Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“Yes, sir.”

Flecks of foam had collected at the corners of Brent’s mouth. He made claws out of his hands, scratched air. “I put everything into it, Alex. Hadn’t taken on another client the entire year and I’m talking names, people pissed off at me. Everything else came my way, I delegated to other agents at the firm. So of course, my alleged friends and colleagues held on to everything after I got … after the deal got murdered and I had nothing, was starting from fucking scratch and my credibility’s worse than a politician. Everything changed. I got moved to a new office. Want to take odds it was bigger? Don’t.” Long sigh. “But I’m getting back to a good place in my life, every day’s progress.”

He shoved his plate to the side. “The deal was perfection, every meeting was perfection. And for a bullshit reason like that? Give me a fucking break.”

I said, “Thought they didn’t give you a reason?”

“I said that? I never said that. What I said was people like that don’t have to have a reason. Yeah, they gave an excuse. Family matters. And that’s after I referred them to you, so what the fuck was their problem?”

His eyelids dropped farther. “Here’s a confession, Alex. For a while I got paranoid. About you. Did they go see you and you laid some shrink crap on them-spend more time with the kids, whatever-and that’s what fucked things up? For a while I had … thoughts about you. Then I realized I was getting psycho, if I didn’t watch out I’d go totally psycho.”

He reached across, patted my wrist. “I have to be honest, that’s one reason I wanted to meet with you. To find out what the fuck happened. So now I find out you don’t know what the fuck happened and you’re asking me what the fuck happened. Funny. Ironic. Ha ha ha. And they’re in some kind of trouble. Good. I’m happy. They should rot in hell.”

“What kind of people are they?”

“What kind do you think? Selfish, narcissistic, inconsiderate, he’s an idiot, she’s a controlling bitch. You buy that Super Mom-Super Dad crap? It’s just part of the facade, everything about people like that is a facade. You ever hear him talk? Dluh dluh dluh dluh. That’s what passes for James Dean, now. Welcome to my world.”

The waiter came over. “Anything else, gents? Coffee?”

Brent said, “No. Check.”

I paid.

Brent said, “Good man.”

I reached Milo at the coroner’s.

“Just watched a.45 slug get pulled out of Wedd’s head, a weapon ever shows up, it’s early Christmas. His apartment was vacant except for a mattress on the bedroom floor and some over-the-counter pharmaceuticals in the john. He used to get heartburn and headaches, now he’s passed both along to me. Had the place dusted, sent the meds and the mattress to the lab, located one relative, Wedd’s brother, cowboy-type in Montana where Wedd’s originally from. No contact with Brother Mel for years, was appropriately shocked about the murder, said Mel was always the wild one but he never figured it would get that bad.”

He paused for breath.

I said, “Wild but no criminal record.”

“Minor-league stuff when he was young-joyriding, malicious pranks, neighborhood mischief, a few fights. No criminal record because the sheriff was his uncle, he’d bring Mel home and Mel’s dad would whup him. Then Mel got bigger than Dad and the parents basically gave up.”

“When did he come to L.A.?”

“Ten years ago, brother’s had no contact with him since. He wasn’t surprised to know Mel had gone Hollywood. Said the only thing Mel liked in high school was theater arts, he was always getting starring roles, could sing like Hank Williams, do impressions. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, you name it.”

“I’ve got something. You might even think of it as progress.”

I told him about the order from JayMar Lab, my talks with Kevin Dubinsky and Brent Dorf. Leaving out Len Coates because everything he knew was secondhand.

Milo said, “Knives and beetles. Her.”

“Purchased right around the time the baby was born. Poor little thing might’ve been targeted in utero.”

“I need to digest this … got time? My office, an hour.”

Midway through the drive to the station, I got a call from Len.

“Alex, I can’t tell you where I got this, so don’t ask, okay?”

“Okay.”

“The client we discussed did in fact opt for a therapist other than yourself. But the contact was limited to a single visit so obviously there was some serious resistance going on, don’t take it personally.”

“Thanks for the reassurance, Len.”

“Well,” he said, “we have feelings, too, no one likes to be passed over.”

“Agreed. One visit for what?”

He cleared his throat. “Here’s what I can tell you, please don’t ask for more: Client shows up late, can’t seem to articulate a good reason for being there, leaves before the session is over.”

I said, “Trouble focusing.” Thinking of Donny Rader’s voice on the line, his reputation as a barely literate dullard.

Then Len slipped and changed all that. “She … there was a lot of generalized anxiety, no ability to … explicate. Basically, it amounted to nothing, Alex, so I don’t see anything you can do with it.”

She .

“I’m sure you’re right, Len. Thanks.”

“Law enforcement issues notwithstanding, Alex, none of this can ever be repeated to anyone.”

“I get it, Len. You have my word.”

“Good … you still taking patients?”

“Infrequently.”

“I’m asking because sometimes I get run-over. Good cases, not bullshit ones, things get crazy-busy, I could use backup.”

“Beyond your associates.”

“They’re kids, Alex. We’re vets. You interested?”

“Something short-term, in a pinch, I might be able to help.”

“Pretty busy, yourself.”

“It can get that way.”

“Playing Sherlock, huh? Ever think of selling yourself to TV? Make a good series.”

“Not really.”

“No interest at all?”

“I like the quiet life.”

“Think about it anyway, I’d produce in a heartbeat. And don’t be a stranger.”

I continued toward the station, thought about Donny Rader setting up an appointment, Prema Moon showing up late and leaving early, unable to explain what she was after.

A couple of nervous, caring parents? That didn’t fit with the notion of cold-blooded baby killers. Something was off. I was struggling with that when Milo rang in.

“Almost there,” I said.

“Change of plans.”

He laid them out. I got on the freeway, sped downtown.

The chief had opted to hide in plain sight, designating the meet at Number One Fortune Dim Sum Palace, one of those arena-sized places in Chinatown that still feature gluey chop suey, oil-drenched moo goo gai pan, and seafood of mysterious origin.

The air was humid with steam, sweat, and MSG. Linoleum floors had been pounded dull by decades of feet. The walls were red, green, more red, raised panels embossed with gold dragon medallions and outsized renderings of birds, fish, and bats. Chinese lettering might have meant something. Hundreds of lunchers were crammed into vault-like dining rooms, tended by ancient waiters in black poly Mao suits and tasseled gold beanies who moved as if running for their lives.

Enough clatter and din to make the Grill seem like a monastery. If there was a caste system behind this seating scheme, I couldn’t decipher it, and when Milo asked to be directed to the chief’s table, the stunning hostess looked at him as if he was stupid.

“We don’t take reservations and we have eight rooms.”