Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Wouldn't be the first time,” I said.

“For what?”

“Style over substance. Little boxes. But if she and Seacrest were having problems, the book, all the attention it got her, could have crystallized her dissatisfaction, made her decide to finally break away. Maybe in that sense, fame was her death sentence. But as to what that has to do with Mandy Wright, I still can't come up with anything. And here's another complication: Last night I took another drive by Cruvic's office. He wasn't in but Nurse Anna was. Along with Casey Locking.”

I told him about the Mulholland house and he copied down the address.

“Shit,” he said. “Just when you thought it was safe to go back into hypothesisland- okay, I'll find out who owns it. Meanwhile, let's go persecute a mouthy kid.”

We crossed a long, quiet reception area to get to Kenneth Storm Sr.'s office, past a pair of secretaries who looked up from their keyboards resentfully, talk radio in the background.

The Storms were a testament to genetics, both bull-necked and wide-shouldered with sandy crew cuts and small, suspicious eyes that locked in place for long stretches.

Senior was fiftyish with the dissolute, puffy look of a fullback gone sedentary. He wore a navy blazer with gold buttons and a Masonic pin in the lapel. Junior's jacket was dark green, his buttons as bright as his father's.

They were both positioned behind Senior's canoe-shaped blond-oak desk, which had been cleared of everything but a cowboy bronze and a green onyx pen-and-pencil set. The office was too big for the furniture, walled in oak veneer and carpeted in beige shag. Real-estate and life-insurance achievement awards were Senior's idea of self-validation. A cigar smell filled the room but no ashtrays were in sight.

Standing in front of the desk was a rangy, hawk-nosed, gray-haired man wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, French-cuffed powder-blue shirt, and a silk tie in someone's idea of power pink. He introduced himself as Pierre Bateman, Storm's attorney, and I recalled his name from the complaint against the conduct committee. Before we had a chance to sit, he began laying down stipulations for the interview in a slow, droning voice. Kenneth Storm Jr. yawned and scratched behind his ears and stuck his index finger in and out of a buttonhole. His father stared down at the desktop.

“Furthermore,” said Bateman, “with regard to the substance of this proced-”

“Are you a criminal lawyer, sir?” said Milo.

“I'm Mr. Storm's attorney of record. I handle all his business affairs.”

“So you regard this as a business affair?”

Bateman bared his teeth. “May I continue, Detective?”

“Has Mr. Storm Jr. engaged you formally?”

“That's hardly relevant.”

“It might be if you're going to stand around making up rules.”

Bateman massaged a sapphire cuff link and looked at the boy. “Would you care to designate me as your attorney, Kenny?”

Junior rolled his eyes. His father tapped his sleeve with an index finger.

“Yeah, sure.”

“All right, then,” said Bateman, “with regard to this procedure, Detective, you will refrain from…”

Milo placed his tape recorder on the desk.

“I have a problem with that,” said Bateman.

“With what?”

“Taping. This is neither court testimony nor a formal deposition and my client's not under any formal suspicion-”

“So why are you acting like he is?”

“Detective,” said Bateman. “I insist that you stop interrupting-”

Milo shut him up with a loud exhalation. Picking up the recorder, he examined a switch. “Mr. Bateman, we drove out here as a courtesy, rescheduled several times as a courtesy, allowed your client's father to be present as a courtesy, even though he's reached the age of majority. We are not talking juvey traffic court here. Our interest in the lad is the fact that he had a highly hostile exchange with a woman who was subsequently stabbed to death.”

Junior mumbled and Senior shot him a look.

“Detective,” said Bateman. “Surely-”

“Counselor,” said Milo, taking a few steps closer. “He's not a formal suspect yet, but all this shuffling and dodging is definitely firming up the picture of an individual with something to hide. You wanna sit here, play F. Lee Bombast, that's your business. But if we do conduct an interview today it's gonna be taped and I'm gonna ask what I want. Otherwise, we'll reschedule at the West L.A. substation and you all deal with the freeway and the press.”

Junior mumbled again.

“Ken,” warned Senior.

Junior rolled his eyes again and fingered a pimple on the side of his neck. His hands were big, hairless, powerful.

Milo said, “Sorry to be taking up your time, son. Though you've got a bit of time on your hands, don't you. Being out of school and all that.”

Junior's neck stretched as he jutted his lower jaw. His father tapped his cuff again.

“Detective,” said Bateman, “that was a wonderful speech. Now, if you'll allow me to continue my stipulations.”

Milo picked up the recorder and headed for the door. “ Sayonara, gentlemen.”

We were halfway across the reception area when Bateman called out, “Detective?”

We kept walking and the lawyer hurried to catch up. The reception area had gone quiet, the two secretaries staring. The talk jock was pontificating about athletes' salaries. The place smelled of mouthwash.

“That was intemperate, Detective,” Bateman stage-whispered. “This is a kid.”

“He's nineteen and more than big enough to do damage, Mr. Bateman. Expect a call.”

He pushed the door open and Bateman followed us out to the parking lot.

“Mr. Storm's well-regarded in his community, Detective, and Kenny's a solid boy.”

“Good for them.”

“With all the gangs and the serious crime, one would think the police have better things to do-”

“Than harass law-abiding citizens?” said Milo. “What can I say, we're stupid.” We reached the unmarked.

“Just wait one minute.” Bateman's voice had tightened, but with anxiety, not indignation.

Milo took out his keys.

“Look, Detective, I'm here so they'll feel protected. Kenny really is a good kid, I've known him for years.”

“Protected against what?”

“Things have been rough, lately. They're both under considerable stress.”

Milo opened the car door and put his gear in.

Bateman edged closer and spoke in a lower voice. “I don't expect you to care, but Ken- Ken Sr.'s having some financial difficulties. Serious ones. The real-estate market.”

Milo straightened but didn't answer.

“It's a hard time for both of them,” said Bateman. “First Ken's wife died, very sudden, an aneurysm. And now this. Ken built his business from nothing. Built this building twenty years ago and now it's on the verge of foreclosure. And losing it won't solve all his problems, there are plenty of other creditors. So you can see why he'd be nervous about the legal process. I'm his friend as well as his lawyer. I feel obligated to protect him as much as I can.”

“We're not talking real estate, here, Mr. Bateman.”

The attorney nodded. “Truth is, I don't know shit from shinola about criminal law and told Ken so. But he and I go back to grade school. He insisted on having me present.”

“So he thinks the boy needs legal help.”

“No, no, only in general terms- not getting shafted by the system. To be frank, Kenny's no genius and he has a bad temper. So does Ken. So did his dad, for that matter. The whole damn bunch of them have short fuses, for all I know that's how they got the family name.”

He smiled but Milo didn't return it.