Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

When I held the glass to her lips, her mouth opened with all the volition of a marionette. I took her pulse. Slow, but steady.

I eased more water into her mouth. She dribbled. Put her head back. The eyes rolled again.

After a few seconds, her pulse normalized and some color returned to her face. She stared up at us. “What?”

Milo held her hand. “I’m Lieutenant Sturgis-”

She said, “Oh. You. So where’s Louie?”

It took another few minutes for her to settle into grief-stricken numbness.

Milo sat holding her hand; I worked the water glass. When she said, “No more,” I returned the glass to the kitchen.

Spacious sunlit kitchen, shiny granite, stainless steel. The rest of the apartment was done up nicely, too, furnished with timeless furniture, maybe a few real antiques, unremarkable but inoffensive seascapes. A double set of sliding glass doors granted an oblique view of blue swimming pool bleeding to bluer Pacific. The sky was clear, the grass around the pool was clipped, birds flew, a squirrel scampered up a magnificent Canary Island pine.

Marlon Quigg had arrived at a nice place in middle age.

At least one person cared about him. I knew I shouldn’t be judging but that made his monstrous end seem even worse than Vita’s.

Belle Quigg said, “Oh, God, God, Louie’s probably… also gone.”

“Louie’s your dog,” said Milo.

“More like Marlon’s dog, the two of them were like… we got him as a rescue, Louie loved everyone but mostly he loved Marlon. I loved Marlon. Britt and Sarah loved Marlon, everyone loved Marlon.”

She grabbed Milo’s sleeve. “Who would hurt him-was he robbed?”

“It doesn’t look that way, ma’am.”

“What, then? What? Who would do this? Who?”

“We’re gonna work real hard to find out, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to be the one to deliver such terrible news and I know this isn’t a good time but if I could ask you some questions?”

“What kind of questions?”

“The more we know about Marlon the better we can do our job.”

“I love Marlon. We’ve been together twenty-six-oh, God, our anniversary is next week. I already made reservations. What am I going to do?”

Two bouts of sobbing later, Milo said, “What kind of work did Marlon do?”

“Work?” said Belle Quigg. “Yes, he worked, of course he worked, Marlon wasn’t a bum-why, did one of those bums kill him?”

“Those bums?”

“They call them homeless, I call them bums because that’s what they are. You see them at Sunset and PCH, panhandling, drunk. The light’s long, gives them plenty of time to come up and beg. I never give them a dime. Marlon always gave them something.”

“Why would you suspect one of them?”

“Because they’re bums,” said Belle Quigg. “I always told Marlon that. Don’t encourage them. He has a soft heart.”

“The crime occurred over in Temescal Canyon-”

“The Little Indians Camp! I told Marlon not to walk there at night! That just proves what I was saying. Anyone can walk in, what’s to stop a bum? You want to find them? Go down to Sunset and PCH.”

“We’ll definitely check that out, ma’am. Is there anyone else we should be thinking of?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anyone Marlon might’ve had conflict with, say at work?”

“Never.”

“What kind of work did he do?”

“Marlon was an accountant.”

“Where?”

“Peterson, Danville and Shapiro in Century City. He handled one major client, the Happy Boy supermarket chain. Marlon did a great job, always got the best performance ratings.”

“How long had he been working there?”

“Fifteen years,” she said. “Before that he worked for the city-DWP-but only for a year, while he was waiting to take his CPA. Before that, he was a teacher. He worked with disabled children.”

“Before he picked up the Happy Boy account did he work with any insurance companies?”

“Happy Boy has been his assignment right from the beginning. They’re a huge chain, it’s all Marlon can do to keep up with their taxes.”

“So no problems at work.”

“Why would there be a problem? No, of course not, this had nothing to do with Marlon, Marlon’s the best.”

“And obviously your personal life is great.”

“Better than great,” said Belle Quigg. “It’s… excellent.” Her lips parted. Color began leeching again. “I’m going to have to tell Britt and Sar- Oh God, how can I do that-”

“How old are they?”

“Britt’s eighteen, Sarah’s twenty-two.”

“Are they close by?”

Head shake. “Britt’s in Colorado, Sarah’s in… I… where is she, that place underneath Colorado…” Her face screwed up. “It’s on the tip of my… that place…”

I said, “New Mexico.”

“New Mexico. She’s in Gallup, it sounds like horses running around, that’s how I remember it. She’s there because her boyfriend lives in Gallup, so she does, too. She used to drive a car, now she rides a lot of horses, it’s a ranch, one of those ranches. Britt’s not married, I hope she will be but she’s not, she lives in Colorado. Vail. She works as a waitress, gets real busy when it’s ski season. She skis, Sarah rides horses. They’re beautiful girls-how am I going to tell them!”

“If you’d like us to stick around while you call-”

“No, no no, you call.”

“You’re sure, ma’am?”

“It’s your job,” said Belle Quigg. “Everyone needs to do their job.”

She turned silent, almost stuporous, as Milo phoned her daughters. The conversations were brief, terrible, and every second seemed to diminish him. If Belle Quigg had eavesdropped, she showed no signs of reacting.

He sat back down. “Sarah would like to talk to you, Mrs. Quigg.”

“Britt, too?”

“Britt will call you back when she composes herself.”

“Composes,” said Belle Quigg. “Like a composition. She was always good in English.”

“Will you speak with Sarah?”

“No, no, no, tell her I’ll call back. I need to sleep. I need to sleep forever.”

“Is there someone, a friend, a neighbor, that we could call to come over to be with you?”

“Be with me while I sleep?”

“To offer support, ma’am.”

“I’m fine, I just want to die in peace.”

I returned to the kitchen, looked for an address book, found a cell phone. A scan of recent calls listed a speed-dial number for Letty. I phoned it.

A woman said, “Belle?”

I said, “I’m calling on Belle’s behalf.”

It took a while to clarify, longer until Letty Pomeroy stopped gasping, but she agreed readily to come over to take care of her friend.

“Are you nearby?”

“Like a five-minute drive.”

“We really appreciate it, Mrs. Pomeroy.”

“Of course. Marlon’s really…”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That’s crazy-do you know who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“Where did it happen?

“In Temescal Canyon.”

“Where Marlon walked Louie.”

“That’s common knowledge?”

“Anyone who knows Marlon knows he likes to walk Louie there. Because he didn’t need to clean up after Louie, it’s so… rural. I mean I guess officially he did but… was Louie also…”

“Louie’s missing.”

“Figures,” said Letty Pomeroy. “That he wouldn’t protect Marlon.”

“Pushover?”

“Moron.”

“What kind of breed is he?”

“Golden retriever. Or maybe a retriever mix. Mixed-up is more like it, that has to be the dumbest animal I’ve ever encountered. You could step on him, he’d grin up at you like the village idiot. Kind of like Marlon, I guess. No, that came out wrong, I’m not saying Marlon was stupid, God forbid no, Marlon was smart, he was a bright man, very mathematical.”