Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"Janie in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Melinda's description of Janie makes her the perfect victim: drugged-out, not too bright, prone to fantasy, a tendency to irritate people, a history of sexual abuse. Throw enough ingredients into the stew, toss in a few careless 'niggers,' and who knows."

"What do you think about Janie's blasé reaction to the downtown rape?"

"Doesn't surprise me," I said. "People expect rape victims to react the way they do on TV. And sometimes that happens. But pseudocalm is pretty common. Protective numbness. Given Janie's victimization by her father, it makes perfect sense."

"For her it woulda been more of the same," he said. "Poor kid."

He picked at his food, slid his plate away. "There's a discrepancy between Janie's description of the rape as Melinda remembers it and what Schwinn told me. According to Melinda, the rapist dropped Janie off a couple of miles from her home. Schwinn's informant told him Janie'd been dumped in an alley and found unconscious by some wino."

"That could've been Janie prettying up the picture," I said. "Grasping for a shred of dignity."

"Pathetic," he said.

"Any idea who Schwinn's informant was?"

"Nope. He never gave me a single bit of insider info. I kept waiting for him to clue me in, to help me learn the ropes, but we just went from call to call and when the time came for paperwork, he went home. And now here he is, pulling strings from the grave… If Janie made up the part about walking home, maybe the young guy in a Jag was bogus, too. Her not wanting to admit he was a drooling, scabby hunchback in a jalopy? The alleged wino."

"Could be. But if she was being truthful, the Jag story's interesting. A young guy with hot wheels checking into a fleabag hotel wouldn't be safe. Unless he had connections. As in Daddy owns the place. And Janie told Melinda the clerk seemed to know the guy. It might be interesting to know who held the deed on fleabag hotels twenty years ago."

"You're thinking some real estate honcho. The Cossacks. Or Larner." He told me about Playa del Sol, rubbed his face. "I remember a few of the hotels down there. The scuzziest ones were on or near Main, between Third and Seventh. SRO flops, full of winos. The Exeter, the Columbus- there must've been a good half dozen, mostly propped up by Federal subsidies… so now I'm supposed to solve a twenty-year-old rape with no victim as well as a murder. Don't think so, Alex."

"Just tossing out suggestions," I said. "Isn't that what you pay me for?"

He forced a smile. "Sorry. I'm feeling hemmed in. Unable to do my usual investigative thing because it puts me in the crosshairs."

"Paris Bartlett and the call from Personnel."

"And the level of the players. That dinner with Obey, I don't imagine they were convening to crochet samplers. Bacilla and Horne live for graft, and if Walt Obey's involved in something, it has lots of zeros attached to it. Broussard wasn't at the restaurant, but his hand's been in this right from the beginning. He's Obey's neighbor, and Obey was one of his biggest supporters. All that makes me a flea . And guess what: A rumor's circulating around the department about an HIV-positive detective about to retire soon. 'Stay healthy,' huh?"

"Oh my," I said. "Subtle."

"Cop's subtlety. We train with nightsticks, not scalpels. Looks like I couldn't have picked a worse time to stir the ashes, Alex. The hell of it is I've accomplished nothing… you finished? Let's get back to the smog. This city's too damn pretty."

During the drive back to Albuquerque, he was glum and unreachable. The taverna's food had been excellent, but I'd finished more of my plate than he had, and that was a first.

He spent the flight to L.A. dozing. When we were back in the Seville, he said, "Finding Melinda was progress in terms of motive, means, and opportunity. But what the hell's all that worth when I have no idea where my suspects are? If I had to bet, my money would be on Willie Burns in some unmarked grave. The money folks behind Caroline would have seen him as a threat, and even if they never got to him, there was his heroin habit. Crazy Caroline, who could also be dead, or anywhere from the Bahamas to Belize. Even if I found her, what could I prove? They'd bring in one of your colleagues, and she'd go right back to some plush-padded room."

"Sounds bleak," I said.

"Some therapist you are."

"Reality therapy."

"Reality is the curse of the sane."

I took Sepulveda to Venice, got onto Motor Avenue going south, drove past Achievement House.

"Talk about subtle," he said.

"It's a shortcut."

"There are no shortcuts. Life is tedious and brutish… it can't hurt to look into those SROs. Something I can do without attracting attention. But don't expect anything. And don't get yourself in trouble thinking you can fight my battles."

"Trouble, as in?"

"As in anything."

Robin had left a message on my machine, sounding hurried and detached. The tour had moved on to Vancouver and she was staying at the Pacific Lodge Hotel. I called the number and connected to her room. A happy male voice answered.

"Sheridan," I said.

"Yes?"

"It's Alex Delaware."

"Oh. Hi. I'll go get Robin."

"Where is she?"

"In the bathroom."

"How's my dog?"

"Uh… great-"

"The reason I'm asking is because you seemed pretty in tune with him. Showing up prepared with a Milk-Bone. Very intuitive."

"He- I like dogs."

"Do you?" I said.

"Well, yeah."

"Well, good for you."

Silence. "Let me tell Robin you're on the phone."

"Gee, thanks," I said, but he'd put down the receiver, and I was talking to dead air.

She came on the line a few moments later. "Alex?"

"Hi," I said.

"What's wrong?"

"With what?"

"Sheridan said you sounded upset."

"Sheridan would know," I said. "Being a sensitive guy and all that."

Silence. "What's going on, Alex?"

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing," she said. "Every time I call you're more…"

"Insensitive?" I said. "As opposed to you-know-who?"

Longer silence. "You can't be serious."

"About what?"

"About him ." She laughed.

"Glad to amuse you."

"Alex," she said, "if you only knew- I can't believe this. What's gotten into you?"

"Tough times bring out the best in me."

"Why in the world would you even think that?" She laughed again, and that was probably what set me off.

"The guy shows up with a damned dog biscuit," I said. "Let me tell you, hon, men are pigs. Altruism like that always comes with strings-"

"You are being totally ridiculous -"

"Am I? Each time I call your room, he's right there-"

"Alex, this is absurd !"

"Okay, then. Sorry." But there was nothing remorseful in my tone, and she knew it.

"What's gotten into you, Alex?"

I thought about that. Then a rush of anger clogged my throat, and out it came: "I suppose I can be forgiven a bit of absurdity. The last time you left me didn't turn out so great."

Silence.

"Oh… Alex." Her voice broke on my name.

My jaw locked.

She said, "I can't do this."

Then she hung up.

I sat there, perversely satisfied, with a dead brain and a mouth full of bile. Then that sinking feeling set in: Idiot idiot! I redialed her room. No answer. Tried the hotel operator again, was informed that Ms. Castagna had gone out.

I pictured her running through the lobby, tear-streaked. What was the weather in Vancouver? Had she remembered her coat? Had Sheridan followed, ever ready with consolation?

"Sir?" said the operator. " Would you like her voice mail?"

"Uh… sure, why not."

I was connected, listened to Robin's voice deliver a canned message. Waited for the beep.