Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

He got up, fixed a cup of instant coffee, and brought it to the table. "Then she said she was sure he was in some kind of danger. Otherwise he would have called her at least once. I asked her what danger. She said she really didn't know, Puck tried to keep his problems to himself, but probably some kind of debt situation. So we went to his place. Lucy had a key." Wiping a tear. "What a rathole. Basically an abandoned building. The store below was vacant. To get to Puck's place you had to climb up some rear stairs near the trash bins."

He ran his hands through his hair and swallowed hard.

"We went in and there was this smell, right away- like stale laundry mixed with badly rotting food- but the place was a mess, open cans, crap all over the carpet, so I didn't think anything of it. It was a surprisingly big place- two bedrooms. But no real furniture. Lucy said the rear bedroom was Puck's, so we went back there. The door was closed but we heard something behind it, like an electric shaver. We looked at each other, scared out of our minds. Then I figured, maybe it's good news, he just got back, he's shaving, cleaning up. So I opened the door…"

He blinked and put the cup down.

"Just a crack, but this cloud came out at me. Flies. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. That was the sound. And maggots. The whole bed was covered with them. On the floor, on the drapes, like someone had tossed rice all over. Then I saw- underneath a big mound of them, on the bed- this … thing. The needle sticking out of it. Shiny and clean. The only clean thing in there. He was- under them, on the bed. And on the floor. It was hard to tell what was him and what was- he'd melted !"

Milo said, "It's called purge fluid. Stuff leaks out when putrefaction's well under way. It means he'd been there for a while."

We were in the living room of the Brentwood house. He'd just arrived, nearly two hours after I'd brought Ken and Lucy back. Both of them were sleeping.

"How long?" I said.

"Hard to say, there was no air-conditioning in the apartment. Coroner says the most we can expect is an estimate, three- to eight-day range."

"Well, we know it's closer to three, because before that he was in New Mexico. Looks like he came back soon after he called Lowell. But he still didn't call Lucy."

"Came back after scoring," he said. "Van Nuys found a nice little chunk in the toilet tank. Mexican brown, but very strong. Small corner chipped away."

"Sampling the goods and he OD'd," I said. "Too stoned to call Lucy."

He looked around the room. "How long's she been asleep?"

"Hour and a half."

"Ken, too?"

"He went up to see how she was doing a half hour ago and didn't come down."

"Escape to sleep," he said.

"Old Buck tends to nod off when he's under stress, too."

He cracked his knuckles. "Some people just have shitty lives, don't they? And the rest of us live off them. Hey, why don't we blow this joint, go to the circus or something? Did I ever tell you I once busted a clown when I was on patrol? Peeping Tom. Never worked that into his act."

He got up and paced the room. "Nice place the scamsters set up for themselves."

"Crime almost paid."

Ken came down the stairs, holding on to the banister. His hair was combed but he looked sick. "Guess I dozed off- hi, detective."

They shook hands.

"Is Lucy awake?" I said.

"Just up. She said if you wanted to come up it was okay. She's at the end of the hall."

I went up the stairs. Lucy's room was pale blue with white trim, smallish, with a canted ceiling and a big four-poster with lace-edged covers. She was sitting on the edge, staring out the window.

I sat next to her. She didn't react. Her eyes were dry and her lips were chapped.

"I'm so sorry, Lucy."

"Gone," she said. "Everything."

I patted her hand. Fingers cold as Puck's junkie digits.

"Heard the doorbell," she said.

"That was Milo."

She nodded, then kept the movement going, a faint rocking.

"No surprise," she said. "Guess I always knew, but…"

"It's never easy."

"Like being stripped… one thing at a time… empty world."

I squeezed her fingers.

"He can come up," she said. "Milo."

Almost pleading.

I stepped out to the landing. Milo and Ken were still in the entry. It didn't look as if either of them had moved.

"She'd like to see you."

He bounded the steps two at a time. When we were alone, Ken touched his belly and gave a squeamish look. "Stomach's off, can't hold on to anything. Maybe I'll finally take off some blubber."

I smiled.

"Gained way too much. Fifteen pounds during the last year. My divorce. It hasn't been a friendly one. Kelly- my wife- met another guy. She'd been complaining about being bored, so I suggested she take some classes at the junior college. She met him there, some out-of-work construction guy. I tried to get her to go to counseling, but she wouldn't. When I finally realized we were going to break up, I tried to keep it amicable, for the kids. But she bad-mouthed me to them."

"That doesn't help the kids."

"It's been going on over a year, and we're still in court. Her dad's got lots of money, lawyers on retainer. She says she won't give up until she has everything."

He gave another cough-laugh. "That's why I was motivated to get in touch with Puck and Lucy. Now this."

Milo returned. "She fell asleep again."

"I'd better go lock the door," said Ken.

Milo said, "Why?"

I told him.

"Oh." Turning to Ken: "Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks, detective. Are they treating what happened as an accident?"

"Probably."

"Guess it was," said Ken. "Sometimes it seems like everything is."

Outside at the curb, I asked Milo if Lucy'd said anything.

"She held my hand and took turns smiling and crying. Think she has any chance coming out of this reasonably intact?"

"She's pretty tough, but this… she's topping off the stress scale."

"Beautiful day," he said, looking at the sapphire sky. "I had time to make some calls. The surf shop's closed, meaning the Sheas may have split, too. Still nothing on Trafficant, and if your Mr. Mellors is a bad guy, he's been a careful one. Nothing on NCIC. In fact, I can't find any record of him at all."

"What's going on?" I said. "Everyone's just disappearing."

He rubbed his face. "We all do, eventually."

I returned home and tried Columbia University. They'd never heard of Denton Mellors. Either he'd lied about his educational background or was using a false name. Pen name? I got the number for the Manhattan Book Review and called the magazine.

The man who answered let out a stuffed-sinus laugh. "Mellors? And who are you, Lord Chatterley?"

"Sometimes I feel like it."

That cut off his laughter. "He's not one of ours. We have no grounds to keep."

"He definitely wrote for you," I said. "Reviewed M. Bayard Lowell's last book."

"That sounds awfully like ancient history."

"Twenty-one years ago."

"Well, that's paleo lith ic, isn't it?"

"Is there anyone on your staff who was working on the magazine at the time?"

"We're not a magazine," he said, miffed. "We're a review- a state of mind, actually. And we have no permanent staff. Just Mr. Upstone, myself, and a bevy of freelance hopefuls."

"What does it take to be a reviewer?"

"One has to recognize the proper criteria for judging books."

"Which are?"

"Style and substance. Now, I fail to see the importance-"

"I work for a law firm out in L.A. Mr. Mellors has come into an inheritance. Nothing big, but he still might want to know about it."