Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

Herky-jerk movements, rat-a-tat speech, constricted pupils.

“She,” said Milo.

“Her, she, whatever,” said Rory Cline. “Let me cue you in: The only reason she’s pursuing this is she probably heard I’m due to move up and she wants to get in on the gravy train.”

Milo said, “Congrats on the promotion.”

“Yeah, it’s happening. Or was going to until you guys showed up and maybe fucked everything up. I’m being considered for an assistantship to Ed La Moca. Get it?”

“Big-time guy.”

“As in, ” said Cline, rattling off a list of movie stars. “Everyone wants to work for him, it’s taken me shit-all years to get in position, and now you show up and they’re going to think – how could you do this just because those assholes tell you to? They’re fucking lying, the whole thing is a fucking put-up.”

The pace of his speech had ratcheted from frantic to nearly unintelligible. I wondered if the building was vast enough to conceal a meth lab.

Milo said, “Who do you think called us, Mr. Cline?”

“Who do I think ? Them. Persian bitch and her fucking Persian husband. No matter how they’re spinning it, she hit me, fucked up my bumper, fucked up my trunk, fucked up a taillight. I was in front, she was behind me, and there’s no fucking way I rolled backward, it wasn’t even uphill. I didn’t call you guys because there were no injuries and she admitted it was her fault, promised to pay A-sap. Then she goes home, tells her rich fucking asshole rug merchant husband, he starts spinning. Fine, they wanna fight, I’ll fight. What I don’t get is you wasting your time when I already gave a statement to her insurance and they said they believed me, it’s obvious I didn’t roll back into her. The only reason I didn’t have my own insurance was it lapsed after I moved here from ICM and if you read the insurance reports you’d know that.”

He embarked on a ten-step march, came back. “May I go back to work and try not to get fucked up ?”

Milo said, “This isn’t about your fender-bender.”

“Then what ? I’m busy !”

“Calm down, sir.”

“Don’t tell me that. You probably just ruined my life, so don’t-”

“Stop-”

“You stop-”

“Be quiet. Now. ”

Something in Milo’s voice killed the tirade. Cline wrung his hands.

“Let’s start over-”

“What now? Oh, man,” said Cline, “I haven’t slept in I don’t know-”

“Then we have something in common, Mr. Cline. I’m investigating a homicide.”

“Homi-who? Someone got killed ? Who? ”

“Kat Shonsky.”

Cline’s posture loosened as if he’d been shot up with Valium. “You’re kidding.” He smiled.

“You think it’s funny?”

“No, no, it’s – that’s – totally bizarre. You really came at me from left fucking field. Who killed her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. What’s bizarre?”

“Someone getting killed.” Cline’s mouth got hard. “Why are you talking to me about it?”

“We’re talking to everyone she dated.”

“Count me out, we never dated. She picked me up in a club, we had sex for a few months, then we both realized we were faking and said why bother.”

“Hard for a man to fake,” said Milo.

“You’re being literal,” said Cline. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t happened to you. I’m not talking losing it, I’m talking being there without being there.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“Fine,” said Cline, “you’re macho mellow, can do it with a can of liver. For me, it got empty. Because she was never there. We decided to be friends, just hang out. That didn’t work either.”

“How come?”

“’Cause we didn’t like each other.” Cline drew back, maybe realizing the implication. “Listen, the last time I saw her was maybe half a year. I’ve had two girlfriends since then, you want to talk to them, be my guest, they’ll tell you I’m safe as milk.”

Cline fired off names. Milo wrote them down.

“You’re actually going to call them? Unreal. Fine, do it, why not, could work for me with Lori, maybe she’ll get interested again.”

“Why?”

“Making me look dangerous and all that,” said Cline. “Being safe is my issue. Lori thought I was average to nothing. Mostly I feel like nothing. Don’t eat, don’t sleep, and now you’ve fucked up my career.” Shrill laughter. “Hell, maybe I’ll cut my wrists.” Rubbing his arms. “And it’ll be your fault.”

Milo said nothing.

Rory Cline said, “I know, I know, get some rest, do yoga, take my vitamins. Sorry, Charlie, it’s like the ad for that gym. ‘I’ll rest when I’m dead.’”

Milo said, “Then I guess Kat’s resting.”

Cline shut his mouth. Tried to stand still and settled for rocking on his heels. “Unbelievable.”

Milo asked where he’d been when Kat Shonsky left the club.

Cline said, “Here.”

“In L.A.?”

“Here,” said Cline. “Working. Down in the bowels, eating shit.”

“Working over the weekend.”

“What’s a weekend? You want to check with the security logs, I can’t stop you, but please don’t, it’s only going to fuck me up further.”

“You do that a lot?” said Milo.

“Do what?”

“Work weekends.”

“Fuck, yeah. Sometimes I don’t go home for days. Ed LaMoca set the record twenty years ago, ten days without bathing. Dominated the droobs with radioactive ambition and cosmic body odor. They fade easily, the droobs, mostly Ivy League brats thinking they’re gonna waltz from Harvard to repping Brad Pitt. I went to Cal State North-ridge. Hunger gives me the edge.”

Milo said, “Anything you can tell us about Kat Shonsky?”

“Big faker,” said Cline. “Not just about that, about everything. Like she wanted to live someone else’s life.”

“Whose life?”

“Someone lazy and rich. She had half of it down.”

“You didn’t like her.”

“I already told you that.”

We asked a few more questions, slipping in cues about fancy cars and sexual kinks. All of that went right past Cline as he talked about himself.

When we turned to leave, he stood there.

Milo said, “You can go back to work.”

Cline didn’t move. “Listen, if it does turn out to be a story, let me know. If it’s something Brad or Will or Russell can use, I’ll make sure you’re in it in a way that pays off big.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Milo.

“Excellent.” Cline pumped air, ran back inside.

As Milo drove to the Valley, I reached one of Rory Cline’s past girlfriends, a lawyer named Lori Bonhardt. She described Cline as “a wimp and a dishrag,” denied ever witnessing a violent side.

“What’s he done?”

“He knows someone who got hurt.”

“Knows someone?” She laughed. “If that’s all it is, forget it. Aggression would take effort and Rory’s hobbies are drinking and sleeping. I used to tell him he should get on speed or something. Might give him some ambition. My Lhasa apso used to hump his leg and Chi never does that to anyone else. Know what that means?”

“Submissive personality,” I said.

“Beta male. Pure vice president.”

Michael Browning’s eyes got moist when he heard about Kat.

He was a barrel-chested, rust-bearded fireplug, five six in thick-soled shoes, with sturdy, hirsute wrists and lumberjack hands. He wore a yellow-and-blue windowpane shirt, a big-knotted red tie of gleaming silk brocade, leather knit suspenders. The shoes were mocha suede wingtips, maintained impeccably.