Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

“So what’s the plan?”

“This is gonna sound frustrating, ma’am, but I’m really starting at the beginning. Seeing as Bradley Masionette and Will Good were close to Antoine and the last people to see him, let’s start with them. Any idea where I can locate them?”

“It’s not in the file?”

“The file, ma’am, is rather incomplete.”

“Hmm. Well, Will coaches football at a Catholic school, don’t know which one.”

Gordon Beverly said, “St. Xavier.”

She stared at him.

“It was in the Sentinel, Shar. Few years back, he was coaching down in Riverside, moved here. I called him up, asked if he remembered anything more about Antoine. He said no.”

“Well, look at that,” she said. “What else don’t you tell me about?”

“No sense telling when there’s nothing to tell.”

Sharna Beverly said, “Bradley Maisonette did not turn out well. From what I hear, he’s spent most of his life in prison. Never did have a good family life.”

Gordon said, “We’re a tight-knit family. Antoine comes home all excited about all the big money he’s going to make, I was happy for him.”

Sharna said, “Magazines sell themselves, people love magazines more than life itself. I told him, ‘Antoine, what sounds too good to be true, is.’ I told him I needed to meet the people involved, make sure they weren’t taking advantage. Antoine threw a fit, jumping up and down, begging, pleading, ‘ Trust me, Mom. Don’t embarrass me, Mom, no one else’s parents are putting their noses in.’ I said, ‘Everyone else is stupid so I should be?’ Antoine begs some more, turns on that smile of his.” Sidelong peek at the photo. She folded her lips inward.

“I told Antoine, ‘That’s the trouble today, no one gets involved.’ But the boy kept working at me, saying if I showed up Will and Brad and everyone else would be dissing him all summer. Then he brings out his report card, half A’s, half B’s, perfect in Conduct. Claiming that proved he was smart, could be trusted.”

She slumped. “So I gave in. Biggest mistake I ever made and I’ve been paying for it for sixteen years.”

Gordon said, “Honey, I keep telling you, there’s no reason to-”

Her eyes blazed. “You keep telling me and you keep telling me.” She got up, walked to the door, took care to close it silently.

Projecting more rage than if she’d slammed it.

Gordon Beverly said, “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, sir,” said Milo.

“She’s a good wife and mother. She didn’t deserve what she got.”

“What both of you got.”

Gordon Beverly’s face trembled. “Maybe it’s worse for a mother.”

“Well, that was fun,” said Milo, when we were alone in his office. “Now I got little fishhooks sticking into my heart and decent people tugging on them. Time to check out this Youth In Action, on the off chance they’re still in business and Mrs. B. missed it.”

She hadn’t. He got to work locating Antoine’s friends.

Wilson Good’s name pulled up several references to varsity football games at St. Xavier Preparatory High in South L.A. In addition to coaching, Good was head of the Physical Education Department.

Bradley Maisonette’s criminal record was extensive. Over a dozen narcotics convictions, plus the predictable larcenies that fed a life of addiction.

Maisonette’s last parole was eleven months ago. His downtown address was a government-financed SRO. Milo phoned his probation officer, got voice mail, left a message.

Pulling a panatela out of a shirt pocket, he peeled off the plastic and wet the tip but kept the cigar in his hand. “Something else you think I should do?”

“Why doesn’t Texas just send Jackson out here and dare him to point out the graves?”

“Because he’s a serious escape risk – tried four times, nearly succeeded once and injured a guard in the process. No way are they gonna let him out of their custody until some local department comes up with serious corroboration. So far, three of Jackson’s claims have turned out to be bogus – crimes he didn’t know were already solved. Bastard probably scans the Internet searching for open horrors he can cop to. Unfortunately, he can’t be written off yet because the stakes are high. If I could find Antoine’s damn file it might lead me somewhere.”

“Where are the detectives who worked it originally?”

“One’s dead, the other’s living somewhere in Idaho. At least that’s where his pension check goes. But he hasn’t answered my calls. Meanwhile, there’s Ella Mancusi, with a body barely cold. Why do I think I’m gonna break the Beverlys’ hearts?”

He placed the beginnings of Antoine’s new murder book in a drawer. Changed his mind and laid it next to his computer. “I’ve started surveillance on Tony Mancusi, got three brand-new uniforms who think they like plainclothes. Still no violent crime reports the night the Bentley got boosted and Mr. Heubel had the car washed and detailed the day Sean scraped it, so the chance of finding anything new is sub-nil. I’m putting that at the bottom of the drawer.”

“Any luck getting Ella some media exposure?”

“You know the Times – maybe yes, maybe no. Public Affairs say there should be something on the six o’clock news tonight.”

His phone rang. He listened, wrote something down, clicked off. “That was a message from one of Ella’s allegedly noninvolved cousins, wants to talk to me. He’s close, works at a lamp store on Olympic and Barrington. Maybe the gods are smiling.”

Brilliant Crystal and Lighting was a thousand square feet of glare.

Aaron Hochswelder met us at the door and announced that he owned the place, had sent his employees on a coffee break. He walked us to the rear of his showroom. Heat from scores of chandeliers seared the back of my neck. Blinding light evoked a near-death experience.

Hochswelder was in his sixties but still dark-haired, tall and gaunt with a horse-face and fox-eyes. He wore a green short-sleeved shirt, pleated khakis, spit-shined oxfords.

He said, “Thanks for coming quickly. I could be out of line here but I felt I should talk to you. I still can’t believe what happened to Ella.”

Milo said, “She was your cousin.”

“First cousin. Her father was my father’s older brother. She used to babysit me.” His attention was snagged by an unlit bulb in a Venetian chandelier. He reached up, twisted, brought forth a twinkle. “You have any idea who did it?”

“Not yet. Anything you can tell us would be helpful, sir.”

Aaron Hochswelder chewed his cheek. “I’m not really sure I should be saying this but have you met her son, Tony?”

“We have.”

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“His… personality.”

“He seems to be down on his luck.”

“That assumes he ever had any luck.”

“Tough life?” said Milo.

“Self-imposed.” Hochswelder’s bony forearms tightened. “I don’t want to stir anything up, but…”

“Something about Tony bothers you?”

“It’s hard to talk about family this way but you might want to look at him.”

“As the killer?”

“It’s a painful thought. I’m not saying he’d actually do anything like that…”

“But,” said Milo.

“He might know someone bad? I’m not saying he does. It’s just… this is really tough. I feel like a turncoat.” Hochswelder inhaled through his nose, breathed out through his mouth. “All I’m saying is Tony is the only one I can think of. In the family.”

“Tony told us there wasn’t much family, period.”

“Because he chooses to have nothing to do with anyone.”