Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“What happened the next day?”

“What do you mean?”

“No mention of the discussion?”

“Nope.” Her hand dropped to fool with her napkin, again. This time she lingered at my crotch.

I shifted away. “I’m going to make sure Bettina’s okay.”

“Don’t bother, she’s okay-all right, fine, but she’s really okay.”

It took nine minutes for Sanfelice to emerge from the ladies’ room. Her steps were wobbly and her eyes were raw. When she saw me, she gasped.

“You all right?”

“I’m terrible,” she said. “That was terrible.”

“Sorry. I didn’t intend for it to get that detailed-”

“With Sheryl it would have to. She likes to show off. Her dad’s a drunk and he beat her mom all the time, Sheryl never did well in school and her mom died a few years ago. My mom says she’s a slut but she’s had it hard.”

Glancing toward the booth. “You won’t tell my mom, right?”

Passant and Milo weren’t talking. Passant looked bored.

When Bettina Sanfelice settled back in, Milo said, “A woman died with Des-”

“Omigod-”

“-and I’ve got a picture of her. It’s not disgusting or bloody, but it was taken after death. Can you handle looking at it?”

Passant said, “I just saw it, Teen, it’s no big deal and you don’t know her.”

Sanfelice took a deep breath. “How can you be sure?”

“I didn’t know her, so no way you did.”

“That makes no sense, Sher. Show it to me, sir.”

Milo produced the death shot. Sanfelice studied. Smiled triumphantly. “I’ve seen her with Des.”

Passant said, “Sure you have.”

Milo said, “Where and when, Bettina?”

“Just once, sir. It was after work. Des and me were the last ones in the office. I was sweeping up and Des was drawing stuff on the computer. Our cars were parked in the lot out back and we walked out together.” Tapping the image with a finger. “She was there, standing next to his car. Waiting for him, he wasn’t surprised or anything.”

“Was he happy to see her?”

“He wasn’t happy or unhappy. Kind of… in the middle.”

Passant murmured, “Once upon a time…”

Sanfelice said, “I definitely saw her. I can tell you what she was wearing, sir. Tight jeans and a black tank top. She had a real good body. I remember thinking Des had himself a hot one.”

Glaring at Passant. As opposed to…

Passant huffed and slurped her drink.

I said, “Did Des address her by name?”

“Nope, they didn’t talk at all. He just kind of nodded at her and she nodded back.”

“Did they leave together?”

“I can’t say for sure. I drove off first and didn’t see.”

Sheryl Passant picked up the photo. “I wouldn’t call her hot.”

Milo said, “How long ago did this happen, Bettina?”

“I can’t tell you exactly when but it was way before GHC closed down, I’d guess two months, maybe a little longer, like two and a half.”

“Anything else you can tell us, Bettina?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, thanks, you’ve been really helpful. If you think of anything else, here’s my card.”

“She won’t think of nothing, trust me,” said Passant. “And give me one of those, too.”

We watched them leave, Passant yammering as Sanfelice stomped ahead of her.

Milo said, “Blondie was nudging up against you pretty blatantly.”

“You have no idea,” I said.

“Serious footsies?”

“Beyond.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll send the department a bill for freelance decoy work. Did Passant have anything to add when you got her alone?”

“Nada, she’s an airhead. Though she did try to fool with my desert boots. If only she knew, huh? What about Sanfelice over by the john?”

“Please don’t tell Mom. Looks like Des was a creature of habit.”

“That Kill Me sign’s looking bigger and brighter. Okay, we’re outta here.”

“Italian?”

“You’re hungry?”

“I assumed you were.”

“Yeah, I could ingest, we could even stay here. Alternatively, we could go for the mixed antipasto, that headcheese with delicate but smoky overtones, the fried artichokes Roman-style, nice salad with thin-sliced Parmesan and pepperoncini and intensely cured black olives, the big, hot bowl of baked ziti with the bread crumbs sprinkled on top. If there’s still room, there’s always the double-cut veal chop with the Sicilian sauce, wedge of spumoni, triple espresso, pump in the caffeine.”

Sliding his bulk out of the booth. “Not that I’ve been thinking about it.”

Out in the parking lot, I said, “Nice lateral pass on the interview.”

He grinned. “Nice catch. I figured psychological sensitivity was called for.”

“Flattered.”

“It had nothing to do with the fact that I don’t sleep with women.”

“That never occurred to me.”

“No?”

“Who is more aware than I of your painful shyness?”

“To be honest, Alex, if we were dealing with men, I’da come out and asked. Because men can’t wait to talk about their sex lives. I figured women were different, it would be like oral surgery, but go know. Sorry for your having to deal with Blondie’s lack of filter.”

“Mercy me, the trauma,” I said. “Where’s the self-help group?”

He laughed. Turned serious. “A married woman old enough to be his mama, a wild girl, and a shy, nerdy type. Guy was all over the map.”

“What strikes me,” I said, “is that none of them seem particularly impacted by his death. There was initial shock but once that wore off, all three discussed him objectively. Same way they did at the cocktail lounge. He meant very little to them emotionally and probably vice versa, but what if Jane Doe was different?”

“Someone Don Juan actually got involved with. Maybe. When you factor in the zip code, he did take her on a fancy date.”

Several plates full of Italian food later, I drove back to the city over Benedict Canyon while Milo phoned a judge known to skim rather than read and requested a victim search warrant for Desmond Backer’s residence.

The next call was to Santa Monica PD, making nice with the day-shift homicide lieutenant by promising not to tie up her detectives and convincing her to send a locksmith to Backer’s apartment as soon as possible.

We reached Santa Monica at the end of a nice beach day; tourists and wild-eyed homeless people divvied up Ocean Front Boulevard. Backer’s building on California was four stories of rain-streaked white stucco pimpled by juliet balconies too small to be functional and bottomed by a subterranean lot. The view was the massive, five-story condo across the street.

Three blocks east of the beach bought you the smell of the ocean but no big blue kiss.

The building’s interior was cool and gray and sterile. The locksmith was already in place at the door to Backer’s second-floor flat, looking sleepy. He said, “Murder case, huh?” and opened his bag. Milo gave him latex gloves and sheathed his own hands and mine. The locksmith said, “Must be a biggie,” and got to work. The deadbolt yielded quickly, a receipt was signed, the locksmith tossed his gloves onto the hallway carpet and left.

I waited until Milo called out the all-clear.

Desmond Backer had been trained in structural design and aesthetics but he’d lived in a plain-wrap one-bedroom, one-bath, had made no attempt to personalize.

Brown cloth sofa and matching love seat in the living room, cheap bamboo tables, framed generic photographs of trees, lakes, foxes, owls, eagles. A cinder-block-and-glass-shelf bookcase housed architecture texts and a few large-format paperbacks. Population control, biodiversity, tropical reforestry, renewable fuels.