Jonathan Kellerman: Self-Defence

"Of whom?"

"Mr. Graydon-Jones. What he has to tell you goes to the crux of the matter and relates to Karen Best, as well. Motivation. Two homicides that are the conceptual fruit of the Karen Best incident and point a strong finger at original guilt in Karen Best's death. What we're talking about is the fact that someone else, and not Mr. Graydon-Jones, undertook to further these two-"

"Denton Mellors, aka Darnel Mullins, and Felix Barnard," said Milo, in a bored voice.

Graydon-Jones's eyes bugged. Stratton blinked very fast.

"Yeah, we know about those, counselor," said Milo. "Old Curt lays that on you too, Chris."

"Oh, no," said Graydon-Jones, holding out his hands as if scooping air. "Oh, bloody fuck, no, no, no, this is- no bloody way, bullshit ! I can prove I was out of town the day Denny shot the private eye. Curt paid him thirty thousand dollars to do it. Recorded it as payment for a screenplay Denny never wrote. Thirty grand- he showed me the money."

"Mellors showed it to you?" said Milo.

"No, no! Curt! He showed it to me and told me what it was for- said Denny was more than happy to do it, Denny was a closet thug, always had been."

"Where did this conversation take place?" said Milo.

"At his house."

"In Malibu?"

"No, no, his other one, Bel Air. He used to have a place on St. Cloud. Now he's in Holmby Hills, on Baroda."

"Was anyone else present during this conversation?"

"Of course not! He invited me for lunch. Out by the pool, his fucking terriers pissing all over. Then he pulls out an envelope and shows me the money. Has me count it. And tells me about some private eye asking around about Karen, he'd been paying him off for a year, putting him on the books to cover it and giving him odd jobs. Now the bastard has gotten greedy and wants more so he can buy a house somewhere. So now Denny is going to kill him at some motel Curt owns. He owns all sorts of things; he's all over, like an octopus-"

"Why did he tell you this?"

"So I'd be part of it! Just as he'd made me part of Karen's murd- death. And to frighten me- it worked, believe me. Scared the shit out of me. I caught the first plane out of the country, back to England. That's how I can prove I wasn't there when it happened- I have my old passport. Look at the date on the bleeding thing and compare it to the date of Barnard's murder!"

"How long did you stay away?" said Milo.

"Two weeks."

"Where'd you go?"

"To my mother's, in Manchester. Curt found me, sent me a newspaper clipping. About Barnard's murder. Then he had Denny killed a few months later."

"By whom?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know App was behind it?

"Because he sent me another clipping. On Denny. Clear warning. He's a monster, bestowing favors, then yanking them away."

"Sounds like he kept bestowing them on you," said Milo. "Career, and all that."

"Yes, but I never knew why, never knew if it would end. I knew I couldn't escape him… so I stayed put, kept my mouth shut, did my job- earned every bleeding penny of that salary. But now I see why he really kept me around."

"Why's that?"

"Isn't it obvious? As a scapegoat. If things ever came to light, he'd have someone to dump it all on."

"Scapegoat?" said Milo. "It was you drove up there in that van with a hacksaw and plastic bags."

Graydon-Jones froze. Then his body tilted toward Milo.

Stratton reached out to restrain him. Graydon-Jones waved him off.

"You don't understand," he said. "Twenty-one years I've lived in terror of the man. That's why I did the things I did. I was scared."

Thirty hours left on the clock. We'd had dim sum at a barnlike place on Hill Street, and it hadn't settled well. I sat alone in that same observation room. No one had cleaned the glass since Graydon-Jones's session, and it was fogged with a distillation of sweat and fear.

Curtis App's counsel was an older man named MacIlhenny, fat and slovenly with the eyes of a sleepy snake and a custom-tailored gray suit that looked cheap on him. He'd managed to get App out of jail clothes. Despite the white cashmere V-neck and the black Swiss cotton shirt, the producer looked weak and insubstantial. Just a few days in jail had wiped out years of Malibu tan.

Leah was inside with them, along with her boss, a grim deputy DA named Stan Bleichert.

MacIlhenny grunted, and App lifted a piece of paper and began to read.

"My name is Curtis Roger App, and I am about to offer into the record a statement prepared by myself, under no duress or coercion, under the guidance of my attorney, Landis J. MacIlhenny, Esquire, of the law firm of MacIlhenny, Bellows, Caville and Shrier. Mr. MacIlhenny is present with me for moral support during these trying times."

He cleared his throat, flirted briefly with the camera. For a moment I thought he'd call for the makeup girl.

He said, "I am not nor have I ever been a murderer, nor do I condone the act of murder. However, I am in possession of information that came my way, by means of no criminal activity on my part, that if pursued competently could lead to the criminal prosecution of another individual and/or individuals for violation of California State Penal Code 187, first-degree murder. I am willing to offer such information in return for compassionate consideration of my current status including immediate release from prison, under reasonable bail, to my family and loved ones, and in return for reduction of present and pending charges."

Folding the paper.

Looking up.

Bleichert addressed MacIlhenny. "Okay, it's on the record, now let's talk reality."

"Sure," said MacIlhenny. His voice was a bullfrog croak and his eyebrows tangoed when he talked. "Reality is, Mr. App is a prominent member of the business community and there's no rational reason to confine him-"

"He's a flight risk, Land. He was apprehended just about to board a helicopter with a connecting flight to-"

"Tsk, tsk," said MacIlhenny, very gently. "Not apprehended. Surprised. At that point in time, Mr. App was aware of no criminal investigation of any sort. Surely, you're not saying that absent such information he wasn't free to travel at will, like any other United States citizen?"

"With his money, he's a flight risk, Land."

MacIlhenny patted his melon paunch. "So you're saying that Mr. App's wealth allows you to discriminate against him."

"I'm saying he's a flight risk, Land." Bleichert's face was round and grim and pinched and he had a five-o'clock shadow. His navy suit really was cheap.

"Well," harumphed MacIlhenny, "we'll pursue that with the appropriate authorities."

"Be my guest."

MacIlhenny turned to Leah. "Hello, young lady. UCLA, class of… around five years ago?"

"Six."

"I lectured to your class. Admissibility of evidence. You sat right up in front- wore blue jeans."

Leah smiled.

Bleichert said, "We're all impressed with the Mr. Memory bit, Land. Now, is your client going to poop or get off the pot?"

MacIlhenny put one hand to his mouth in mock horror. The other shielded Leah's eyes.

"Tsk, tsk. My client is willing to read a prepared statement."

"No questioning?"

"Not at this time."

"That's not very forthcoming."

" That's reality."

Bleichert looked at Leah. Nothing visible passed between them. He said, "Read at your own risk."

"Release on bail."

"Special holding at Lompoc."

"That's still prison."

"It's a country club."

"No," said MacIlhenny. "My client already belongs to a country club. He knows the difference."