Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“Beginner’s luck,” I said. “I didn’t spot Moe or Sean.”

“Moe just picked up his own murder and Sean’s started excavating a cold case. So she definitely went inside.”

“No doubt.”

“I knew we were right, he’s a creep. Okay, what now...” Muffled yawn. “Raiding the place just because she’s in there is a bad idea, by the time I make arrangements she’ll probably be gone. And too many unpredictables. But this should be enough for a warrant, gotta be, I’ll talk to Nguyen or go straight to find a damn judge. Only glitch I can see is your presence, you might need to be named as a police sub-agent or something along those lines.” He laughed. “You’ll get paid sooner.”

I said, “I’m fine with that but there’s another issue. As a psychologist I’m obligated to report suspected child abuse.”

“Defined how?”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “There are no clear definitions of ‘suspected,’ the rules change all the time, and whenever I try to get clarification from the state board they give me gobbledygook. If you move quickly, I can make the call at the same time. And I think Felice should know right away. She’ll get upset, might be able to open Chelsea up.”

“Complications,” he said, “but on balance, you’ve made my life simpler.”

At ten the following morning, I phoned Felice Corvin’s work number. Her voicemail message said she’d be back in the office in the afternoon. I asked her to call me.

She didn’t, I tried again, same result. No answer at her personal cell or her landline. At five fifteen, she phoned my service and they patched me through.

“What is it, Doctor?”

“I’d like to come by to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“It’s better discussed in person.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll clarify when we meet.”

“This is — is it something about Chet?”

“Related to Chet.”

“Related,” she said. “I just got in, Brett’s basketball practice. You can’t tell me what this is about?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Okay, come over within the next couple of hours. But I’ll be cooking dinner.”

She met me at the door, holding a dish towel, hair clipped loosely, wearing a green Lake Tahoe T-shirt, white yoga pants, and makeup that appeared fresh.

“That was quick,” she said. “You’re a motivated guy, Doctor.”

I smiled. She stepped aside, eyes wary, led me to the kitchen.

An empty KFC bucket sat on the center island, along with an uneaten biscuit, a container of coleslaw, paper napkins, and plastic utensils.

No sign of the kids.

She said, “Coffee? It’s decaf, after three I can’t handle the real stuff.” Bouncing on her feet, lilt in her voice, the kind of tension that came from forced casualness.

I said, “Sure, thanks.”

Clearing the island, she poured two mugs, brought milk and sugar. Once I was settled she sat to my left, positioned so she could avoid eye contact if she chose.

Untying her hair, she let it swing and sipped. “You really do have me curious.”

I said, “The investigation into Chet’s death has included surveillance of your street.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Even though it happened somewhere else?”

“The surveillance has produced some information that may or may not be related to either murder. Either way, I feel strongly that you need to know. My decision, not the police. As we both know, Chelsea leaves your house late at night. Last night she left shortly after one a.m. and entered Trevor Bitt’s house. I’m required to report suspected child abuse.”

I braced myself for shock, horror, anger.

Felice Corvin shook her head as if I’d said something foolish and let out a shrill laugh. “Oh, boy.” She put her cup down, took a deep breath, faced away. “First off, it’s not child abuse because she’s not a child. She’ll be eighteen soon. In a few days, as a matter of fact.”

“Legally, she’s still—”

“Oh, please. Really? ”

“It doesn’t bother you.”

“You’ve obviously convinced yourself something ugly is going on.”

“You disagree.”

“Oh, Lord.” She returned to the sink, yanked a drawer open, shut it. “I know you mean well. But this isn’t going to help Chelsea.”

I said nothing.

She returned to the island, this time facing me, but staying on her feet. “I have no doubt you’re thinking, She’s a horrible mother. ”

Tears formed in her eyes.

I said, “If there’s something I should know.”

“Oh, there’s something.” Scanning the room like a hungry animal scrounging for scraps, she settled on her purse and got it. “There’s a whole lot of something.”

Removing her cellphone, she punched a one-digit pre-program. “Hi. We’ve got a situation...” Glancing at me. “Can’t. Needs to be now... yes, please.”

Sitting back down, she drank more coffee.

A doorbell rang. Not from the front; the utility door leading from the backyard to the laundry room.

Chelsea’s exit route. The body-drag route.

Felice Corvin called out, “It’s open!” A latch turned. Footsteps. A man trudged into the kitchen, shoes scuffing the floor.

Tall and rangy with a narrow, pallid face crisscrossed by wrinkles. White hair, precisely side-parted. His clothes bagged, his cheeks were twin hollows, wrinkles deepening toward the bottom, as if dragged down by tiny fishhooks.

Executive haircut, executive-at-leisure clothes straight out of a cruise-ship ad: gray cashmere V-neck sweater, white polo shirt, razor-pressed khakis, oxblood penny loafers each bearing a shiny copper image of Lincoln.

Washed-out aqua eyes flecked with brown nested in flesh-colored crepe. No interest in me. He looked at Felice and spoke her name.

His voice was a feeble croak. He looked ready to cry.

“This is the psychologist I told you about.”

The man looked at me, blinking convulsively, lips quivering. She pulled out a chair. He sat. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He trembled.

“Dr. Delaware, Trevor Bitt.”

No news there. Same face as on the Internet, older, wearier.

I said, “Alex Delaware.”

Bitt said, “Psychologist. I’ve known a few.” Flexing his fingers. Spidery, graceful, restless digits, the nails elongated and filed smooth. Ink stains on the right thumbnail and the meat of the right hand.

Felice had kept her hold on his shoulder. The ink-stained hand inched upward, was about to make contact with her fingers when footsteps from the left made the three of us turn.

Chelsea shuffled in, barefoot, holding a bowl in one hand, a spoon in the other. She wore a shapeless gray sweatshirt and jeans.

Her eyes raced to Bitt. “You’re here. ” The bowl tumbled from her hands, hit the floor, shattered. The spoon followed an instant later, bouncing and pinging.

Trevor Bitt got up, retrieved the utensil. “Where’s your broom?”

Felice Corvin said, “I’ll handle it, Trev.”

Chelsea Corvin said, “ I will, Daddy!”

She ran to Bitt, threw both arms around his waist, rested her head on his chest.

“Let me do it,” he said. “I don’t want those pretty hands of yours cut.”

“I can do it, Daddy.”

Bitt reached down and took her right hand. “Save them. You’ve got art to make.”

Still hugging him, she said, “Let me at least get the broom.”

“Sure.”

She let go, tottered, ran off, and returned with a Swiffer that she handed to Bitt like a ceremonial sword. In her other hand, a dustpan. The two of them set about cleaning up, working in obvious harmony.