Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I don’t see the point of guessing.”

“So far I’ve heard nothing but guessing-all right, enough of this pleasantry. I’m expected to go back to the boss and report something. What do you suggest, Milo?”

Milo said, “Tell him each time the killer strikes he increases the possibility of a lead. In the meantime, I’ll be concentrating on the Parnells.”

“Each time,” she said. “Maybe by the time we get ten, eleven victims, we’ll be in great shape. Very reassuring.”

Milo grinned in that lupine way: teeth bared in anticipation of ripping flesh.

Maria Thomas said, “You always see humor when no one else does. When were you planning to go to the public?”

“His Perfectness thinks I should?”

“Word to the wise, Milo: You really need to stop with the obnoxious nicknames, one day it’ll get back to him.”

“He doesn’t like being perfect?”

“The public. When? ”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“No? That’s too bad because the chief thinks it might be useful.” She looked over her shoulder, in the direction of the bedroom. “Given the steadily rising corpse count. And something tells me he won’t find your lassitude reassuring.”

Milo walked away from her again. Her face tensed with anger but before she could speak, he circled back. “Okay, here’s something to tell him: If this was a confirmed sexually motivated psychopath, some rapist who escalated to murder, I’d have been talking to Public Affairs as soon as the second one surfaced, hoping an earlier, live victim would come forth. The same goes for a serial asshole targeting a specific victim population-hookers, convenience clerks, whatever. In that case there’d be a moral as well as a practical benefit: letting high-risk targets know so they can protect themselves. But what do we go public on, here, Maria? A bogeyman stalking and butchering random citizens? That risks setting off a panic with very little upside.”

“What’s your alternative?” she said. “A nice collection of murder books?”

“I haven’t even started working these two victims. Maybe I’ll learn something that will change everything. If you let me do the damn job.”

“ I’m holding you back?”

“Wasting time explaining myself is holding me back.”

“Oh, so you’re different from anyone else?” Back to me: “What’s with the question mark on these two, Doctor?”

I said, “The same thing was left with the first two victims.”

She blinked. “Yes, of course. So what does it mean?”

“Could be a taunt,” I said.

Milo smiled. “Or our bad boy’s expressing his curiosity.”

“About what?” said Thomas. “The mysteries of the human body.”

“That’s grotesque. You know what I thought when I saw it? Some weird mystical symbolism, like the Zodiac used to send. You look into any witchcraft angles?”

“I’m open to anything, Maria.”

“Meaning you haven’t. And you’re opposed to going public. How many bodies will it take to get you flexible?”

“If nothing on these two-”

“Good,” she said. “You’re open-minded when forced to be. He’ll be happy to hear it. He respects you, you know.”

“I’m touched.”

“You really should be. Get back to me if you learn something. Sooner rather than later.”

“You’re the glove,” said Milo.

“Pardon.”

“He doesn’t want to dirty his hands so he gloves up.”

Maria Thomas examined her spotless, manicured digits. “You have a way with words. Sure, view me as a glove. And bear in mind that finger-poking can be painful.”

Thomas left the scene scolding her phone. Drove off in a sparkling blue city sedan.

Milo said, “Before she stuck her nose in, I was thinking about going public at some point. But right now I don’t see what it’ll accomplish and the panic thing’s an issue.”

I said, “If you release any data, I’d choose the question marks. They’re unique to our bad guy, might jog someone’s memory.”

He shuffled over to the Parnells’ cars, looked inside. “I don’t make some kind of progress soon, the decision won’t be mine. You got the point of Thomas showing up.”

“Behave or else.”

“More than that. The chief smells a big-time loser in these cases so he’s keeping his distance.” He flipped his pad open. “Where’s that lawyer who threatened Barron Parnell… here we go, ‘William Leventhal, Esquire, representing the Cameron Family Trust.’ Sounds like a big money deal, let’s see if this legal eagle earned his cut.”

William B. Leventhal ran a one-man practice on Olympic near Sepulveda.

On the way over, Milo said, “Booze and surprise for Vita, sucker punch for Marlon. Now he does two young healthy ones.”

I said, “Same basic technique: surprise supplemented this time by darkness. Barron was the serious threat so he was drawn outside, blitzed, and stabbed to death. But no surgery, not even later when our bad guy had a chance. That says Glenda was the primary target and with Barron unlocking the door, she was easy prey. Also, her glasses were off because the two of them were planning a romantic evening and the room was dim, leading to a loss of focus. Before she had time to figure out what was going on, he was in charge. We know he stalked his first two victims, so he probably did the same with her.”

“You don’t see it as a two-fer? Doubling his pleasure?”

“Upping the body count was a bonus, but I think Barron was a hurdle to jump so he could get to Glenda.”

“So I’m wasting my time with Leventhal.”

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

The lawyer’s front office staff was a woman in her seventies at a hundred-year-old desk. A brass nameplate said Miss Dorothy Band, Exec. Secy. to Mr. Wm. B. Leventhal. An IBM Selectric took up half her desk. Near the machine sat a precisely cornered stack of elegant beige stationery, a shorter pile of carbon paper, and a Bakelite intercom box that predated the Truman administration.

Unflustered by our drop-in, Miss Dorothy Band pressed a button on the box. “Mr. L, police to see you.”

The machine barked back: “I paid those tickets.”

“They say it’s about the Cameron case.”

“What about it?”

“They say they need to talk to you directly.”

“That’s a civil case, none of their business.”

“Sir…”

“Fine. See- yend them in.”

The trek to Leventhal’s inner sanctum took us past a vast law library. A man was there to greet us, a good ten years older than Dorothy Band. Short, thick, and broad-shouldered, William Leventhal had bright, burnt-chocolate eyes, white hair still tinged rusty in spots. An uncannily deep voice said, “Police. Heh. C’mon in.”

Leventhal’s office was vast, wood-paneled, shag-carpeted in the precise green of pimiento olives, redolent of dill pickles and old paper and musky aftershave. Heat streamed from a floor vent, creating a tropical ambience. William B. Leventhal wore a three-piece English-cut herringbone suit of heavy tweed, a starched white shirt, and a bolo tie held in place by a mammoth nugget of amethyst.

Not a trace of sweat on his plump face. A tweedy leprechaun, he lowered himself into a tufted leather chair commodious enough to harbor a panda. “The girl informs me this is about Cameron.”

Milo started to explain.

Leventhal said, “Murder? You won’t find the solution here. Never met Parnell, never even deposed him. Heh.”

“You sent him a letter-”

“He was named along with everyone else in that firm. The case settled. Finis. Good-bye.”

“What firm is that, sir?”