Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“They don’t have a suspect?”

“They’ve got various bits of information that may or may not be important. What did he look like?”

“White guy,” he said. “Around thirty-five, forty. Heavyset, kind of a round face, that’s about it.”

“Hair color?”

“Brown-short, like it was growing back from a buzz.”

“Eye color?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“He never spoke.”

“Nope, just the wink and the V-sign. It’s not like evidence, that’s why I tried to put it aside.”

“Your first impression was something about him seemed off.”

“But I can’t tell you why, sorry.”

I gave him time. He shook his head.

“How was he dressed?”

“In a coat. Like a winter coat, even though it was a warm day- that’s different, I guess. Maybe that’s what seemed off?”

“What kind of coat?”

“One of those fleece-lined things,” said Banforth. “Brown on the outside, maybe suede, maybe cloth, I wasn’t paying attention. Oh, yeah, something else: He was carrying a book. Like students do but he didn’t look like a student.”

“What kind of book?”

“Not a hardcover-more like a magazine, actually. Maybe some sort of puzzle magazine because it had a big question mark on the cover?”

My heart raced. Now I knew why Alex Shimoff’s sketch had tweaked my brain.

The morning after the murder, when Milo and I had visited Bijou, an apple-faced man had been there.

Sitting in a booth behind the soccer moms and their toddlers.

Eating steak and eggs, a book in front of him, penciling a puzzle.

Enjoying a hearty breakfast hours after he’d gutted Vita.

John Banforth said, “Doc?”

“You did the right thing.”

“He’s the guy? Oh, man.”

“Not necessarily but it’s a lead and Detective Sturgis needs anything he can get.”

“Well okay, then, I feel better not wasting anyone’s time.”

“Would you mind sitting with a police sketch artist? So we can get a clearer image?”

“They still do that? Thought everything was computers.”

“They still do.”

“An artist, huh? Would my name have to be on it?”

“No.”

“Then guess so,” he said. “If you can fit it to my schedule. And if Madeleine doesn’t know, she has no idea about any of this, including the fact that I’m here.”

“We’ll do it at your convenience.”

“All right, here’s my business card, call the top number, it’s my reservation line for lessons.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Just doing what I had to.”

We headed for the door. He got there first, stopped. “She was a nasty one. That Vita. Madeleine and I took to calling her the Evil One. As in wonder who the Evil One’s tormenting now. We turned it into a joke. To ease what happened. But I guess no one deserves to be murdered.”

His voice wavered on “guess.”

On the way home, I detoured and drove through Vita Berlin’s neighborhood, rolling through sunlit streets and shadowed alleys, searching for a man dressed too heavily for the weather. When four circuits produced nothing, I headed to Bijou.

It was just past the three o’clock closing time. The storefront window afforded a view of Ralph Veronese sweeping up, his long hair bunched in a topknot that was part girlie, part Samurai warrior. I rapped on the glass. Without breaking rhythm, he pointed to the Closed sign. I rapped harder and he looked up.

He cracked the door halfway, propped his broom against the jamb. “Hey.”

“I’m doing follow-up on Vita.”

“You caught the guy?”

“Not yet. I want to ask you about a customer I noticed the first time I was here.” I described Shearling.

“Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s been here at least twice.”

“Twice doesn’t make him a regular. Half the time I’m in back.”

“He sat in that corner booth, eating steak and eggs, worked on a puzzle book.”

Veronese said, “Oh.”

“You remember him.”

“Not so much him, I remember the book. Thinking here’s another camper, going to use us as the public library. But then he ordered. Campers just like to stretch out a coffee, bring their laptops, gripe when they find out we don’t have wireless.”

“Has he been here any other times?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How about checking your receipts for both the days we know he was here?”

“Receipts are with my bookkeeper, I send paperwork to her every Friday.”

“Then please call her.”

He dialed a preset number, spoke to someone named Amy, hung up.

“She says it’s already in the storage bin, she can try to find it but it’ll take time.”

“Sooner’s better than later, Ralph.”

“She charges me by the hour.”

“Send me the bill.”

“You’re serious?”

“You bet.” He texted Amy.

I said, “You’re in the back but Hedy’s always out front. Please get her on the line for me and if you can’t reach her, give me her number.”

“Her number’s my number,” said Veronese. “We’re thinking of getting married.”

“Congratulations.”

I pointed to his phone. He reached Hedy, explained, passed it over.

She said, “The guy with the puzzle book? Sure, I remember him. But I have to tell you, he paid cash. I know for sure because it was all singles and a lot of coins. Like he busted open his piggy bank.”

“What else can you say about him?”

“Um… he cleaned his plate… didn’t talk except to order… had kind of a girlie voice-high-pitched, didn’t fit his body, he’s kind of a football-player type, you know?”

“Not much for conversation.”

“Kept his head in that book even when he was eating.”

“What kind of puzzles was he working on?”

“Couldn’t tell you. You’re thinking he’s the one who killed Vita?”

“He’s someone we want to talk to.”

“Because he’s a little off?”

“Off how?”

“You know, mentally.”

“He impressed you that way?”

“I’m no shrink,” she said, “but he just wasn’t… like he never made eye contact. Kind of mumbled. In that high voice. Like he was trying to whisper-to like stay in the background.”

“Not sociable.”

“Exactly. Just the opposite. Like I want to be in my own world. So I respected that, my job you have to be a shrink.”

“Anything else about him strike you as odd?”

“His clothes. It’s pretty warm inside Bijou, we don’t have the best A.C. and he’s wearing this fleece-lined shearling. I’ve got one of those in my closet from when I lived in Pittsburgh, haven’t used it once since I moved to L.A.”

“Was he sweating?”

“Hmm… I don’t think so-oh, yeah, one more thing, he had a scar. In the front of his neck, like at the bottom. Nothing gross, like a white line running across his neck.”

“Across the Adam’s apple?”

“Lower, in the soft part. Like someone cut him a long time ago but it healed up pretty good.”

“Any other marks?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Tattoos?”

“If he has ’em, they were covered up. He was pretty much covered up.”

“What else was he wearing besides the shearling?”

“You think he’s the one?” she said. “That kind of freaks me out. What if he comes in again?”

“No reason to worry, but if that happens just call this number.” I recited Milo’s extension.

Hedy said, “Got it. What else was he wearing? I guess he had a shirt on underneath but I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry, the shearling’s all I noticed. Because it was out of place. Mostly I was concentrating on getting the orders right. You want to know exactly what his order was, I can tell you: steak and scramble with onions and mushrooms, steak medium, no instructions on the scramble. He left like a ten percent tip, all coins, but I didn’t mind. Because it wasn’t like he was trying to be a jerk, you know.”