Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

Milo let her dissipate energy for a block and a half. “Anything you want to tell us before we start asking questions?”

“Kat had a thing for losers but I can’t imagine anyone that evil.”

“How about some names?”

“There was Rory – Rory Cline. With a C. Works in the mailroom at the CRP agency, thinks he’s going to be a big-shot agent. Must be forty but he tries to look younger. Kat met him at a club, I don’t know where. She was attracted to him but he had no interest in sex, just wanted to hold hands and listen to music. That made her feel unattractive.”

Milo wrote down the name. “Next?”

“Next was Michael… what was his last name…” Tapping her hair. “Sorry, it’s escaping me. Michael… unlike Rory, he loved sex. All the time. Kat said he was a stud but turned out he was married. An accountant or something… Michael Browning, there you go.”

“Did Kat stop seeing him when she found out?”

“Nope. But she got bored. With him and the sex. All quantity, no quality, she said. The third one was a real asshole – some hick who worked on Rolls-Royces.”

Milo said, “Clive Hatfield.”

Her shoulders tightened. “You suspect him?”

“Riana gave us his name so we went over to talk to him.”

“And?”

“No Prince Charming. Unfortunately, he’s got a tight alibi. Any others?”

“No,” she said. “Rory, Michael, and Clive, the loser brigade.”

Milo had her recount the last night of Kat Shonsky’s life. She was forthcoming about her “growing serious” relationship with Sean the surfboard sander. “It’s a real connection, you know? I mean I’m sorry Kat had to drive home alone, but that’s not my fault, right?”

“Of course not.”

“She was p.o.’d. Did what happened to her relate to drunk driving or something?”

“Doesn’t seem that way.”

“Thank God, I’d feel terrible about that.”

“Beth, is there anyone besides Rory Cline and Michael Browning we should know about?”

“No one I can think of.”

“No one Kat met at the club that night?”

“She didn’t meet anyone. That was what p.o.’d her. We thought of inviting her but figured it would be uncomfortable.” She walked faster, gritted her teeth, cried silently.

“Beth, did Kat ever talk to you about problems with anyone?”

“Just her mother. They didn’t get along.”

“What about people at work?”

“She hated her job, thought the girl she worked with was a suck-up. That made me feel a little bad because I was the one who told her about it.”

“What’d she hate about the job?”

“Lousy money, boring, you name it. Kat had a tough life. Her real dad died when she was young. Her mother was a slut, had men coming and going all the time. Finally, she found a rich guy.”

“How’d Kat get along with the rich guy?”

“She actually liked him better than her mother. Said he was more laid-back, didn’t pressure her. With her mother it was always criticism.” She sucked in breath, took a long time to exhale. “Kat was beautiful but didn’t know it. The truth is – I’m realizing this now – I’ve never seen her really happy.”

“How’d she deal with her unhappiness?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes people escape.”

“Oh,” she said. “Her drinking. Yeah, it could get out of hand. But you just said DUI had nothing to do with it.”

“It didn’t. So there’s no one she had conflict with recently?”

“I can’t think of anyone.”

“Someone told us a strange story, Beth.”

“What’s that?”

He repeated the incident with the cross-dresser.

She said, “Oh, that.”

“Kat told you.”

“She thought it was hilarious. ” A trace of a smile said Beth had agreed.

“She describe this guy?”

“Omigod – you think he could be-”

“We’re just collecting facts, Beth.”

“Did she describe him… just that he didn’t look queer-y on the outside, you’d never know.”

“Masculine.”

“I guess.”

“Let me ask you something else, Beth. Would Kat have been impressed by money?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“How about a special attraction?”

The pretty face went slack with confusion.

“Fancy houses, expense accounts – real nice cars. Any of that float her boat?”

“Sure, all of the above,” said Beth Holloway. “That just makes her normal.”

Milo ran backgrounds on Rory Cline and Michael Browning.

Cline was easy – one motorist with that name in L.A. County. Studio City apartment, no criminal record, wants, or warrants, eleven-year-old Audi.

Sixteen Michael Brownings. Narrowing the search to the three who lived in the Valley and cross-checking business listings turned up one accountant: Michael J. Browning, office on Lankershim, near Universal Studios.

One-year-old Saab, another clean record.

“A mailroom flunky and a number cruncher,” said Milo. “No reason for either of them to have car-boosting skills, but let’s talk to them anyway.”

Creative Representation and Promotion occupied a travertine-and-green-glass fortress near the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica. Inside was more of the same beige stone. A mural of stiff people watching a movie dominated the three-story, skylit lobby. A milky sky-light aimed for an indoor-outdoor effect but missed. Mussolini loved travertine but got strung up before he could remodel Rome.

A pair of male receptionists in gunmetal silk shirts hid themselves behind a high counter and whispered into tiny phones suspended from their ears. A beefy black man in a bad suit stood to their side.

Milo strode up to one of the gray-shirts and held out his badge. The security man smiled and remained in place. The receptionist kept talking. From the sound of it a personal chat.

Milo waited, slapped a hand on the counter. The security guy smiled wider as the receptionist jumped.

“Hold on.” Sudden smile, as sincere as silicon. “Are you here for a meeting?”

“We’re here to see Rory Cline.”

“Who might that be?”

“He works in the mailroom.”

“The mailroom doesn’t take calls.”

“It’s taking this one.”

“Uh-uh-uh. Working hours are-”

“Irrelevant. Call him.”

Grayshirt shrank back. Glanced at the security guard. Saw a broad back.

“Look, I don’t even know how to get anyone there.”

Milo said, “Time to learn.”

It took several calls delivered in a perplexed whisper, and frantic repetition of the word “police” before Grayshirt said, “He’s on his way, you can wait over there.”

We hung by the brown chairs. Five minutes later an elevator slid open and a narrow, round-shouldered, dark-haired man strode toward us.

Rory Cline looked every minute of forty and then some, with hollow cheeks and eyes to match. His spiky do fit him like lipstick fits a goldfish. His white shirt was wrinkled and limp as a used Kleenex. A skinny black tie dangled below the cinched belt line of gray pipe-stem trousers.

He pointed to the front doors, hurried past us, left the building.

We found him half a block down on Linden Drive, hands jammed in his pockets, pacing.

“Mr. Cline?”

“What are you doing to me? Now everyone’ll think I’m a felon!”

Milo said, “In your business, maybe that could be career-enhancing.”

Cline’s eyes bugged. “Funny funny funny. I can’t believe she sent you here. I already gave you guys my version and they believed me that her story was total bullshit. Now you’re back? Why, because she’s got beaucoup bucks, that’s the way you guys do it, like that Eddie Murphy movie? What, I’m living a fucking Beverly Hills comedy ?”