Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"Was Karen the type of girl who'd get into that kind of thing?"

"Who knows? She wasn't wild, but she wasn't any nuclear scientist either. Being at that party was the biggest thrill of her life. There were movie people all over the place."

"But you never saw her go off with anyone specific."

"Nope."

"Not with Lowell?"

"No one. I wasn't looking at who was with who. I was spooning out designer slop and trying to keep it off people's cuffs."

"What about Tom?"

"Working the bar. People were putting it away; he never even stopped for a break."

"Why'd you go to Aspen?"

She frowned, as if thinking. " 'Cause of Best. He was driving us crazy, showing up every day on our doorstep. And we were tired of seeing Marvin's sour puss."

"Why Aspen?"

"Tom had a buddy who spent the winters there, teaching skiing. He'd inherited a house just outside of Starwood. He got Tom a job tending bar at one of the lodges. I found a position at a fur shop. It was good to be away from food."

"I still don't see how you got from there to here."

"Hard work and luck. Tom's buddy needed some cash fast. The house was all he owned. It wasn't much, just a little place-"

"Why'd he need cash fast?"

Tugging. "He got busted."

"For what?"

"Drugs," she said, reluctantly.

"Are drugs what drew you to Aspen?"

"No! He was busted, not us! Check the police records there: Greg Fowler. Gregory Duncan Fowler III. He got busted for selling cocaine and needed bail money, so he signed over the house to us."

"For how much?"

"Thirteen thousand. He kicked in two of his own and put down bond on a hundred and fifty thousand bail."

"Lowell's three and ten of your own?"

"That's right."

"Not bad for a house in Aspen."

"The house wasn't as big a deal as it sounds. It was a shack, really. A hunting shack. Tom and I didn't even want it, the plumbing and electric was all shot. But Greg begged us. He said real estate was starting to take off and we'd be doing each other a favor. We lived in it while Tom fixed it up- he's good with his hands. The real estate did go crazy, all these Hollywood types flying in, buying up land.

"Our house was right next to this big parcel owned by a producer- Sy Palmer, he did Flying Angels, on TV? He really wanted our land so he could build riding stables, and he paid us seventy-five thousand. We couldn't believe it. Then we found out we needed to buy another house or pay lots of taxes, so we used the seventy-five to make a down payment on a bigger place, lived in that, fixed it up, sold it for three hundred thousand. We couldn't believe how well we were doing. Then I got pregnant."

Her glance at Travis was full of tenderness and torment. He continued to roll the can.

"The doctors knew something was wrong even before he was born, but at first he didn't seem that different. Then… I knew I had to be in a big city, near a hospital with rehab facilities. We thought for sure Best had gone back east. So we moved back, made a down payment on a land-side house on Rambla Pacifica, and opened the store. Tom figured all his old surfing buddies would give us business, and they did. So we sold the land-side house and bought the place in La Costa. "

Talking about their financial climb had calmed her.

"That's it. Anyone can go over our tax records with a fine-tooth comb. We never sold dope or chased money. It came to us. When Lowell gave us that bag, we were shocked out of our minds. Kept it in a closet for months, just sitting there. Then I told Tom, What good is this doing, just sitting here? And Greg was already calling us, telling us about the opportunities in Aspen. After we moved there, things just happened."

"Have you maintained contact with Greg Fowler?"

"I haven't."

"What about Tom?"

No answer.

"He lives down in Mexico now, doesn't he, Gwen?"

Silence.

"Near Mexico City?"

Nothing.

"Gwen?"

"No, a small village near the coast. Far from Mexico City. I don't even know the name."

"Still running dope, huh?"

"No!" she said. "Charter fishing!"

"Tom's been down there, hasn't he? Brings back a nice catch of corbina or albacore?"

"So?"

"What's the address?"

"I don't know, Greg only told Tom. He's still officially a fugitive. Please don't get him in trouble, he's really a good guy."

"Tom didn't give you the address?"

"No, he was supposed-" Drumming the table.

"He was supposed to what?"

"Meet us. In Mexico City, with a van; then we were going to drive down together. The tickets were supposed to be at the gate. I bought them myself, made sure we had special boarding help, but they said it had all been canceled- that Tom canceled them. Why would he do that? Why? "

I used her desk phone to call Milo's home number and was pleased when the answering machine picked up.

"Detective Sturgis? It's Dr. Delaware. I just had a long talk with Mrs. Shea- no, at her shop. Yes, I know about the airport, that's where… I know, but I figured… she gave me what I think is useful information, maybe you'll think so, too… no, I don't think- do you want to speak to her? When? Okay… no, I don't think so. No, he's not… already in Mexico… some fishing village, she claims she doesn't know where and I'm inclined to believe- what? No. No, I don't think so. Okay, see you then."

Hanging up, I shrugged. "I feel a little stupid saying this, but you're not planning to leave town, are you?"

She hadn't taken her eyes off me since I picked up the phone. "When are they coming to speak to me?"

"Soon. There are other people they're talking to. Your name's on some kind of airport watch list. If you try to leave the country, they'll confiscate your passport."

"Doesn't matter," she said. "I'm staying here, what's my choice."

I gave a last smile to Travis and headed up the coast, thinking about twenty-one years of pretending.

Accepting a payoff and pretending it was a big tip. Feeding Doris Reingold's green-felt habit and convincing themselves it was charity.

Five thousand dollars in a paper bag.

Once they'd been able to reduce it in their minds to a rich man's trifle, the rest had been easy.

Gwen was a mix of callousness and breakability. Waffling, resisting, struggling to paint herself out of any criminal conspiracy. Yet, my instinct was that, over all, she'd been truthful. If she and Tom were killers, they wouldn't have tolerated Doris Reingold's putting the touch on them all this time.

I was driving faster than usual. Before I knew it I passed Latigo Shores and Escondido Beach and came to Paradise Cove, where Karen had been picked up on the highway by someone in a red Ferrari.

Lowell asking for a pretty one to set up the tables and chairs.

App- or a lackey- picking her up.

Private party before the big one.

Lowell and App and Trafficant? Had the producer worn a mustache, back then?

Nothing nasty Friday night; she'd been in a good mood the next morning. But something had gone very bad the next day.

Make it a good-looking one.

Felix Barnard was no Sherlock, but he'd managed to put enough together to merit his own payoff. And a finale at the Adventure Inn.

App, sitting there, talking to me about deals.

Playing with me?

He was Lowell's patron. Powerful enough to be ordering Lowell around… I recalled his explosive reaction to my intrusion, then the cold, cruel way he'd fired his receptionist.

Allowing me in when I told him what it was about.

Sounding me out, assessing the threat.

Talking about Mellors/Mullins's violent nature. The script definitely a diversion. Which wasn't to say Mellors hadn't written it.