Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“I’m sure you would, sir.”

“Think about elections, Sturgis: Some sociopath spends hundreds of millions of dollars for a six-figure job. That’s some serious psychopathology, right, Doctor?”

I smiled.

The chief said, “He thinks I’m kidding. Anyway, to hell with the Feds, to hell with the sultan, to hell with that filthy lucre Teddy was stockpiling. Lot of good it did him. Though I guess I can’t blame the sultan for not wanting to be bankrupted by all that spending.”

Milo said, “And Dahlia?”

“Wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe they don’t like blondes in Sranil.”

“So we’re finished.”

“With international affairs, we are, and the clock’s still ticking on the turret murders. Twelve more days, then off you go to Southwest.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me, just row like a galley slave.”

Days passed. A week. Milo resigned himself to Southwest Division.

“Used to be a rib joint there. Meanwhile, I’m eating healthy.”

Today, that translated to triple portions of lamb and unlimited vegetables from his personal buffet at Moghul.

The woman in the sari refilled iced tea as if she were paid by the pitcher.

“Guess what,” he said. “One of the prime gunrunner suspects is the nephew of Councilman Ortiz and Ortiz is the oily sludge in His Munificence’s tap water.”

“Politics,” I said.

“Whatever he claims, he’s one of them.”

The door to the street opened. A midsized, bespectacled man in a dark green hoodie, jeans, and sneakers stepped in, walked straight toward us without hesitation.

Late twenties, shaved head, sharp cheekbones, rapid, purposeful stride.

Telltale bulge under the sweatshirt.

Milo ’s Glock was out before the guy got ten feet away.

The woman in the sari screamed and dropped to the floor.

The man’s eyes saucered behind thick lenses. “What the-Oh, shit-sorry.”

“Hands on head, don’t move.”

“Lieutenant, I’m Thorpe. Pacific Division?”

“Hands on head. Now!”

“Sure, sure.” The man complied. “Lieutenant, I had to pack, doing a GTA sting, decoy car’s not far from here, I figured I’d-I called your office first, sir, they said you were here, I figured I’d just…”

Milo reached under the sweatshirt, took the man’s gun. Another Glock. Did a pat-down, found the badge in a jeans pocket.

Officer Randolph E. Thorpe, Pacific Division.

Wallet photos advertised a pretty young wife and three toddlers, Thorpe perched proudly on a Harley-Davidson, a house with a gravel roof in the background. Two credit cards and a certificate of membership in a Baptist church out in Simi Valley.

Milo said, “Okay, relax.”

Thorpe exhaled. “I’m lucky I didn’t soil myself, sir.”

“You sure are. What can I do for you?”

“We talked a while back, sir. About a pay phone on Venice Boulevard? You were looking for a tipster, a suspect named Monte? I think I might’ve found him for you. Not Monte, your tipster.”

Milo returned the gun. “Sit down, Officer Thorpe, and have some lunch. On me.”

“Um, no, thanks, Lieutenant. Even if I hadn’t already eaten, my guts are kind of knotted up.” Thorpe rubbed the offending area. “How about tea to settle them down?”

“I’m okay.” Thorpe looked around. “Is this place dangerous or something?”

“Someone comes toward me, no introduction, obviously armed, I get a little self-protective. You looked pretty intense, friend.”

“The job does that to me,” said Thorpe. “I concentrate hard on whatever I’m doing. My wife says I turn into a robot even when I’m watching TV. Sorry if I-”

“Let’s chalk it up to a misunderstanding. How about some tea for Officer Thorpe, here?”

The woman in the sari said, “Yes, sir.” Back on her feet and looking none the worse. Downright happy, actually. Her faith in Milo ’s protective powers validated, yet again.

“Who’s the tipster, Officer Thorpe?”

“Randy’s fine, sir. I can’t be sure, but there’s this old guy, I thought of him a few days after we spoke, he’s a local. I didn’t call you right away because I had nothing to back it up, then yesterday I spotted him approaching that same phone booth, my last day in uniform before the GTA thing. I was on Code Seven, having coffee across the street, he walks right up to the booth, makes like he’s going to call, changes his mind, leaves. Returns a few minutes later, gets as far as picking up the receiver, changes his mind again, leaves. I stuck around but he didn’t come back. It could be nothing, but I figured.”

“Appreciate it, Randy. Got a name?”

“All I know is George. But he lives in one of those old-age homes nearby. Here’s the address.”

“Excellent,” said Milo. “Keep those eyes sharp, Randy. This works out, I’ll put in a good word with the chief.”

“You can do that?”

“Anytime.”

Two Georges in residence at the mint-green apartment complex recast as Peace Gardens Retirement Center. George Bannahyde was wheelchair-bound and never left the building. George Kaplan, “one of our healthier ones,” resided in a second-story room.

Too many old-age homes are hovels designed to stuff owners’ pockets with taxpayer largesse. This one was clean, fresh smelling, softly lit, with snacks in abundance and well-fed, nicely groomed residents playing board games, exercising on mats, watching movies on wide-screen TVs. A posted schedule listed activities every daylight hour, mealtimes excepted.

Milo assured the desk clerk that Mr. Kaplan wasn’t in trouble, just the opposite, he was important to LAPD.

She said, “George?”

“Is he in?”

“Up in his room. I can call him down if you’d like.”

“No, that’s fine, we’ll just drop in.”

Lots of head-turns as Milo and I walked past the activity. We climbed the stairs to a freshly vacuumed corridor. Bouncy brown carpeting, mock-adobe walls, burnt-orange doors equipped with name slots.

G. Kaplan’s door was open. A small, round-backed, light-skinned black man sat on a neatly tucked bed, wearing a white shirt buttoned to the neck, knife-pressed maroon slacks, spit-polished black-and-white wingtips. Skimpy silver hair was pomaded to iridescence. Gray-blue eyes, not that different in hue from mine, studied us with amusement. A box of Tam Tam crackers, a bottle of dry-roasted peanuts, and a setup for instant coffee sat on a nightstand. The wall above the headboard bore portraits of Martin Luther King and Lyndon Johnson, the latter signed.

Two chairs faced the bed. George Kaplan said, “Sit, Gemma called from downstairs, officers, all ready for you.”

Singsong cadence, velvety intonation; maybe one of New Orleans ’s many variants. His eyes were serene but both hands trembled and his head rocked at irregular intervals. Parkinson’s disease or something like it.

“Thanks for meeting with us, Mr. Kaplan.”

“Nothing else to do.” Kaplan’s lips parted. Too-white dentures clacked. “What does law enforcement have in mind with relation to George S. Kaplan?”

Milo studied the photos before settling. “LBJ? Usually it’s JFK.”

“George S. Kaplan isn’t usual. Those Kennedys were fine, if you like pretty faces. President Johnson didn’t look like a movie star- Lord, those ears, he got no respect. But it was him pushed through legislation to smooth out the races.”

“The Great Society.”

“He was a dreamer, same as Dr. King. I did the man’s shoes, Ambassador Hotel. The president, not Dr. King, unfortunately. Had a stand there for forty-eight and a half years. Was there the night RFK got shot, tried to tell the cops I’d seen that Jordanian lunatic skulking around the hotel for days, muttering to himself. No one cared what I have to say.”