Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

No baggage.

Jets thundered overhead. Cars sped along the road, which snaked through the airport like a freeway.

Gwen walked to an intersection. A red light stopped her before she could cross the street to the terminal. Travis twisted his head, moved his mouth, and rolled his eyes. Gwen looked around nervously. I hung back and kept my head down.

She wore an expensive-looking white linen dress and white flats. A string of pearls glimmered around her neck. Her short dark hair shone, but even at this distance her eyes were old.

Short hair. Somber look. The grumpy baby-sitter Ken remembered?

Abandoning her post, then returning to discover Lucy gone?

Going to look for her and finding her sleepwalking?

Seeing and hearing what Lucy had would have been grounds for a payoff.

The light turned green and she entered the terminal's big, bright, green-glassed atrium. A dozen airlines flew out of here. She headed for the Aeromexico desk. Waiting in the First Class line, she moved up quickly to the clerk. He smiled at her, then listened to what she had to say. Travis was twisting and turning in the chair. People stared. The terminal was crowded. Phony nuns panhandled. I picked up an abandoned newspaper and pretended to read it, looking, instead, at a TV screen filled with flight information.

Aeromexico 546, leaving in one hour for Mexico City.

The clerk was shaking his head.

Gwen looked at her watch, then turned and pointed at Travis.

The clerk got on the phone, spoke, got off, shook his head again.

Gwen leaned toward him, standing taller, her calf muscles swelling.

The clerk kept shaking his head. Then he called another man over. The second man listened to Gwen, got on the phone. Shook his head. Half a dozen people had lined up behind her. The second clerk pointed to them. Gwen turned around. Her face blazed with anger and her hands were clenched.

No one in the queue said anything or moved, but some of the travelers were staring at Travis.

Gwen took hold of the chair's handlebars and wheeled him away.

I followed as she pushed her way through the crowd to a row of phone booths. All were occupied and she waited, twisting her hair and tapping a handlebar. When a booth opened, she dashed in and stayed on the phone for fifteen minutes, feeding coins and punching numbers. When she emerged, she looked crushed and even jumpier, rubbing her fingers together very fast, biting her lip, eyes darting up and down the terminal.

I stuck with her, back to the parking lot. Running up the three flights and timing my exit from the lot to hers was tricky, but I managed to get two vehicles behind her as she paid at the kiosk. I stayed with her out of the airport and onto the 405 North. She took it to the 10 West, got off at Route 1.

Back to Malibu.

But instead of pulling over at La Costa, she continued on another few miles.

Shopping center across from the pier.

The parking lot was nearly empty. The only business still open was a submarine sandwich store, bright and yellow. I put the Seville in a dark corner and stayed in the car as Gwen got Travis out of the van.

She pushed him up the ramp to the surf shop, then stopped. Opening her purse, she took out her wallet and pulled out a gold credit card. Staring at it blankly, she replaced it and knitted her fingers some more. Travis moved constantly. Gwen took out a key. She was opening the shop's front door when I stepped up and said, "Hi."

She threw up her hands defensively, letting go of the chair. It started to slide back and I held it in place. The boy had to weigh a hundred and twenty pounds.

Gwen's eyes were huge and the hand that held the keys was drawn back, ready to strike.

"Get the hell out of here or I'll scream!"

"Scream away."

Travis had positioned his head at an impossible angle, trying to get a look at me. His smile was innocent and empty.

"I mean it," she said.

"So do I. What was the problem at the airport? Tickets not there as planned?"

Her mouth opened and her arm dropped slowly, the hand settling on her left breast, as if pledging allegiance.

"You're as crazy as your father," she said.

"My father?"

"Don't fool with me, Mr. Best. " Putting weight on the last word, as if her knowledge would throw me off.

"You think I'm his son?"

"I know you are. I saw you with him when he tried to break in. Now you're asking questions all around town, pretending to be someone else."

"Pretending?"

"Pretending to be a customer, buying those Big Dogs. We don't want your business, mister. You get the hell out of here and tell your father he's going to get both of you in big trouble. People know us in Malibu. You get lost, or I'm calling the police."

"Please do," I said, pulling out my wallet. I had an out-of-date card that said I'd once consulted to the police, along with one of Milo's. I hoped the word Homicide would impress her. Hoped her panic would stop her from remembering that LAPD had no jurisdiction here.

Confusion clogged her face.

Travis said something incoherent. He was still smiling at me.

"I don't…" She inspected the cards again. "You're a psychologist ?"

"It's complicated, Mrs. Shea. But go ahead and call the police, they'll clear it up for you. Karen Best's death is back under investigation because of new facts, a new witness. I'm involved in helping the police question that witness. They know, now, that something happened to Karen at the Sanctum party and that you and your husband and Doris Reingold got paid off to keep quiet about it."

Throwing out wild cards. The way she fought to stay still told me I had a winning hand.

Her right eye twitched. She said, "Easy, honey," to Travis, even though he looked happy.

"This is absolutely crazy."

"At the very least, we're talking obstruction of justice. Even if the plane tickets had been there, you'd never have been allowed to board. I think it's pretty obvious you were being watched. If I were you, I'd start making arrangements for Travis. Somewhere clean and trustworthy where he can stay while you're tied up in the legal system. 'Bye, have a nice day."

I started to leave. She made a grab for my arm, but I moved away.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"I'm not doing anything. To be honest, I'm not even here, officially. If the police knew I'd followed you, they'd probably be upset. They think I'm a bleeding heart. Maybe I am, but I've treated kids with CP and I know it's not easy under the best of circumstances. What you've got ahead of you is far from the best."

Watching the boy contort and remembering how I'd lied to Dr. Mullins, justice seemed very abstract. Thinking about Karen's buried corpse, Sherrel Best and his grief, brought it a little closer to home.

"What do you want ?"

"The truth about Karen."

"Why don't the police come themselves?"

"Oh, they will," I said, turning to go again.

"I don't understand, " she said. "You work with the police, but you're not working with them now?"

"Right now I'm here because Karen's important to me."

"You knew her?"

"I'm not going to say more, Mrs. Shea. But I will give you some advice. Some people think you and Tom were involved in her murder. If you were, we have nothing to talk about and I really need to get out of here. If you've done nothing but obstruct, I might be able to run interference for you. Lying about it won't help, because the evidence is piling up; it's just a matter of time. And if you do make it to Mexico, the police will impound your house and this place."

A group of teenagers went into the sandwich shop. Happy, shouting. Travis's age.

She said, "I don't know about any murder, and that's the God's truth."