Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

Off-white vellum with a faintly greasy feel, engraved letters.

Paris M. Bartlett

Health Facilitator

Below that, a cell phone number.

" 'Because you never know,' " said Milo. "Health facilitator. Do I look sick?"

"Other than stains on your shirt you look perfectly put-together."

"Health facilitator," he repeated. "Sounds like something from the AIDS industry." He pulled out his cell phone and jabbed in Paris Bartlett's number. Frowned again. "No longer in service. What the hell…"

"Time to DMV the plates?" I said.

"DMV'ing is illegal when I'm on vacation. Using departmental resources for personal reasons, big no-no."

"John G. would disapprove mightily."

"Mightily." He made the call to State Motor Vehicles, recited the plate, waited a while, wrote something down. "The plates belong to a two-year-old Jeep, so that's kosher. Registered to the Playa del Sol Corporation. The address is right here in West Hollywood. I recognize it. Parking lot of the Healthy Foods market on Santa Monica. There's a post-office box outlet there. I know because I used to rent there myself."

"When?"

"Long time ago."

A safe. A POB. All the new things I was learning about my friend.

"Dead number, shadow address," I said. "Playa del Sol could be nothing more than a cardboard box in someone's apartment, but it does have the ring of a real estate outfit."

"As in the Cossacks." He studied the card. "That and the call about my vacation time. Right after we talk to Marlene Baldassar. Maybe she can't be trusted."

Or maybe he hadn't covered his trail. I said, "It could be just a pickup attempt." But I knew that was wrong. Paris Bartlett had bounded out of his car with clear intention.

He slipped the card in his pocket. "Alex, I grew up in a big family, never got much attention, never developed a taste for it. I need some alone time."

I drove him back to his place, and he hurtled out of the Seville, mumbled something that might've been, "Thanks," slammed the door, and loped toward his front door.

I made it to my own front door thirty-five minutes later, told myself I'd be able to walk right past the phone. But the red blinking 1 on the answering machine snagged me, and I stabbed the message button.

Robin's voice: "Looks like I missed you again, Alex. There's another change in schedule, we're adding an extra day in Vancouver, maybe the same in Denver. It's crazy around here, I'll be in and out." Two-second delay, then several decibels lower: "I love you."

Obligatory add-on? Unlike Pierce Schwinn, I didn't need drugs to prime the paranoia pump.

I phoned the Four Seasons Seattle again and asked for Ms. Castagna's room. This time if they gave me voice mail, I'd leave a message.

But a man answered. Young, one of those laughing voices. Familiar.

Sheridan. He of the ponytail, the cheerful outlook, and the Milk-Bone for Spike.

"Robin? Oh hi. Yeah, sure."

Seconds later: "This is Robin."

"And this is Alex."

"Oh… hi. Finally."

"Finally?"

"Finally we connect. Is everything okay?"

"Everything's peachy," I said. "Am I interrupting something?"

"What- oh, Sheridan? No, we were just finishing up a meeting. A bunch of us."

"Busy busy."

"I've got time, now. So how are you? Busy yourself?"

This was too much like small talk, and it depressed me. "Muddling along. How's Spike?"

"Thriving. There's a bunch of other dogs along for the ride, so there's a nice kennel space. Spike's getting pretty sociable. There's an eighty-pound shepherd bitch who seems to have caught his fancy."

"Does the kennel space include a ladder for him to reach her?"

She laughed, but sounded tired. "So…"

I said, "So are you getting in any social time?"

"I'm working, Alex. We're putting in twelve-, thirteen-hour days."

"Sounds tough. I miss you."

"Miss you, too. We both knew this would be difficult."

"Then we were both right."

"Honey- hold on, Alex… someone just stuck their head in." Her voice got muffled and distant; hand over the phone. "I'll see what I can do, give me a little time on it, okay? When's sound-check? That soon? Okay, sure." Back to me: "As you can see I haven't had much solitude."

"I've had plenty."

"I'm jealous."

"Are you?"

"Yes," she said. "We both like our solitude, right?"

"You can have yours back anytime."

"I can't exactly walk out on everyone."

"No," I said. "As Richard Nixon said, that would be wrong."

"I mean I- if there was some easy- if that would really make you happy, I'd do it."

"It would ruin your reputation."

"It sure wouldn't help it."

"You're committed," I said. "Don't worry about it." Why the hell is Sheridan so happy?

"Alex, when I do get a minute to breathe, I think of you, wonder if I did the right thing. Then I plan all the things I'm going to tell you, but then when we finally talk… it doesn't seem to go the way I'd planned."

"Absence makes the heart cranky?"

"Not my heart."

"Guess it's me, then," I said. "Guess I don't do well with separation. Never got used to it."

"Used to it?" she said. "Your parents?"

My parents were the last thing I'd thought of. Now bad old memories ignited: the wasting away of the two people who'd brought me into this world, bedside vigils, a pair of funerals in as many years.

"Alex?"

"No," I said. "I was just talking generally."

"You sound upset," she said. "I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't do anything."

"What did you mean by that? Never getting used to separation?"

"Random blather," I said.

"Are you saying that even when we were together you felt abandoned? That I neglected you? Because I-"

"No," I said. "You've always been there for me." Except for the other time you left.

Except for finding another man and- "It really was blather, Rob. Put it down to missing you."

"Alex, if this is really bad for you, I'll come home ."

"No," I said. "I'm a big boy. It wouldn't be good for you. For either of us."

And I've got things on my plate . Little odd jobs, the kind you hate.

"That's true," she said. "But just say the word."

"The word is I love you."

"That's three words."

"Picky picky."

She laughed. Finally. I uttered a few pleasantries, and she did the same. When we hung up she sounded okay, and I figured I faked it pretty well.

Milo claimed to want "alone time," but I figured he'd be nosing around on the fringes of the LAPD bureaucracy.

If the call from Personnel and/or the encounter with the toothy Paris Bartlett did have something to do with his raking up the Ingalls case, that meant he- we had been tagged, were being watched.

Marlene Baldassar as the source didn't sit right with me, and I thought about the trail we might've left.

My solo activities had consisted of the call to Larry Daschoff, dinner with Allison Gwynn, computer work at the Research Library. None of that was likely to attract attention.

Together, Milo and I had interviewed Marge Schwinn and Baldassar and Georgie Nemerov. I supposed either woman could've reported the conversation, but neither had been hostile, and I couldn't see why they'd have bothered.

Nemerov, on the other hand, had grown antsy when talking about his father's murder and Willie Burns's skip. Nemerov's bail bond business gave him close ties to the department. If John G. Broussard had been part of a fix, the department would care.

A third possibility was Milo's solo work on Janie Ingalls had attracted attention. As far as I knew that had been limited to phone work and unearthing old files. But he'd worked at the West L.A. station, sneaked around Parker Center.