Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

"Are you concerned about a suicide attempt?"

Another pause. "Let's just say I don't like to see prisoners behave like this."

"What's he doing?"

"Nothing. That's the point. Not moving or talking or eating. Even with his wife there. He wouldn't acknowledge her. I guess you'd call it catatonic."

"Are his limbs waxy?"

"You mean soft?"

"If you position him, does he stay that way?"

"Haven't tried to move him- we don't want anyone claiming brutality. We just slide his food tray in and make sure he's got enough toilet paper. I'm bending over to protect his rights until his lawyer shows up."

"When's that?"

"If Guam can free up a public defender and Stanton lets him fly in, hopefully in a couple of days- hold on."

He barked more orders and returned to the line. "Listen, you coming or not? If so, I'll send someone to pick you up and drive you back. If not, that's fine too."

"Pick me up," I said. "When?"

"Soon as I can get someone over."

"Thanks. See you then."

"Don't thank me," he said. "I'm not doing it for your sake. Or his."

He came himself, an hour later, emotions hidden behind mirrored shades, a shotgun clamped to the dash of the little police car.

As I walked out, he looked up at the gargoyle roof tiles and frowned, as if in imitation. I got in the car and he took off, speeding around the fountain and through the open gate, downshifting angrily and taking bumps hard. His head nearly touched the roof and he looked uncomfortable.

When we were out of sight of the estate, he said, "I'll give you an hour, which is probably more than you need 'cause he's still playing statue."

"Think he's faking?"

"You're the expert." He grabbed the gearshift as we went around a sharp curve. His forearms were thick and brown, corded and veined and hairless. White crust flecked the corner of his mouth.

"He told me you two grew up together."

Bitter smile. "He was a couple of years older but we hung out. He was always small, I used to protect him."

"Against who?"

"Kids making fun- his family was trash. He was too, didn't comb his hair, didn't like to bathe. Later, he changed so much you couldn't believe it." He whipped his head toward the window, spat, returned his eyes to the road.

"After he moved in with Moreland?"

"Yeah. All of a sudden he got super-straight, studied all the time, preppy mail-order clothes, and Dr. Bill bought him a catamaran. We used to go out sailing. I'd have a beer; he never touched it."

"All that due to Moreland's influence?"

"Probably the military, too. We did that at the same time also. I was an MP in the Marines, he was Coast Guard. Then he got married, kids, all that good stuff. Probably decided it was a good idea to keep the straight life going."

The next sentence came out a snarl: "I liked the bastard."

"Hard to reconcile that with what he did."

He glanced at me and picked up speed. "What're you trying to do? Put me on the couch? Dr. Bill tell you to do that?"

"No. Sometimes I lapse into shoptalk."

He shook his head and put on more speed, turning the final dip to the harbor into a roller-coaster swoop.

The water enlarged as if at the hands of some celestial projectionist, blue, mottled platinum, where the clouds hovered.

Laurent shoved the shift lever hard, yanked it back into neutral, gunned the engine, stopped so short I had to brace myself against the dash. My fingers landed inches from the shotgun and I saw his head swivel sharply. I put my hands in my lap and he chewed his cheek and stared out the windshield.

More people than usual on the waterfront, mostly men, milling around the docks and congregating in front of the Trading Post, which was closed. The only open establishment, in fact, was Slim's Bar, where a few more drinkers than usual loitered, smoked, and swigged from long-necks. I picked out Skip Amalfi's fair hair among the sea of black, then his father, hovering nervously at the back of the crowd.

Skip was animated, talking and gesturing and brushing hair out of his face. Some of the villagers nodded and gesticulated with their arms, slicing the air choppily, pointing up Front Street toward the road that led up to Victory Park.

Laurent put the car into gear and rolled down so fast I couldn't focus on anyone's face. Ignoring the stop sign on Front Street, he made a sharp right and raced toward the municipal center. The parking spaces facing the whitewashed building were all taken. Nosing behind a crumbling Toyota, he jerked the key out of the ignition, freed the shotgun, and got out carrying the weapon against his thigh. His size made it look like a toy.

Slamming the car door, he marched toward the center. Onlookers moved aside and I rode his wake, managing to get inside before the remarks to my back took form.

The front room was tiny, dingy, and hot, filled with the salty-fatty smell of canned soup. Nicked walls were covered with wanted posters, Interpol communiquÉs, lists of the latest federal regulations. Two desks, messy, with phones tilting on mounds of yet more paper. One held a hotplate.

The only spot of color was a tool company calendar over one of the workstations, starring a long-torsoed, pneumatic brunette in a red spandex bikini that could have been used for a handkerchief. A middle-aged deputy sat under sleek, tan thighs, writing and moving a toothpick around in his mouth. Skinny, he had a jutting stubbled chin and a sunken, lipless mouth. Lots of missing teeth. His hair was limp and graying, fringing unevenly over his collar. His uniform needed pressing but his engraved metal nameplate was shiny. Ruiz.

"Ed," said Dennis. "This is Dr. Delaware, the psychologist from the castle."

Ed pushed away from his desk and the legs of the folding chair groaned against the linoleum floor. The skin under his eyes was smudged. A pile of plastic-wrapped toothpicks was at his left hand. He lowered his head to the wastebasket and blew out the pick in his mouth, selected a new one, tore the plastic, rested the splinter on a ridge of bare gum, and laced his hands behind his head.

"Anything?" said Dennis.

"Uh-uh." Ed manipulated the pick with his tongue and watched me.

"No action from the jokers at Slim's?"

"Nah, just big talk." The sibilant voice. He touched the revolver in his belt with his left hand. I thought of something and filed it away.

"Why don't you take a walk up and down Front. Check things out."

Ed shrugged and rose to a slumping five four. Pocketing more toothpicks, he ambled out the door.

Dennis said, "You can sit in his chair."

I took my place under Miss Redi-Lathe, and he settled half a buttock atop the other desk and folded his arms across his chest.

"Ed may not look like much to you, but he's reliable. Ex-Marine. In Vietnam he won enough medals to start a jewelry store."

"Southpaw, too."

He took off the mirrored glasses. His light eyes were clear and hard as bottle glass. "So?"

"It reminded me that Ben's left-handed. I know because I saw him vaccinating the kids at the school. I read AnneMarie Valdos's file. Moreland said the killer was probably right-handed."

"To me, "probably' means not for sure."

I didn't answer.

Laurent's arms tightened and his biceps jumped. "Moreland's no forensic pathologist."

"He was good enough for the Valdos case."

He chewed his cheek again and shot me a close-mouthed smile. "Are you his rent-a-sherlock, supposed to raise doubts about my investigation?"

"The only thing he asked me to do was give Ben moral support. If my being here's a problem, take me back and I'll catch up on my sunbathing."

Another bicep flex. Then the smile widened, flashing white. "Look at that, I pissed you off. Thought shrinks didn't lose their tempers."