Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“You’re making sense. And if Cory is a criminal, it could work in your favor.”

“How so?”

“Un-solid citizens are often known to the authorities.”

Detective Sheila Braxton was in her car. She said, “Need another phone number?”

“That was helpful, thanks, but no, I need info on a possible suspect I got via the number. Kid named Cory, nineteen to early twenties, skinny, blond, drives a black Camaro with ’09 tags. You ever run into him?”

She said, “I suppose the age and physicals could fit if Cory’s short for Cormac.”

“All I know is Cory.”

“Hard to see the Cory I’m thinking of as a murder suspect.”

“Nice kid, huh?”

“Nice enough, but it’s kind of complicated,” said Braxton. “I’m on my way to lunch. You have time?”

“You bet. Where?”

“I was planning on Burger King.”

“Upgrade, Sheila. On me.”

“Well, that’s nice of you, Milo, but not necessary.”

“Life’s about more than necessity, Sheila. Name a place with tablecloths.”

“Hmm. You into seafood?”

“Like a shark.”

Braxton laughed. “Cabrillo just north of Stearn’s Wharf. New place they say is good. Moby Richard.”

“Cute,” said Milo. “They call me Fishmeal.”

“Pardon?”

“See you in ten.”

The Moby Richard sign featured a weirdly slim whale — a cetacean personal trainer.

Checked blue oilskin tablecloths, black-and-white period photos on gray walls, raw bar to one side, open-grill kitchen to the left. New place but three-quarters full.

Milo said, “There she is,” and headed for a typical cop’s table: rear corner, clear view of the action.

Sheila Braxton was in her fifties, tall, pretty, with a wry smile and a mop of iron-colored curls. She wore a deep-green crewneck, black slacks, and olive flats, tiny diamond studs in her ears.

Milo made the introductions.

She said, “Psychologist. Crazy world, I’m sure you’re always busy.”

A waiter in a man-bun and a waxed mustache came over and read off a long list of catch-of-the-day specials in a French accent. Sheila Braxton looked amused as she ordered scampi and a side salad. I went for grilled salmon.

Milo said, “Surf and turf.”

Man-Bun said, “Pard on ?”

“Right here.” Jabbing the menu. “Filet steak and Pacific lobster. Medium rare on the steak.”

“Combination two, very good.”

“Take your word for it.”

“Pard on ?”

“Merci.”

Man-Bun pranced five steps and returned. “Drinks, please?”

Iced teas all around. The waiter’s second departure was durable. Braxton grinned. “You always liked that, Milo. Throwing people off balance.”

“Call me Lieutenant Sumo.”

“Lieutenant? Congrats. And you’re still working cases?”

“It’s complicated, Sheila.”

Braxton looked at me.

I said, “He threw the right people off balance.”

She was laughing as Man-Bun brought the tea in jam jars. Took a sip and put hers down. “I was a little guarded on the phone because I see the individual in question as vulnerable. No, I haven’t turned into a social worker. The case wasn’t even mine, it was Bob Mannings’s, I was the secondary.”

Milo said, “Big Bob. He finally retire?”

“He died before he could.” To me: “My mentor, Doctor. Used to be LAPD, moved here and worked violent crimes.”

“Good man,” said Milo.

Braxton said, “The best. He took me under his wing when the female thing was a lot different.”

Man-Bun brought bread. No one touched it.

Braxton said, “Anyway, I’ll lay it out: Bob caught the case and it got away from him. What we all hate: likely homicide but no body, a darn good idea who the bad guy was but no way to put it together. It stuck in Bob’s throat, kept him on the job longer than was good for him.”

“Mission unaccomplished,” said Milo. He nudged me. “What’s that technical term, something with a Z, Freud’s mark of Zorro, whatever?”

I said, “Zeigarnik effect.”

Braxton’s eyebrows rose.

I said, “Tension for unfinished business.”

She said, “I’ll have to remember that for parties.” Her tone said she wouldn’t. “So here’s the deal: Seven years ago a teacher named Jacqueline Mearsheim disappeared. Married for the third time, one kid from the first, a twelve-year-old boy. She was widowed the first time, divorced the second. Husband Two was also a teacher who’d moved overseas — some oil country in the Mideast, he got looked into, totally out of the picture. Mearsheim was Hub Three, also worked for the school district, some kind of administrative job. He and Jackie met on the job, got hitched pretty quickly. A year later, he reported her missing. Three days after she failed to show up for school. His story was he wanted to give her space, she’d been depressed, had taken a couple of days to sort herself out. Conveniently, the son was also away during that time, class trip to Sacramento.”

A busboy brought the food.

Milo said, “Three days after. Yeah, I can see Bob twitching.”

“Plus Mearsheim gave him a bad feeling from the get-go. Too theatrical, crying, going all Mr. Sensitive but no real tears, it seemed rehearsed. Add that to the obvious: He’s the spouse and the last person to see her alive. Plus no one else ever saw Jackie as being depressed. The final factor was the boy. Cormac Thurber, yes, he was called Cory.”

Out came Milo’s pad. “With an e or no?”

“C-O-R-Y. He ended up telling Bob his mom had confided she was going to leave Mearsheim because he had no human feelings for her.”

I said, “He ended up?”

“Quiet kid, hard to get anything out of him, Doctor.”

“That was his wording — ‘no human feelings’?”

“It was,” said Braxton. “I remember thinking it was pretty sophisticated for a twelve-year-old. And something his mother might actually say. Bottom line, everyone — even Mearsheim — agreed Jackie would never walk out on Cory.”

I said, “Mearsheim’s theory was a stranger-danger thing?”

“Exactly, Doctor. Snatched by the convenient shadowy villain.”

“Was her car ever found?”

“Nope. And no charges on her card or ATM withdrawals. A super-meticulous shadowy bad guy, right? Bob’s gut said that was bull.”

Milo said, “Before we go on any further,” and showed her the photo from Edda Halversen’s house.

She took a while examining it. “I knew him when he was prepubescent but if I had to bet, I’d say yes.”

She cut off a nibble of scampi as if eating was expected of her. Milo began sawing into his steak. No reticence, there.

I took my phone out, logged onto a pay-per-view yearbook photo site, and pulled up Santa Barbara High. Keywording cormac thurber brought up nothing.

Braxton said, “What are you scanning?”

I showed her. She said, “It’s possible he didn’t go to a regular high school. After Jackie’s disappearance, he ended up in the foster care system and when Bob ran into him a couple of years later, he was studying music and going to some alternative program. It was a comfort to Bob, at least the kid had something going for him.”

I returned to the Internet. Alpha Alternative School, Goleta . For working actors, athletes, musicians, or anyone benefiting from an individualized curriculum.

A hundred or so students. In lieu of yearbooks, faces had been collected each graduating year and cached for public use.

The face I was looking for had appeared two years ago. I showed it to both of them.

Milo said, “Our boy.”

Braxton said, “No doubt, then.”