Jonathan Kellerman: Self-Defence

The deputy left and Bleichert stood thinking. Then he returned to the interrogation room.

"So," said App, "can we start the paperwork?"

"Sure," said Bleichert. "We've got lots of paperwork." Big smile.

App said, "I eat a high-carbohydrate, low-fat diet."

"Good for you." Hard voice.

MacIlhenny said, "Stan?"

Bleichert opened his jacket and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "Bit of a new development, gentlemen. I've just been informed that Mr. Lowell passed away this afternoon: massive stroke. So all deals are null and void and we'll be filing that confession as evidence against Mr. App."

App went white as his sweater.

MacIlhenny shoved his bulk out of the chair, charged forward, waving his hands as if warding off hornets. "Now, see here-"

Bleichert whistled and collected his papers.

"This is unconscionab-"

"Not at all, Land. We negotiated in good faith. You yourself said so. No accounting for acts of God. Guess God didn't approve of the deal."

MacIlhenny tottered with rage. "Now you just-"

"No you just, Land. All bets are off and this stays on the record."

Waving the confession.

"Always put it in writing," said Bleichert, grinning. "I learned that watching The People's Court."

No funeral.

Cremation took place at the mortician's college across the street from the county morgue. The ashes sat on a shelf until Ken came forward and picked up the urn. He asked Lucy if she wanted to accompany him when he tossed it off the Malibu pier. She said she'd pass.

She was experiencing a grief of sorts.

"I guess he didn't have a good life," she said. The ocean was blue and lazy. Yesterday a sea lion had walked out of the surf, ignoring Spike's rage and begging for food before waddling back in. Today, no signs of life on the beach, not even birds.

"No, he didn't," I said.

"I guess I should feel sorry for him- I wish I could feel something other than relief."

"Right now, relief makes sense."

"Yes… the way he spoke to me. After his words, Graydon-Jones's gun seemed almost silly. That's how I got the courage."

She stared at the water. "I suppose he was a prisoner as much as anyone. Fate, biology, whatever… I'm a part of him- genetically."

"That troubles you?"

"I suppose I'm worried some of him is in me. If I ever have kids…"

"If you ever have kids, they'll be great."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're a kind, caring person. He elevated selfishness to an art form, Lucy. No one would ever accuse you of being selfish. You almost lost your life because you're not selfish."

"Whatever… So, I guess it's over."

My acquiescent smile was a lie. Her mourning of Puck had been cut short prematurely. I still didn't understand why she'd put her head in the oven. Still didn't know if the Bogettes or anyone else were out to get her. Maybe, with the dream out of her head, we could find the missing pieces.

"So," she said, touching her purse. "Guess I really don't have anything to talk about right now."

"Tired?"

"Very."

"Why don't you go home and catch up on your rest."

"Think I will- only thing is, Ken wants to go places and I don't want to hurt his feelings."

"What kinds of places?"

"Palm Springs, San Diego… Driving around. He's a nice guy, but-"

"But you want to be alone," I said.

"I don't want to reject him, but- this is terrible, I know- but sometimes he's cloying."

"Wanting too much too fast?"

"What should I do?"

"Explain to him that you need some time alone. He should understand."

"Yes," she said. "He should."

Milo called later that day. "Thought I'd give you some bits and pieces. Lowell's Mercedes was left in the long-term lot at Burbank Airport, so Ms. Nova probably flew the coop."

"Can't blame her."

"We're lifting prints from the house tomorrow, see if we can find out who she is. We can live without her testimony, but it wouldn't hurt to have it so we can add an assault-with-intent-to-kill to Graydon-Jones's trouble. We did locate Doris Reingold at her son's in Tacoma; police up there are watching her till she comes down next week. And Gwen Shea's lawyer called to let us know Tom phoned her from Mexico. Hanging out with his buddy- midlife crisis, casting off responsibilities. Supposedly, he begged Gwen for forgiveness, promised to fly back tomorrow. All three of them are being treated as material witnesses, no charges. The major good news is that Graydon-Jones is sticking to his guns on App- asshole finally figured out you can't share a sleeping bag with a cobra. App's lawyer is screaming and yelling, trying to void App's confession; the DA says there's a better-than-even chance it'll be ruled admissible. Major good news number two is that the feds are finishing up their bookkeeping on Mr. A, and he's got close to twenty mil in assets that can be snatched. So all in all he's in trouble."

"Still in prison?"

"Languishing."

"No pesto and arugula?"

"Oh, sure. And for dessert, they can move him into general pop. Find him a four-hundred-pound roommate named Bubba, see what cooks up then."

The next day I received a package from Englewood, New Jersey. Inside was a blue binder containing two hundred neatly typed photocopied pages. Taped to the front cover was a piece of white stationery with Winston Mullins, M.D. on the letterhead.

A handwritten note read:

This is Darnel's book. Hope you like it, W.M.

I read half. Clunky in places, but talent and grace shone through in others. The story line: a young man, half white, half black, makes his way through the academic and literary worlds, trying to define his identity through a series of jobs and sexual dalliances. Expletives, but no violence. The bride in question: art.

I put the binder down and called Lucy. No one home.

She probably hadn't the heart to disappoint Ken.

Or maybe she'd held her resolve and had gone away for some solitude.

Either way, I'd wait. We had our work laid out for us.

That evening, as I was playing guitar and waiting for Robin and Spike to come home, my service called in with an emergency message from Wendy Embrey.

Now what?

"Dr. Delaware?"

"Sure, put her on."

Click.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Wendy."

"How's Lucretia?"

"Fine, but-"

"You've seen her recently?"

"Yesterday."

"This may be nothing, but I just got off the phone with a woman I think you should talk to. I know there are two sides to every story, especially with this kind of thing, but after listening to what she said, I strongly advise you to call her."

"Who's the woman?"

She told me. "I reached her through her father- he's the head of the real estate company. I was trying to collect- not important. Anyway, I gave her your name, said you might call."

"Just in case I can't reach her, give me a summary of what she told you."

She did. "Which might explain a few things."

"Yes," I said, feeling cold. "It might."

I hung up and punched numbers frantically.

Then I scrawled a note to Robin and ran out to the Seville.

Lights shone from the second story of the house on Rockingham Avenue. Ken's Taurus was in the driveway, but no one answered the bell.

I ran around to the side gate. Locked. I climbed over.

He was out on the terrace, slumped in a chair, head down. Half a vodka bottle on the table, along with a glass full of melting ice.

When I got ten feet away, he looked up groggily. Then, as if a button had been pushed, he sat up mechanically.