Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

I paid him the rest of the money, and he began walking away from me.

"One more thing," I said. "In the article, you said you didn't hear the shots 'cause of traffic. Was traffic that strong at 4 A.M.?"

He kept walking.

I caught up. "Mr. Sylvester?"

The same dry, angry look he'd shown his friend.

I repeated the question.

"I hear you, I'm not stupid."

"Is there a problem with answering it?" I said.

"No problem. I didn't hear any shots, okay?"

"Okay. Did Barnard check in alone?"

"If that's what it says in your paper."

"It doesn't say. Just that his name was the only one on the register. Was he with anyone?"

"How the hell would I know?" He stopped. "Our business is finished, man. You used up your money a long time ago."

"Were you really there, or was it one of the nights Darnel Mullins asked you to leave?"

He stepped back and touched a trousers pocket. Implying a weapon, but nothing sagged the pocket.

"You calling me a liar?"

"No, just trying to get details."

"You got 'em, now get." Flicking a hand. "And don't send no white boy around a camera to take my picture. White boys with cameras don't do well around here."

My stomach grumbled. I had lunch at a deli near Robertson. Rabbis, cops, and stockbrokers were eating pastrami and discussing their respective philosophies. I asked for matzo-ball soup, and while I waited I tried Milo's home, ready to leave another message. Rick answered with his on-call voice. "Dr. Silverman."

"Hi, it's Alex."

"Alex, how's the new house coming along?"

"Slowly."

"Big hassle, huh?"

"Better since Robin took over."

"Good for her. Looking for El Sleutho? He left early this morning, some kind of surveillance."

"Must be the Bogettes," I said.

"Who?"

"Those girls who worship Jobe Shwandt."

"Probably. He's not pleased having to deal with that again. Not that he's talked about it much. We have a new arrangement: I don't discuss the finer points of cutting and suturing, and he doesn't remind me how rotten the world is."

Back home, I tried Columbia University again. Darnel Mullins had, indeed, graduated from the university and done one year of graduate school before dropping out- shortly after reviewing Command: Shed the Light. The alumni office had a home address in Teaneck, New Jersey, and a phone number to go with it, but when I called I got a dress shop called Millie's Couture.

Remembering what Eddy Sylvester had said about Mullins claiming a doctor father, I called New Jersey information and asked for any Mullinses with M.D.'s in Teaneck.

"The only one I have," said the operator, "is a Dr. Winston Mullins, but that's in Englewood."

At that number, a man with an elderly, cultured voice said, "Hello?"

"Dr. Mullins?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

I gave him the biography story.

No reply.

"Dr. Mullins?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you. Darnel's been dead for a long time."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yes," he said. "A little over twenty years. I guess I never called Columbia to notify them."

"Was he ill?"

"No, he was murdered."

"Oh, no!"

"Out where you are, matter of fact. He had an apartment in Hollywood. Surprised a burglar, and the burglar shot him. They never caught the man. I'm sure Darnel would have liked to talk to you. He always wanted to be a writer."

"Yes, I know, I've got one of his articles here with me."

"Really?"

"Something from the Manhattan Book Review. He used a pen name. Denton-"

"Mellors," he said. "After a character in a dirty book. He did that because I didn't approve of that paper- too left-wing. After that, he kept using it, maybe to prove something to me, though I don't know what."

He sounded very sad.

"It says here he was working on a novel," I said.

" The Bride. He never finished it, I've got the manuscript. I tried to read it. Not my type of thing but not bad at all. Maybe he could have gotten it published… sorry I couldn't help you."

"What kind of a book is it?"

"Well," he said, "that's hard to say. There's some romance in it- a young man's book, I guess. Learning the ropes, falling in love. A coming-of-age novel, I suppose you'd call it."

Feeling like dirt, I said, "Would it be possible to send me a copy? Maybe I can quote from it in my book."

"Don't see why not. It's just sitting in a drawer here."

I gave him my address.

"Malibu," he said. "You must be a successful writer. Darnel said that's where the successful people live."

Literary critic to aspiring novelist to motel manager.

Working for some guys from Reno.

The Advent Group. Why was that name familiar?

Even while managing the motel, he'd held on to his ambition.

Kicking Sylvester out of the office to use the typewriter from time to time.

From the way Sylvester had reacted to my questions, I was sure one of those times had been the night of the Barnard hit.

Mullins setting up the hit, maybe even pulling the trigger.

Finished off, himself, a few months later.

A light-skinned black man. Blond, blue eyes.

Light, fuzzy mustache, not the dark scimitar Lucy remembered, but as I'd told Lucy, dreams play fast and loose with reality.

Something else didn't fit. Dr. Mullins's description of The Bride bore no similarity to the trash App had given me. Had Mullins used the same title for two disparate works?

Or had App given me the script summary as a diversion? Directing my attention to Mullins because he had something to hide?

I remembered my initial scenario of Karen's disappearance: a man in a fancy car picking her up on the road to Topanga. It didn't get much fancier than a red Ferrari.

Still, there was nothing connecting App to Karen, and Mullins wasn't coming across like some innocent shill.

I thought of the way his career had dived after Karen's disappearance.

Lowell distancing himself from co-conspirators?

Eliminating the undependable ones?

Karen, Felix Barnard, Mullins. And where was Trafficant?

But the Sheas still lived on the beach.

I left a note for Robin and hit the highway once more. Gwen's van was parked in front of her house. Cars were lined up all along the beach side. No space for the Seville, but the land side was nearly empty. I pulled over and was about to chance a run across the highway as soon as northbound traffic thinned when I saw the van's headlights go on. It sat there idling, then pulled out.

It took a minute or so to get into the center turn lane, another few to pull off a three-point and head south. I put on as much speed as the traffic could bear and finally saw the van, eight or nine lengths up. It stopped at the light at the bottom of the ramp up to Ocean Front Avenue. By the time it was heading east on Colorado, I was three lengths behind and maintaining that distance.

I followed it to Lincoln Boulevard, where it headed south again, through Santa Monica and Venice, then over to Sepulveda, where it continued at a steady pace, making more lights than it missed.

We crossed into Inglewood, a mixture of Eisenhower-era suburbs and new Asian businesses. Fifteen minutes later, we were approaching Century Boulevard.

The airport.

The van entered the Departure lanes and continued to the parking lot opposite the Bradley International Terminal. It rode around a while, trying to find a ground-floor space, though the upper levels were less crowded. I parked on the third level, took the stairs down, and was waiting behind a hedge when Gwen emerged, ten minutes later, pushing Travis in his wheelchair, her purse over her shoulder.