Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

She tapped a foot. “What am I supposed to do, sit around like his mother and have no fun and tell stories from the old country?”

Milo said, “Sounds like good riddance, Nina, but we’re investigating a murder, so if you can remember the last time you were with Jay, that would be helpful.”

“Ex-wife,” she said. “Liar-was she hot?”

“The way we found her, not in the least. Can you remember?”

“Of course I can remember, I’m not old. The last time was… two nights ago.” She smiled. “Every night until two nights ago. Then I told him I needed a rest.”

“Five nights ago, as well?”

“I just told you: every night.”

“What time?”

“Jay comes over after work, five thirty, five forty.”

“How long does he stay?”

“Long as I want him to.” Her head drew back. She laughed. “That’s a cheeky question.”

“Pardon?”

“You want to know do we do it all night. Why’s that your business?”

“Sorry for any misunderstanding,” said Milo. “What I’m after is can Jay’s whereabouts be accounted for five nights ago.”

“Five nights,” said Nina Hassan. “Wait out here.”

She returned moments later with a receipt. “Here it is, five nights ago: takeout from Chinois. I keep everything for documentation. So that bastard has to pay what he deserves.”

“Takeout from-”

“For two people,” she said. “Me and Jay. He tried to get me to eat chicken feet. Yuck.”

“He was here all night.”

“You bet,” said Nina Hassan, winking. “He was too tired to leave.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I helped him out, huh? Too bad. I don’t like liars.” She tossed her hair. “But I tell it like it is, that’s how to handle all of you boys. Buh-bye.”

Stepping back into her house, she nudged the door shut with a manicured finger.

We drove back to Sunset, passing big houses, small dogs leading maids, gardeners blowing dirt with airguns.

Milo said, “Scratch the ex, why should life be logical? But it’s got to be someone else Vita really got to. Too bad she didn’t leave an enemy list.”

“That’s for presidents.”

He harrumphed. “Incriminating tapes would be nice, too. Okay, I’ll drop you back home, go enjoy your life while we poor civil servants toil. Not that I’m passive-aggressive.”

Just as we approached the Glen, his cell played Mahler and he switched to speaker.

Sean Binchy said, “Loot-”

“You found a pizza psycho.”

“Unfortunately no, but there is something you’re going to want to-”

“What?”

“There’s another one.”

The man’s shirt was folded neatly by his side. His pants and underwear had been lowered to mid-thigh, arranged neatly, no rumpling. He lay on his back, ten feet to the west of a dirt entry road, in a clearing created by a seven-foot gap in a long hedge of oleander.

Toxic plant. For the person who’d snapped the man’s neck, perfect cover.

No towels under this body. A blue tarp had been spread neatly.

A few blood specks dotted plastic and dry dirt, a bit more than at Vita Berlin’s apartment, but nothing extensive and no castoff, low- or high-velocity. The earth surrounding the tarp had been smoothed free of footprints.

The man’s degradation mimicked Vita’s. Broken neck, same change-purse incision pattern, identical display of scooped-out viscera.

The kill-spot was off Temescal Canyon in Pacific Palisades, a quarter mile into the grounds of a former summer camp occasionally used for film shoots but for the most part abandoned. An old wire gate spanning pitted asphalt was hinged to a wooden post. A second post had rotted and crumbled and access was as easy as walking in.

The lack of security was a joke with the locals, according to the first uniform on the scene.

“A few of them bitch about it, Lieutenant, but mostly they like it. Because it’s like having an extra park and you know the type of people who live here.”

Her name was Cheryl Gates. She was tall, blond, square-shouldered, falcon-eyed. Outwardly unaffected by what she’d discovered on routine patrol. By what she and Milo and I were looking at through the gap in the oleander.

Milo said, “Rich folk.”

“Rich and entitled and connected folk, sir. By that I mean Deputy Chief Salmon’s sister lives not far away so my instruction is to drive by every day. Takes up time but it is kind of pretty. And nothing much ever happens. One time I found a boy and a girl, sixteen, went overboard with E and tequila, spent the night next to the barbecues up there, buck naked, totally wasted. Funny thing was, neither family reported them missing. All the parents in Europe or wherever. Sometimes I find bottles, roaches, condoms, food wrappers. But nothing serious.”

Outwardly unaffected but talking fast, a bit too loud.

Milo said, “The spot you found my victim, is that part of your routine?”

“Yes, sir. I figure it’s a good place for some homeless type to crash and God forbid the locals should be surprised by some wild-eyed whack when they stroll in with their poodles.”

“Come across any whacks recently?”

“No, sir. When I find them and it’s only once in a while, it’s always up there, near those barbecues. They like to cook, fix themselves a hot meal. Which is a risk-fires, and all that. So I warn them and I’ve never had one come back twice. But I figure better safe than sorry, so yes, I do check it daily. Which is how I found your vic.”

“Any particular whack you think I should be looking into?”

“Doubt it, sir,” said Gates. “These aren’t aggressive guys, just the opposite. Passive, out of it, messed up physically.” She eyed the body. “I’m no expert but that looks pretty organized. The way the dirt’s kinda been swept up? I mean that’s just my impression.”

“Makes sense,” said Milo. “Thanks for holding the scene.”

“Doing what I’m supposed to, sir. Once backup arrived I stayed right here and had Officers Ruiz and Oliphant check the grounds. Looking just for obvious stuff, we didn’t want to mess anything up. They found nothing, sir, and there’s no exit out of here other than the way you come in. So I’m pretty confident we didn’t miss any suspect hiding out.”

“Good work.”

“So what do you think, sir, was this a sex thing? Those pants down, maybe some gay thing that got crazy?”

“Could be.”

“With a sex thing, though,” said Gates, “wouldn’t you see direct involvement of the genitals, not just… that?”

“There are no rules, Officer.”

Gates tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Of course, sir. I’d best be leaving you to go about your business. If there’s nothing else.”

“We’re fine, Officer. Hope tomorrow morning’s more pleasant.”

Gates stood taller. “Actually, sir, and this is probably an inopportune time to say so but I’ve been thinking about applying to be a D. Would you recommend that?”

“You’re observant, Officer Gates. Go for it and good luck.”

“Same to you, sir. On the case, I mean.”

Sean Binchy and Moe Reed and three other uniforms remained stationed at the entrance, guarding the road between Sunset and the broken gate. The coroner’s investigator hadn’t arrived so all we could do was stand at the mouth of the clearing and peer in.

The man was middle-aged-closer to fifty-five than forty-five-with thick curly hair, pewter on top, silver at the sides. So tightly coiled it showed no sign of disarray.

Not so for the head and neck below the hair.

Incompatible with life.

Not a particularly memorable-looking man. Average height, average build, average everything. The pants were cotton, medium beige, pressed, pleated, cuffed. Clean where blood hadn’t intruded. The shirt was nut-brown, a polo, folded in a way that obscured any logo. His shoes were white Nikes with well-worn soles. A runner or a serious walker? No car parked near the entrance fit with that.