Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“If I’ve overstepped, I’m sorry.”

“Overstepped?” He laughed. “More like you’ve invented new dance moves. What day does the garbage get taken out at that place?”

Milo said, “I’ll find out.” He walked to the dining room doorway, talked on his cell.

The chief returned to his ribs, tried some pepper steak. Pincer-grasped a plump little pink shrimp out of the fried rice. “Not hungry, Doc?”

“Actually, I am.” I tried a rib. Greasy and delicious.

“Just like you,” said the chief.

“Pardon?”

“You’re like the damn ribs. Unhealthy but satisfying. Congratulations, Sturgis plodded along but you’re the one who learned something.”

“He-”

“No need to defend him, I know what he is, he’s good at what he does, as good as I’m gonna get. You, on the other hand, are a different animal. You piss me off without trying. You also make me wonder what the department would be like if everyone was super-smart and psychotically driven. Don’t tell Sturgis I said that, you’ll hurt his feelings.”

He and I ate in silence until Milo returned.

“Garbage collection’s in two days, sir.”

“Be there before the trucks arrive, Sturgis. Wear comfortable clothes and bring enough empty barrels to haul away every bit of trash. Don’t be noticed. Separate anything with DNA potential and run a match to the baby bones. Maybe this Qeesha character is still alive and shedding cells, we find an eyebrow pencil, a tampon, whatever, that links her to the bones, we’re a step forward. We also get an accurate victim count, two not three, and think of her as a homicidal bitch who killed her own kid.”

Milo said, “DNA analysis could take a while.”

“I’ll speed it through to the max.”

“Until then-”

“Until then you and your geniuses try to do what the doctor, an allegedly untrained civilian, was apparently able to accomplish: Watch the goddamn place without being seen. Prema or Donny or Qeesha appear, they get tailed. With finesse. Seduction, not rape, Sturgis.”

“Got it, sir.” Milo started to rise.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Getting back to work.”

“This is work, Sturgis. Amusing the boss. Now don’t let me down, I want to see some calorie consumption.”

Amusing the boss translated to a quarter hour of near-silent scarfing. The chief was a lean man but he had a staggering capacity for intake. We watched him polish off the ribs and pick all the shrimp out of the rice before he shot a French cuff and smiled at his Patek Philippe. On cue, the burly duo got up and headed toward us. The chief got to his feet, buttoned his jacket.

He looked down at Milo. “Who’s paying for this repast?”

Milo said, “If you’d like-”

“Just kidding, Sturgis, I don’t exploit the workingman. Or in your case, Doc, the theorizing man.”

He threw bills on the table. “Stay as long as you like. Just be gone in ten minutes so you can resume what the city pays you for, Sturgis.”

Before his minions could reach him, he race-walked out of the room.

Milo looked at the picked-over rice. “Would your Hollywood buddies call that a good meeting?”

“My buddies?”

“Contacts, whatever.”

“Well,” I said, “depends on whether the picture gets made.”

We left the restaurant, headed to a parking lot across Hill Street.

Milo said, “He talked a good case but what I got out of it was ‘let’s stall.’ ”

“Why’d you call him?”

“I didn’t, I called Maria. She listened, hung up, two minutes later his secretary informs me where to go for lunch.”

I said, “He’s got to know he can’t forestall the inevitable.”

“Maybe, but he’ll sure try. So with Prema getting the bugs and the tools, what’s our theory?”

“Maybe competitive culling.”

“Meaning?”

“One female eliminates another’s offspring in order to maintain dominance and eliminate competition for the desirable male. Big cats and primates do it all the time, and where polygamy exists, humans do it, too.”

“Donny’s the baby’s daddy?”

“Movie star, attractive younger woman with a penchant for manipulation?”

“Yeah, that’s a recipe. So what, Donny was big-time naughty with Qeesha-Simone, whatever-but Prema wants to hold on to him anyway?”

“Prema wants to avoid public humiliation.”

“Manipulation,” he said. “If it’s true, think Qeesha planned to get pregnant?”

“Could be. A baby with Donny Rader could kick up her lifestyle.”

“If she held on to her life.”

I said, “Maybe Qeesha wanted more than generous child support. Maybe she thought she could actually replace the Queen Bee. Unfortunately for her, the Queen figured it out and took care of business. That could explain why the bones were treated so cruelly: deconstructing the competition, reducing the problem to a lab specimen in a coldly efficient way. It would also serve as a warning to Donny. Look what I’m capable of when I’m threatened.”

“Where does Wedd fit in?”

“To me he still looks good as Adriana’s killer, because even with doping her up, I don’t see Prema managing to physically restrain another woman, drive her to the park, shoot her. Plus, Wedd’s car was spotted near the scene. Wedd could’ve also dispatched Qeesha-talk about your efficient estate manager. But at some point he turned expendable.”

“Queen Bee tying up loose ends.”

“She’s a tall woman,” I said, “might fit the seat position on the Explorer. Getting Wedd to drive her somewhere wouldn’t be a problem. Attending to her needs was his job. And the spot where he got shot isn’t that far from the compound. Laurel up to Mulholland, hook west to Coldwater, drive a few miles. For someone in good shape, no challenge walking back.”

“Shoot a guy, mosey on home, do Pilates,” he said.

“And maybe ditch the gun along the way.”

He phoned Sean Binchy, ordered him to search Mulholland Drive between Laurel and Coldwater for a.45.

I said, “Qeesha was an experienced con. Had enough street smarts to pick up on any growing tension at the compound. She called in Adriana for support because she was unwilling to give up her dream. Figured if she could hold out until the baby was born, Donny would bond with his child and protect her.”

He said, “Buzz buzz buzz goes the Queen Bee and the Drone wimps out.”

We reached the Seville. He pointed to his unmarked, several vehicles up the row. “Off to garbage patrol.”

“When will you start the surveillance?”

“After the trash reap. Why?”

“I’m kind of into hiking,” I said. “For the exercise.”

He looked at me. “Free country. Hope you get good weather.”

I was back on Coldwater by nine the following morning, had added a small backpack. Inside was a pair of miniature binoculars, two bottles of water, a few snacks.

Being noticed wouldn’t be a problem, just the opposite, but that was good: I was now that guy who parked his Cadillac on the turnoff and was foolish enough to brave oncoming traffic in the name of aerobics.

I’d also brought a companion: Blanche trotted along happily at the end of the short, pink leash she favors when making personal appearances. I made sure to keep her away from the road and she picked up the drill quickly, heeling and adjusting herself to my pace, breathing audibly but easily.

Nothing like a dog to make you look harmless. Especially a small cute dog and there’s nothing cuter than a French bulldog.

And no Frenchie is more appealing than Blanche.

Still, she’s not a setter or a retriever and even with cool weather and ample hydration, I knew my time would be limited by her stubby legs and her flat face.