Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

"Sounds good. Want me there?"

Silence. Static. Finally he said, "Yes."

When I walked into the bedroom, Robin was sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

"Morning." I kissed her forehead and began to get dressed.

"What time is it? How long have you been up?"

"Early. Just a bit. Have to run and meet Milo up on Mulholland."

"Oh," she said sleepily. "Something come up?"

"Maybe," I said.

That opened her eyes wide.

"A possible lead," I said. "Nothing dangerous. Brain work."

She held out her arms. We embraced. "Take good care of it," she said. "Your brain. I love your brain."

MILO WAS PARKED on the road below the murder site, engine running, fingers tapping the steering wheel. I left the Seville a few yards away and got in the unmarked. He was wearing the same gray suit, but it looked ten years older. Driving east on Mulholland, he reached the Glen, headed north into the Valley.

"Where'd you get the address?" I said.

"DMV. No listings for Ulrich's BMW or any other vehicle in his name, but the Stratton girl owns a two-year-old Saturn, has an address on Milbank. Sherman Oaks, not Encino. Too far east by two blocks."

"Why tell the truth when you can lie?"

"Setting up the scene… He just loves this, doesn't he?"

"Every detail," I said. "Remember what you said about the only footprints being his and Stratton's? He cleaned up after himself, but just in case he missed something, he gave himself a legitimate reason to leave behind trace evidence."

"All these years… orchestrating… goddamn conductor." He took one hand off the wheel, raised it toward the roof. "Lord, grant me the opportunity to shove his baton up his ass… Anything else you think I should know before I approach him?"

"Act friendly but authoritative. Don't go overboard on either. While you're listening to him, let your eyes roam. Let him try to figure out if it's cop curiosity or you're looking for something. Let's see how he reacts to the uncertainty. Ask him lots of questions, but keep it general. Out-of-sequence questions, like you do so well. Dropping in on him without warning is good. You'll be the one orchestrating. If he gets nervous, he may do something impulsive. Like pack up and leave once he thinks you're gone, or try to hide something-a storage locker. He's likely to have one, can't afford to have Tanya come across his souvenirs."

"You're sure he keeps them?"

"I'll bet on it. Once you leave, can you get surveillance in place pretty quickly?"

"One way or the other, he'll be watched, Alex. If I have to do it myself, he'll be watched… Okay, so you're talking a one-man good-cop/bad-cop show. But keep it subtle. Yeah, I can do subtle. Even without the benefit of alcohol. What'll you be concentrating on?"

"Playing impassive shrink. If I can get Tanya alone, I'll take a closer look at her."

"Why, you suspect her, too?"

"No, but she's tiring of him. Maybe she'll say something revealing."

He bared his teeth in what I assumed was a smile. "Fine, we've got our plan. All that accomplished, then can I shove it up his ass?"

His gas foot was heavy and the ride took fifteen minutes, whipping us past canyon beauty and the barbered anxiety of hillside suburbia, accelerating into a too-fast left turn across Ventura. The Valley was ten degrees warmer. Encino appeared just past Sepulveda and the low-rise shops of Sherman Oaks gave way to mirrored office buildings and car lots. Very little traffic this early on a sleepy Sunday. The 405 freeway ribboned across the intersection, parallel with the western flank of the white carcass that had once been the Sherman Oaks Galleria. The shopping center was shuttered now, all the more pathetic in death because of its size. Someone had plans for the space. Someone always had plans.

Milo drove a block, turned right on Orion, stayed parallel with the freeway, headed west on Camarillo, circling around to the mouth of Milbank, a shady street with no sidewalks. Single-story houses, well-maintained, dimmed by the luxuriance of untrimmed camphor trees. Off to the east, the freeway thundered.

Tanya Stratton's address matched a white G.I.-bill dream box with blue trim. Carefully tended lawn, but less landscaping than its neighbors. No cars in the driveway, two throwaway papers on the oil spot. Shuttered windows, white-painted iron security grate across the front door, mailbox mounted on the steel mesh. Another white metal door blocked access to the rear yard.

"Someone likes their privacy," I said.

Milo frowned. We got out, walked to the security door. A button was mounted on the front wall of the house, near the jamb of the security door. Milo pushed it and I could hear the buzzer sound inside the house. No answer. No barking.

I remarked on that, said, "Maybe they took Duchess on one of their early-morning walks."

"On Sunday?" he said.

"Hey, he's a fit guy."

He lifted the lid of the mailbox. Inside were four envelopes and two circulars from fast-food restaurants. He inspected the postmarks. "Yesterday's."

He toed the grate. I watched his lips form a silent curse as he stared at the jewel-bright brass dead bolt. "Who knows what the hell's in there, but Ulrich finding the body ain't exactly grounds for a warrant. Hell, I don't even exercise the warrants I do get."

"You didn't end up serving Richard?"

He shook his head. "So much for any future relationship with Maclntyre. Spent all night with my Glendale colleagues. Who, by the way, will not arrest you for trespassing a crime scene."

"They wouldn't know it was a crime scene unless I trespassed."

"Technicalities, technicalities." He punched the button again. Rubbed his face, loosened his tie, glanced over at the door barring the yard. "Let's go back to the car, try to figure something out. Meanwhile, I'll run searches on Ulrich's aliases. He repeated the hiker M.O., used Michigan twice, so maybe he's recycled an identity."

He tried DMV again, inquiring about Michael Ferris Burke, Grant Rushton, Huey Mitchell, Hank Spreen, with no success. We'd been sitting for a few minutes, alternating between silence and dead-end suggestions, when a small red car drove up and parked across the street.

Nissan Sentra, dark-haired woman at the wheel. She turned off her engine, started to get out when she saw us. Then she flashed a nervous stare and up went the driver's window.

Milo was out in a second, jogging over, flashing the badge. The Nissan's window stayed up. He produced his business card, I saw his lips move, finally the glass lowered. As if in appreciation, Milo backed away, gave the woman space. She exited the red car, looked at me, then at Milo. He had his hands in his pockets, was making himself a bit smaller, the way he does when he's trying to put someone at ease. I joined them.

The woman was in her thirties, slightly heavy, brown hair highlighted with rust, sooty shadows under her bright-blue eyes and a speck of mascara under one of them. She wore a bulky white cowl-neck T-shirt, black leggings, black flats. The rear of the car was filled with fabric samples in binders.

"What's wrong?" she said, eyeing the white house.

"Do you live in the neighborhood, ma'am?"

"My sister does. Across the street."

"Ms. Stratton?"

"Yes." Her voice strained half an octave higher. "What's going on?"

"We came to ask your sister and Mr. Ulrich some questions, ma'am."

"About what happened-about their finding Dr. Mate?"

"Your sister talked to you about that, Ms…"

"Lamplear. Kris Lamplear. Sure, we talked about it. It wasn't exactly an everyday thing. Not in detail, Tanya was grossed out. She called me to tell me they found it- him. Is there some problem? Tanya's already been through a lot."

"How so, ma'am?" said Milo.