Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"Screw Schwinn," he finally said.

"That would be easy," I said. "If it was really about Schwinn."

He glared at me. "More purification?"

"What are friends for?"

A few minutes later: "Why the murder book? If he really wanted to help, all he had to do was call and give me the facts."

"Maybe there's more to the book than just Janie's photo."

"Such as?"

"I don't know, but it's worth a second look."

He didn't answer. Made no effort to leave the car.

"So," I said.

"So… I was thinking of a visit to Achievement House, maybe pick up on the latest trends in special education."

"You're still on it."

"I don't know what I am."

I took Pico east to Motor, sped past Rancho Park and into Cheviot Hills. In the daylight, Achievement House didn't look any more impressive. The light stucco I'd seen last night was baby blue. A few more cars occupied the lot, and a dozen or so adolescents hung in loose groups. When we pulled up to the curb, they paid scant notice. The kids were a varied bunch ranging from black-lipped Goths to preppy chirpers who could've been extras on the Ozzie and Harriet set.

Milo rang the bell on the gate, and we were buzzed in without inquiry. Another buzz got us through the door. The lobby smelled of room freshener and corn chips. A reception desk to the right and an office door marked ADMINISTRATION were separated by a hallway that emptied to a softly lit waiting room where no one waited. Cream walls hung with chrome-framed floral prints, plum-colored carpeting, neatly arranged magazines on teak tables, off-white, overstuffed chairs. Glass panes in the rear double doors provided a view of more corridor and bursts of gawky adolescent movement.

The receptionist was a young Indian woman in a peach sari, surprised, but untroubled, by Milo's badge.

"And this is about?" she said, pleasantly.

"An inquiry," said Milo, with downright good cheer. During the ride he'd been tense and silent, but all that was gone now. He'd combed his hair, tightened his tie, was coming across like a man with something to look forward to.

"An inquiry?" she said.

"A look at some student records, ma'am."

"I'll get you Ms. Baldassar. She's our director."

She left, returned, said, "This way," and showed us to the door across the hall. We entered a front office and a secretary ushered us through a door to a tidy space where an ash blond woman in her forties sat behind a desk and stubbed out a cigarette.

Milo offered the badge, and the blonde said, "Marlene Baldassar." Thin, tan, and intensely freckled, she had hollow cheeks, golden brown eyes, and a knife-point chin. Her navy blue A-line dress was piped with white and bagged on her bony frame. The ash hair was blunt-cut to midneck, bangs feathered to fringe. She wore a gold wedding band and an oversize black plastic diver's watch. Tortoise-framed glasses hung on a chain. The big glass ashtray on her desk was half-filled with lipstick-tipped butts. The rim read Mirage Hotel, Las Vegas . The rest of the desk was taken up with books, papers, framed photos. And a shiny silver harmonica.

She saw me looking at the instrument, picked it up with two fingers, tooted twice, put it down, smiling. "Tension reliever, I'm trying to quit smoking. And obviously not doing very well."

"Old habits," I said.

"Very old. And yes, I have tried the patch. All of them. My DNA's probably saturated with nicotine." She ran a finger along the edge of the harmonica. "So, what's this Shoba tells me about a police inquiry? Has one of our alumni gotten into trouble?"

"You don't seem surprised by that possibility," said Milo.

"I've worked with kids for going on twenty years. Very little surprises me."

"Twenty years here, ma'am?"

"Three, here, seventeen with the county- Juvenile Hall, community mental health centers, gang-violence prevention programs."

"Welcome change?" I said.

"For the most part," she said. "But county work could even be fun. Lots of futility, but when you do come across a gem in the trash pile, it's exciting. Working here's extremely predictable. By and large, the kids are a decent bunch. Spoiled but decent. We specialize in serious learning disabilities- chronic school failure, severe dyslexia, kids who just can't get it together educationally. Our goal's specific: try to get them to a point so that when they get hold of their trust funds they can read the small print. So if your inquiry is about one of my current charges, I'd be surprised. We steer away from high-risk antisocials, too much maintenance."

Milo said, "Are the kids confined twenty-four hours a day?"

"Heavens no," she said. "This isn't prison. They go home on weekends, earn passes. So what do you need to know and about whom?"

"Actually," said Milo, "this is more of a historical venture. Someone who was here twenty years ago."

Marlene Baldassar sat back, fooled with her eyeglasses. "Sorry, I'm not free to talk about alumni. An emergent situation with a current student would be something else- someone in the here and now posing a danger to themselves and/or others. The law would require me to work with you on that."

"Schools have no confidentiality, ma'am."

"But psychotherapists do, Detective, and many of our files contain psychotherapeutic records. I'd love to help, but-"

"What about personnel records?" said Milo. "We're also looking into someone who worked here. There'd be no protection of any sort, there."

Baldassar fiddled with her glasses. "I suppose that's true, but… twenty years ago? I'm not sure we even have records going back that far."

"One way to find out, ma'am."

"What's this person's name?"

"Wilbert Lorenzo Burns."

No recognition on the freckled face. Baldassar got on the phone, asked a few questions, said, "Wait right here," and returned a few moments later with a scrap of pink paper.

"Burns, Wilburt L.," she said, handing it to Milo. "This is all we've got. Mr. Burns's notice of termination. He lasted three weeks. August third through the twenty-fourth. Was terminated for absenteeism. See for yourself."

Milo read the scrap and handed it back.

"What did Mr. Burns do?"

"There's a fugitive warrant out on him. Mostly he was a narcotics violator. Kind of alarming that when he worked here he was on probation for a drug conviction. About to face trial for selling heroin."

Baldassar frowned. "Wonderful. Well, that wouldn't happen today."

"You vet your employees carefully?"

"A pusher wouldn't get by me."

"Guess the former director wasn't that picky," said Milo. "Do you know him- Michael Larner?"

"The only one I know is my immediate predecessor. Dr. Evelyn Luria. Lovely woman. She retired and moved to Italy- she's at least eighty. I was told that she was brought in to beef up clinical services. I was brought in to organize things." She poked the harmonica. "You're not implying this Burns was dealing to the kids, here."

"Do the kids, here, have drug problems?"

"Detective, please," said Baldassar. "They're teenagers with poor self-esteem and plenty of disposable income. You don't need a Ph.D. to figure it out. But believe me, I don't allow any species of felon to pass through our gates. As far as what happened twenty years ago…"

She picked up the harmonica, put it down. "If that's all…"

"Actually," said Milo, "the investigation's not just about Willie Burns. It's about a student Burns was friendly with. A girl named Caroline Cossack."

Baldassar stared. Then she snorted- I suppose it was laughter, but she looked anything but happy. She said, "Let's go outside. I want to smoke, but I don't want to poison anyone else."

She took us through the glass-paned double doors, past ten rooms, some of which had been left open. We walked by carelessly made beds, piles of stuffed animals, movie and rock star posters, boom boxes, guitars, books stacked in little wooden desks. A few teens were stretched across beds listening to music through earphones, one boy did push-ups, a girl read a magazine- brow knitted, lips moving laboriously.