Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

Rhetorical question but I answered. “Depends on how they’re doing. Mood, appetite, sleep patterns, in school.”

She blinked. “I figured you’d just give me the official line.”

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware’s an independent consultant. In every way.”

“Apparently,” said Felice Corvin. “How’ve they been doing? To my maternal eye, they’re fine. Meaning, Brett’s being Brett, emotionally he’s made of titanium. Chelsea’s... Chelsea. I won’t hide anything, she’s always had issues. What you just saw with the glass is typical. OCD. According to several experts. Along with all kinds of other labels and diagnoses. But has she changed since the... since it happened? Not that I can honestly say. Then again, Doctor, someone of your training might know better.”

“My experience,” I said, “is that no one knows kids better than their mothers.”

She stared at me. “You actually sound as if you mean that.”

“I do.”

Felice Corvin took a sip of tea and looked at Hargis Braun’s photo. “He looks harmless enough... no gore, not like what they saw when it happened... fine, what the heck.”

She called for both kids at the foot of the stairs. Brett came bounding down, loud as a herd of buffalo. An oversized L.A. Kings jersey tented freckled legs. Hustling past his mother, he high-fived Milo and me. “Whuh? You got the perp?”

Milo suppressed laughter. “Your mouth to God’s ears, Brett.”

“Whuh?”

Felice said, “That means — never mind. They’ve got a picture to show you. The man who was — the person.”

“The dead guy? Cool. ”

Milo handed him the photo.

Brett said, “Fat dude.”

“Brett!”

“Whuh? He is. ” Shaping a sphere with his hands.

Felice said, “You don’t know him, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, meaning no you don’t know him.”

“Yeah.” The boy laughed and bounced and shadow-boxed. Felice reached for the photo but he feinted away from her and waved it. To Milo. “Who is he?”

“Don’t know yet, Brett.”

“ Fat dude.” Brett’s lip began curling upward, prepping a supplementary wisecrack. But his eyes dulled and all he could come up with was, “Fat.”

His mother said, “Go back and finish your homework, young man.”

“Boooooring,” said Brett, high-fiving air before running off.

Another ungulate stampede up the stairs. A bellowed “Fat!”

Felice Corvin looked at me. “Please tell me that will pass with maturity.”

I said, “His sense of humor?”

“His lack of emotionality. I’ve tried to get him to talk about it but he just makes jokes.”

I said, “Boys his age go through all kinds of stuff.” Putting on my best therapeutic Sphinx-face as I thought of Brett’s father.

Apples falling close to trees.

Felice said, “I hope it’s just a stage,” and called out Chelsea’s name. The girl stepped out of her room, stared down at us, fidgeting, finally descended.

Felice explained as Milo handed Chelsea Braun’s photo. Her appraisal was brief and mute: a quick head shake then a turn to her mother, as if for confirmation.

“Thank you, darling,” said Felice. The girl trudged back up the stairs, clutching the banister.

Milo looked at me. I stayed neutral and that was enough for him.

“One more question, ma’am, and I hope it doesn’t offend you, but I need to ask.”

Felice Corvin folded her arms across her chest. “What now?”

“I’m sure you can understand that our experience tells us certain situations need to be looked into—”

“What, Lieutenant?”

“This has nothing to do specifically with your kids, ma’am, but we’ve seen cases where young people’s relationships lead to violence.”

“What in the world are you saying?”

“Kids dating people their parents don’t approve of. Sometimes it gets—”

Felice cut him off with a horizontal air slash. Her laughter was harsh, a witchy cackle. “Neither of my children dates. I’m not sure anyone does, nowadays, kids just hang out. But apart from that, Brett’s too young for a relationship.” She breathed in. “And Chelsea’s not into any level of emotional... entanglement. Never has been.”

“No boyfriend.”

“I wish.” Felice’s eyes filled with tears. “I wish so many things for her. Is that all? I have things to do. ”

She hurried us to the door. Milo said, “Sorry for bothering you.”

“That poor man. Braun. You’ve told me nothing about him.”

“That’s ’cause we don’t know much other than his name, ma’am. When we figure it out, I promise to let you know.”

“When, not if,” she said.

“We’re always hopeful.”

“Sorry,” said Felice Corvin. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me — you’ve got a tough job, I don’t envy you. Good luck.”

Headlights washed across her face. A car pulling into the driveway of the Spanish house next door. Paul Weyland stepped out of his silver Taurus. Carrying a briefcase, moonlight doming his bald head. He didn’t seem to notice us, braced himself on the roof of the car. Rocked on his feet.

Off kilter? A narrowly avoided DUI? He pushed away, stood in place for a moment, and slumped, a small man getting smaller.

Felice said, “Hi, Paul.”

Weyland stopped, waved, saw us. “Oh, hi. Anything new?”

“Follow-up,” said Milo.

“Oh,” said Weyland. Weak voice. His shoulders heaved.

Felice said, “Are you okay?”

“No worries. No police worries, anyway.” His voice caught.

She walked over to him. “Are you ill or something?”

“No, fine,” said Weyland. He righted his glasses. “Oh, what the heck, can’t hide it forever. You’ve noticed Donna hasn’t been around.”

“Visiting her mom.”

“True,” said Weyland. “But she’s not coming back — we’re breaking up, Felice.”

“Paul, I’m so sorry.”

“It happens.” He shrugged. Poked a finger under a lens and wiped something from his left eye. To us: “Sorry, don’t want to interrupt.”

Felice walked over to him, arms spread.

As Milo and I left, the two of them were still embracing.

Halfway up the block, Milo looked over his shoulder. No one around. “Touching scene. Makes you wonder.”

“About suburban intrigue?”

“About the future on Evada Lane.” He rubbed his face. “She’s tired of Chet, who’s less Chet than ol’ Paul?”

“Could happen,” I said.

“Meanwhile, Chet’s off doing who-knows-what on the road, Chelsea could be hanging with the creepy neighbor, and the boy’s got the emotional range of a newt. Does anyone lead an uneventful life?”

I said, “Hope not.”

“Why?”

“Neither of us is ready for retirement.”

We drove back to the station where he phone-photo’d Braun’s face and sent it to Chet Corvin’s cell, then scanned his message slips.

Wastebasket, wastebasket, wastebasket. Then: “Crypt says Braun was A-negative, which isn’t rare but also not that common. They got a decent match between blood from his body and a speck they found on the boxer shorts I got from EmJay, best guess, a popped zit. Some subtests — HLA — also match... basic DNA’ll be back in a few days. Once it’s confirmed I’ll tell her what she already knows.”

He pocketed his phone. “Mary Ellen, too, maybe one of them will remember something else about the Happy Warrior.”

I said, “There was a first wife. Barbara in Stockton.”

“Who died of cancer.”

“So Braun said.”

He looked at me. “Good point, I’ll check on her tomorrow, enough for today, Rick’s off call, we’re aiming for some quality time.”