Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"That assumes he didn't come home for the weekend."

" New York to L.A. for the weekend?"

"These were rich kids," he said.

"Anything's possible, but I just don't see it. Hansen's different from the other King's Men. His life took a whole different turn, and unless you can uncover some present-day dealings with Coury and the Cossacks and Brad Larner, my bet is he distanced himself from the group and maintained that distance."

"So he's no use to us."

"On the contrary. He might be able to provide insights."

"We just drop in and say we want to chat about his old pals the sex-killers?"

"Any other promising leads at the moment?" I said.

He didn't answer.

I said, "So what'd you do today?"

"Nosed around about Coury, Junior. His daddy was the nasty piece of work the papers made him out to be. Used gang-bangers to collect the rent. And looks like Junior's continued the relationship. The dubious citizens working his parking lots have that homeboy thing going on."

"Funny about that." I told him about my visit to the garage.

"Chopping the Seville as a cover story?" he said. "Did it ever occur to you Coury didn't want to do the job 'cause he wasn't buying your story? Jesus, Alex-"

"Why wouldn't he buy it?" I said.

"Because maybe someone in the enemy camp knows we've been snooping around the Ingalls case. You got the goddamned murder book in the first place because someone knew we worked together. Alex, that was goddamned stupid."

"Coury wasn't suspicious, just apathetic," I said, with more confidence than I felt. "My take is that he doesn't need the money."

"Was he doing other chop jobs?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Meaning he works, but he just didn't want to work with you . Alex, no more improvisation."

"Fine," I said. "Gang connections would have given Coury ready personnel for odd jobs. Like taking care of Luke Chapman, and possibly Willie Burns and Caroline Cossack. Maybe Lester Poulsenn, too. I located him- safely, all computer work- and guess what, he died less than two weeks after Caroline left Achievement House. Shot in the head in a house in Watts, then the house was burned down. He'd just been transferred from IA to Metro, meaning maybe he was working on Janie's case, right?"

"Burned to death," he said. His voice was tight. "What was he doing in Watts?"

"The paper didn't say. Sacramento paper, by the way. A detective got murdered in L.A. but the L.A. papers didn't print a word about it."

"The article say where in Watts?"

I read off the address.

No answer.

"You still there?"

"Yeah… okay, meet me in Beverly Hills in an hour. Time for art appreciation."

Nicholas Hansen's green BMW sat in the cobbled driveway of the house on North Roxbury Drive. The street was lined with struggling elms. A few trees had given up, and their black branches cast ragged shadows on the sparkling sidewalks. The street was quiet but for a Beverly Hills symphony: teams of gardeners pampering the greenery of mansions up the block.

Milo was parked in a new rental car- a gray Oldsmobile sedan- six houses north of Hansen's vanilla hacienda. By the time I'd switched off the engine he was at my window.

"New wheels," I said.

"Variety's the spice." His face was pallid and sweaty.

"Something else happen to make you switch?"

"Contacting Hansen is a risk and maybe not a smart one. If he's still in touch with the others, everything hits the fan. If he's not, there may be no real payoff."

"But you're going ahead, anyway."

He yanked out a handkerchief and sopped moisture from his brow. "The alternative is doing nothing. And who says I'm smart?"

When we reached Hansen's property, he scowled and peered through a window of the BMW. "Clean. Meticulous." As he stepped up to the door and stabbed the bell, he looked ready to tear something apart.

Nicholas Hansen answered wearing faded black sweats, white Nikes, and a distracted look. Brown and red paint stains on his fingers were the only clues to his occupation. He was tall and spare with an oddly fleshy face, looked closer to fifty than forty. Soft neck, basset eyes the color of river silt, grayish mouth stitched with wrinkles, a bald, blue-veined scalp ringed by a beige buzz. A middle-aged crisis stoop rounded his shoulders. I'd have guessed a burnt-out lawyer taking a day off.

Milo flashed the badge, and Hansen's muddy eyes came alive. But his voice was low and mumbly. "Police? About what?"

I was standing behind Milo, but not so far that I couldn't smell the alcohol breeze Hansen had let forth.

Milo said, "High school." His voice was rough, and he didn't use Hansen's name, hadn't even offered a cop's patronizing "sir."

"High school?" Hansen blinked, and the paint-stained fingers of one hand capped his bald head, as if he'd been afflicted by a sudden migraine.

"The King's Men," said Milo.

Hansen dropped the hand and rubbed his fingers together, dislodging a fleck of paint, inspecting his nails. "I really don't understand- I'm working."

Milo said, "This is important." He'd kept the badge in Hansen's face, and the artist took a step backward.

"The King's Men?" said Hansen. "That was a very long time ago."

Milo filled the space Hansen had vacated. "Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it, and all that."

Hansen's hand floundered some more, ended up on the doorjamb. He shook his head. "You've lost me, gentlemen." His breath was ninety proof, and his nose was a relief map of busted capillaries.

"Be happy to clarify," said Milo. He flicked his wrist, and sunlight bounced off the badge. "I assume you don't want to talk out here in full view."

Hansen shrank back some more. Milo was only an inch or so taller than Hansen, but he did something with his posture that increased the gap.

"I'm a painter, I'm in the middle of a painting," Hansen insisted.

"I'm in the middle of a homicide investigation."

Hansen's mouth slackened, revealing uneven, yellowed teeth. He shut his mouth quickly, looked at his watch, then over his shoulder.

"I'm a big art fan," said Milo. "Especially German Expressionism- all that anxiety."

Hansen stared at him, stepped back farther. Milo remained in the dance, positioned himself inches from Hansen's worried eyes.

Hansen said, "I hope this doesn't take long."

The house was cool and dim, saturated with the geriatric reek of camphor. The chipped terra-cotta tiles of the entry hall floor continued up the steps of a narrow, brass-railed staircase. Thirteen-foot ceilings were crossed by carved oak beams. The wood was wormholed and aged nearly black. The walls were hand-troweled plaster two shades deeper than the external vanilla and dotted with empty niches. Smallish leaded windows, some with stained-glass insets picturing New Testament scenes, constricted the light. The colored panes projected rainbow dust beams. The furniture was heavy and dark and clumsy. No art on the walls. The place felt like some ill-attended church.

Nicholas Hansen motioned us to a sagging, fringed sofa upholstered in a scratchy tapestry fabric, sat down facing us in a bruised leather chair, and folded his hands in his lap.

"I really can't imagine what this could be about."

"Let's start with the King's Men," said Milo. "You do remember them."

Hansen gave his watch another glance. Cheap digital thing with a black plastic band.

"Busy day?" said Milo.

Hansen said, "I may have to interrupt if my mother wakes up. She's dying of colon cancer, and the day nurse took the afternoon off."

"Sorry," said Milo, with as little sympathy as I'd ever heard him offer.

"She's eighty-seven," said Hansen. "Had me when she was forty-five. I always wondered how long I'd have her." He plucked at a cuff of his sweatshirt. "Yes, I remember the King's Men. Why would you connect me to them after all these years?"