Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“Like command central? I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think or you don’t know?”

Prema blinked. “No, there’s nothing like that.”

“How many computers on the premises?”

“Don’t know that, either. Sorry.”

“You have a smart-house setup? Crestron running the lights, the utilities, your home theater, all your toys?”

“We do have a system, but I’m not sure the computers go through it.”

“Show me your personal machine. We’ll work backward from there.”

“Right now?”

“You got something better to do?” Burns began stacking his dolly.

Milo pointed to the papers in Prema’s hand.

She said, “I pulled phone records for the last six months. Every line that goes through this property.”

Without looking back, Burns said, “Landlines and cells?”

“Yes.”

“Your employees have personal cell accounts?”

“I’m sure they do-”

“Then that’s not every line.” He made another trip to the van.

“Well … yes,” said Prema. “I just wanted to help.”

Tyler O’Shea appeared with Sally in tow.

Prema said, “A dog?”

Milo said, “While you work with Detective Burns on the hardware, Officer O’Shea will be exploring the property with Sally.”

O’Shea, young, virile, muscular, gawked at Prema. When he managed to engage eye contact, he beamed.

She smiled back. O’Shea blushed.

“Hi, Sally, aren’t you a pretty girl?” She reached to pet the dog. O’Shea blocked her with his arm. “Sorry, ma’am, she needs to concentrate.”

“Oh, of course-concentrate on what?”

Milo said, “Finding anything interesting.”

“You think you’ll find evidence here?”

“We need to be thorough, Ms. Moon.”

Sally’s leash strained as she oriented herself toward the forest. Her nose twitched. She panted faster.

Prema said, “Sally’s one of those … dogs that look for bodies?”

O’Shea said, “That’s part of her repertoire, ma’am.”

“Oh, my.” Head shake.

“What’s back there in the trees, ma’am?”

“Just trees. Honestly, you’re not going to find anything.”

“Hope you’re right, ma’am.” O’Shea clicked his tongue twice. He and Sally headed out at a quick trot.

Morry Burns returned. Tapped his foot. Checked his watch.

Milo said, “Who’s working on the premises today, ma’am?”

“Just the core staff,” she said. “The maids and the cook. Do you need to talk to them?”

“Eventually. Meanwhile, go with Detective Burns. Dr. Delaware and I will stroll around a bit.”

Prema forced a half smile. “Of course. He’s a psychologist, anything can be interesting.”

First stop: the four walls of cypress. An opening on the east side led us into a flat area the size of two football fields. One corner was devoted to a safety-fenced half-Olympic pool with a padlocked, alarmed gate. The opposing corner housed a sunken tennis court. Diagonal to that were a regulation basketball court, a rubber-matted area set up with four trampolines, a moon-bounce, a tetherball pole, two Ping-Pong tables, and a sand pit that hosted a plastic slide, a swing-set, a seesaw, and a yellow vinyl tunnel-maze.

Milo said, “Kid-Heaven, courtesy Super Mom. What’s that, making up for her own shitty childhood?”

“Could be, if you’re in an analytical mood.”

“You’re not?”

“Let’s find the maids and the cook.”

The interior of the house was what you’d expect: the requisite vaulted rooms, quarry-emptying expanses of marble, enough polished wood to threaten a rain forest. The art on the walls was professionally spaced, perfectly framed and lit: oil paintings biased toward women and children as subjects and the kind of pastel landscape that combats insomnia.

The maids were easy to find. Imelda Rojas polished silver in the dining room, Lupe Soto folded laundry in a white-tiled utility room the size of some New York apartments, Maria Elena Miramonte tidied up a playroom that would thrill a preschool class. All three women were in their sixties, solidly built and well groomed, wearing impeccable powder-blue uniforms.

Milo spoke to them individually.

Easy consensus: Senora Prema was wonderful.

Senor Donny was never here.

Despite that, Rader’s name elicited tension but when Milo asked Imelda Rojas what she thought of him she insisted she didn’t know. He kept up the questioning but stepped aside early on and punted to me. My doctorate wasn’t any help, at first; Maria and Imelda were unable, or unwilling, to articulate their feelings about Rader. Then Lupe Soto opined that he was “a sinner,” and when pressed, specified the nature of Rader’s iniquities.

“ Putas , always.”

“Lots of girls.”

“No girls, senor, putas . Is good he no live here. Better for the chillin they no see that.”

“He used to bring putas here?”

Lupe said, “You kidding? Always there.”

“His place.”

“Yeah, but we know.”

“How?”

“The TV in the kitchen.”

“Could you show me, please?”

She led us down a double staircase too grand for Tara through a succession of big bright sitting rooms and into a tin-ceilinged, maple-and-steel kitchen easily forty feet long. Mounted on the far wall were a dozen small screens.

Lupe Soto pointed to one. The image was inert. One of the wooden gates.

“See?”

I said, “He didn’t try to hide what he was doing.”

“Nah.”

I showed her the well-worn mug shot of Charlene Chambers aka Qeesha D’Embo aka Simone Chambord.

“La negra?” said Lupe Soto. “Yeah, she, too.”

“She went over to Senor Donny’s place?”

“All the time. But I don tell Senora Prema.”

“Why not?”

“Not my business.” She placed a hand over her heart.

“No one wanted to hurt her feelings.”

“Yeh.”

“What’s Simone-this woman-like?”

“Who she like? Him.” She sneered. “Puta.”

“What kind of person is she?”

“Smile a lot, move a lot hoo hoo hoo.” Illustrating with a brief shake of ample hips. “Then she have the baby and she go way.”

“When did she have a baby?”

“Mebbe … four, fie month ago?”

“And when did she leave?”

“I don remember, senor.”

“Where’d she go after she left?”

“Dunno. Now, I gotta work.”

We revisited the other two maids, repeated the same questions. More of the original reticence. But Imelda Rojas’s eyes were jumpy.

I said, “You’re sure you have no idea where Simone went?”

“Nup.”

“What kind of car did she drive?”

“Car? Red.” Giggle. “ Rojo . Like mi nombre -my name.” More amusement. “My car is white.”

“Thought the red car was Mel Wedd’s.”

“Him? No.”

“You never saw him drive the red car?”

“Nup, I see a black one. Big.” She shaped a circle with her hands. “Like Senor Donny car.”

“Mel and Senor Donny drove the same type of car?”

“Zactly the same,” she said. “Senor Donny got a lot of cars.” She thought. “Mebbe he give one to Senor Mel.”

“He likes Senor Mel?”

“Dunno.” No objection to my usage of present tense. No idea Wedd had been murdered.

“Is Senor Mel a nice person?”

“I gue-ess.”

“He treats you well?”

“I don work with him.”

“Was he friendly with Simone Chambord?”

“Everyone here friendly. Senora Prema the more friendly.”

“More than-”

“All peoples. She for the kids.”

“Senor Donny-”

Head shake. “I gotta work.”

“What about Adriana?”