Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

“Seeing yourself as moral and living with something that evil would be a hell of a burden, but people pull it off. Or Good could be one of those highly functioning psychopaths who’s managed to avoid trouble.”

“And now trouble comes visiting,” he said. “So he freaks out and splits.”

“Or Antoine’s death wasn’t a calculated crime. Couple of kids horsing around and something went horribly wrong. Good panicked and hid Antoine’s body. Now he’s terrified.”

“Maybe three kids. Antoine’s other pal is a junkie and a career criminal. That could be self-punishment.”

“Gordon Beverly said Maisonette had family problems, lived through a drive-by. Maybe his resources weren’t as strong as Good’s.”

“Bradley sentences himself to a lousy life, Wilson gets the house in the hills. Maybe that makes Good the really cold one… hell, it could’ve been premeditated. The Goods told us Antoine sold more subscriptions than anyone. What if those little bastards wanted to pocket his dough and he wouldn’t give it up?”

“The way those outfits generally operate, the kids hand in the forms and get paid later.”

“Okay, but my nose is telling me something happened among those three boys. Gotta find Mr. Good and start demolishing his illusions, but I can’t lose track of Mancusi and Shonsky. Speaking of which, Tony called Jean Barone yesterday, wanting to know when Mama’s will was going to be processed.”

“What’d she tell him?”

“What I told her to say: The wheels of justice grind slowly. The Tonester hung up without as much as good-bye. Maybe cranking up the pressure will lead him to do something stupid. Like meeting with whoever Dale Bright’s pretending to be.”

Snatching a cruller, he bit down hard, created a spray of crumbs. “Thanks for taking the trip, Alex. You believe Korvutz about not setting up the Safrans?”

“He had no incentive, the building was going to be vacated with or without the Safrans’ consent.”

“So what was Bright’s motive?”

“Killing’s fun when you can frame it as altruism. Sonia Glusevitch said Bright was the most helpful man she’d ever met.”

“The gal-pal,” he said. “Credible?”

“I think so.”

“Able but not often willing,” he said. “But not gay.”

“This guy defies classification.”

He finished the cruller, took another. “Frolicks in frocks, good with makeup. No record of him living in Washington, D.C., Maryland, or Virginia. Same deal with military service in Germany.”

“What a shock,” I said.

“Reinvent yourself. Pastime of the new millennium. Why didn’t he just run for office and save us all this grief.”

“Politics would be a poor fit,” I said. “He genuinely likes helping people.”

He laughed so hard crumbs bounced off his belly.

I said, “Dale and Tony could’ve met at some cross-dresser get-together. Tony complains about money problems, how his mother lives in a nice Westwood house while he’s forced to move to a dump because she’s turned off the tap. Dale decides to put in a fix. Maybe Tony has no idea what he’s initiated but maybe after he hears the details – a killer in costume – he suspects something.”

“The plaid cap,” he said. “He talked about his father wearing one just like it. If that was one of Dale’s little jokes, how’d he find out about Tony Senior’s sartorial habits?”

“Tony gabs, Dale’s a good listener. If Tony knows he’s partially responsible for Dale butchering his mother, that would explain the emotion we saw.”

“Barfing. But he doesn’t turn Dale in because he’s scared of being nabbed as an accessory.”

“What interests me is that Dale acted with no worry about Tony giving him up. He understands Tony’s psyche.”

“Or he’s biding his time.”

“Tony’s in jeopardy? I guess it’s possible. Either way, if surveillance doesn’t produce something soon, I’d think about confronting him directly.”

He made his way through the second cruller. “You really think this is evil altruism, Dale doesn’t get paid for his hits?”

“If we’re right about the Ojo Negro killings, he murdered his sister and Vicky Tranh and got rich. But if money was his sole reason for eliminating Leonora, all he had to do was sit in the woods and pick her off with a rifle. Instead, he dressed up in costume, showed himself, stole a car, engaged in incredible savagery. To me that says there was psychosexual payoff. And that fits with what Leonora told Mavis Wembley about Dale: secretly cruel as a child.”

“Tortures animals, volunteers at a shelter. He’s all about irony, isn’t he?”

“Irony and theater,” I said. “Think what it took to pull off Kat Shonsky’s murder: stealing a conspicuous car, stalking his prey, then abducting her, possibly in drag. Then returning the car to where it’s sure to be found and leaving token blood on the seat. Leaving the scarf where it would be seen immediately if Kat’s grave was unearthed.”

“That grave would’ve definitely been unearthed,” he said. “The permits for the sisters’ swimming pool had just come through.”

“Be interesting if Dale was aware of that.”

His eyebrows arched. “Someone the sisters know… wonder if they’re back from their cruise.”

He motioned the waitress over, handed her some bills.

“That’s way too much, Lieutenant.”

“Caught me in a weak moment, Marissa.”

“Honestly, Lieu-”

He placed a big hand over hers. “Take your kid to the movies.”

“You’re so sweet.” She tiptoed to buss his cheek, just about skipped away.

I said, “Random acts of kindness.”

“Me and Dale.”

He brushed memos into the trash unread, searched Kat Shonsky’s murder book for the names of the sisters who shared the burial lot.

“Susan Appel and Barbara Bruno… let’s go alphabetically.” Punching numbers so fast he hit the wrong button and had to try again.

“Mrs. Appel? Lieutenant Sturgis… I’m… yes, I know it was traumatic, ma’am, so sorry it was your… no, there’ll be no need to do any further digging, that’s not what I’m… absolutely, Mrs. Appel, and we do appreciate it, but I need to ask you one more question.”

He hung up, rubbing his face. “Doesn’t know anyone named Bright, Dale, Ansell, or otherwise. Would never know anyone capable of something so terrible, same goes for Sis because they have exactly the same social group.”

“Close-knit,” I said.

“They share real estate and haven’t sued each other. Might as well be conjoined. Let me try Bruno, anyway… nope, voice mail, no sense leaving a message, Appel’s bound to get to her first. Thanks for breakfast, I’m off to buy my Red Bull and sustenance, get ready for the wonders of Rodney Drive.”

“You paid for breakfast.”

“I was talking mental stimulation.”

“Want company?”

“Robin’s still busy on her project?”

“We’re catching dinner at seven, then she’s back to work.”

“So play with the dog – thanks for the offer, Alex, but doing that forty-eight-hour N.Y. turnaround is already beyond the call. Plus hanging with me when I’m brain-dead is not amusing. And don’t say you’ve already been there.”

Dinner was lamb chops, salad, beer. By nine p.m. Robin was back to carving and I was stretched on the sofa in my office reading the paper. Blanche curled next to me pretending to be interested in current affairs. At ten thirty I snapped awake, feeling itchy and too large for my skin. Blanche snored with gusto. I put her to bed, walked out back to the studio.

Robin sat at her bench, tapping and carving. “Oh, no. Poor you.”