or we could talk right here, Kevin.” I pulled out the photocopied order form.

JayMar Laboratory Supplies, Chula Vista, California

Five hundred dermestid beetles and a set of surgical tools, including a bone saw, purchased four months ago.

It had taken me a while to get the info. Call after futile call using the address of the compound off Coldwater Canyon.

The pitch: “I’m calling to renew an order for dermestid beetles …”

No one knew what I was talking about. Then I realized I’d goofed big-time. People like that didn’t do things for themselves. After substituting Apex Management’s shipping address-a warehouse in Culver City-I had confirmation by the seventh call, a nice clean fax of the form.

Kevin Dubinsky’s name at the bottom as “purchaser.”

Facebook and LinkedIn supplied all I needed to know about him. Let’s hear it for cyber-truth.

He turned away from the order form. “So? It’s my job.”

“Exactly, Kev. Your job’s what we need to discuss.”

“Why?”

“You buy flesh-eating insects and scalpels regularly?”

“I figured it was …” He shut his mouth.

“It was what?”

“Nothing.” Flash of bitter smile. “I’m not paid to think.”

“Are you paid not to think?”

No answer.

“What you take home, Kev, you might want to reconsider your priorities.”

“There’s a problem?”

“Only if you don’t cooperate.”

“With what?”

“Better I ask the questions.”

“Something bad happened?”

“I don’t visit people to talk about jaywalking, Kev.”

“Oh, shit-what’s going on?”

“Like I said, Kev, the less you know the better.”

“Shit.” He licked his lips, began walking east on Wilshire. I kept up with his long stride. All those years with Milo, great practice.

I said, “Tell me about it.”

“I don’t remember specifics.”

“You buy what you’re told, all part of the job.”

“That is the job. Period.”

“Service assistant.”

“Yeah, it’s stupid, I know. I need to eat, okay?”

“You get a call to-”

“Never a call, always email.”

“Buy me bugs.”

“I order all kinds of things. That’s what I’m paid to do.”

“You do all the purchasing for the Premadonny compound?”

“No, just …” Head shake.

“Just things they don’t want their name on?”

Silence. Wrong guess. I’d try the same question later.

“So how many times have you ordered beetles and knives?”

“Just that once.”

“You didn’t find it weird?”

“Wondering wastes time.”

“Busy guy,” I said. “They work you hard.”

“Like I said, I like to eat.”

“Don’t we all.”

He stopped. “You don’t get it. I don’t ask questions and I’m not allowed to answer any.”

“About …”

“Anything. Ever. That’s Rule Number One. Numbers Two through Ten say refer back to One.”

“That sounds like something your boss told you.”

No reply.

I said, “Privacy’s a big deal for Premadonny.”

“They’re all like that.”

“Stars?”

“You can call ’em that.”

“What do you call ’em?”

“The gods.” His lips turned down. A sneer full of reflexive disdain. The same flavor of contempt I’d heard in Len Coates’s voice.

Perfect opening for me.

“Funny, Kev, you’d think they’d want nothing but attention.”

“They want it, all right. On their terms.” Long slow intake of breath. “Now I’m fucked, I already said too much.”

I said, “Service assistant. That could mean anything.”

Kevin Dubinsky emitted a high, coarse sound that didn’t approach laughter. “It means fucking gopher . Know what they actually pay me?”

“Not much.”

“Less than that.” He laughed.

Resisting the urge to pluck the loose thread from his collar, I said, “That’s the way the Industry works. The gods perch on Olympus, the peasants grovel.”

“Better believe it.”

“So no sense getting screwed on their account, Kevin.”

“I like to eat , man.”

“I’m discreet. Tell me about the job.”

“What’s to tell? I order stuff.”

More eye movement. Time to revisit his first evasion. I said, “Not for the entire compound.”

He gnawed his lip.

“Eventually we’re going to find out, Kevin, no sense complicating your life by getting tagged as uncooperative.”

“Please. I can’t help you.”

“Who’d you buy that crap for?”

Silence.

I said, “Or maybe we should assume you bought it for your own personal use, that could get really interesting.”

“Her, okay? I only buy for her, he’s got his own slave.”

“Who’s that?”

“Like I know? I do what I’m told.”

“You buy stuff she doesn’t want traced back to her.”

“I buy for her because she can’t dirty her hands being a real person.” He laughed, patted a trouser pocket. “I use a Centurion-a black card-just for her swag. Get to pretend every day.”

“Must get interesting.”

“Nah, it sucks.”

“Boring purchases?”

“Boring expensive purchases.” He mimed gagging himself with a finger.

I said, “You buy, the stuff ships to Culver City, the paperwork gets filed somewhere else, so if someone goes through her garbage they can’t figure out what she’s into.”

“Maybe that’s part of it,” he said. “I always figure, it’s God forbid they do anything for themselves.”

“Do you handle groceries and stuff like that?”

“Nah, that goes through her staff at the compound.”

“What do you buy?”

“ ‘Special purchases.’ ”

“Meaning?”

“Whatever she feels like.”

We walked half a block before he stopped again, drew me to another display window. Manikins who’d have to plump up to be anorexic were draped in black crepe garments that might be coats. Blank white faces projected grief. Nothing like a funeral for selling product.