Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

I looked around. The main space was an office-living room. Computer and printer, thousand-watt battery pack, brass reflector telescope, stereo set, CD rack, German twenty-inch TV hooked up to a beefy cable that ran up through the ceiling.

"Had a dish," he said, "but a wind blew it down."

"Looks like you've settled in for the long run."

"I like to live well. Lime with that?"

"Sure."

He brought the drinks and we sat down. The ocean was framed beautifully through a wide window.

"Best revenge," he said, sipping. "Living well."

"Revenge against who?"

"Whoever deserves it." He took a long, slow swallow and emptied his glass. Sucking in an ice cube, he moved it around his mouth.

"So what can I do for you?" I said.

"Nothing, Alex. Just trying to be friendly. Fellow ugly Americans, and all that. Too bad we didn't get much time together before you left."

"Who said I'm leaving?"

He smiled. "Aren't you?"

"Eventually. How about you?"

"I've got no schedule- one advantage of freelancing."

"Sounds nice."

"It is."

We drank and he emptied his glass. "Can I get you another one?"

"No, thanks."

"Don't mind if I do."

He poured himself a taller scotch and returned.

"It's really something, isn't it, this blood fest. Guess I am on the crime beat now. Back in D.C. it never appealed to me because the vast majority of criminals were total shit-for-brains. The police and the prosecutors were no rocket scientists, either."

"Are politicians smart?"

"Some of them." He laughed. "A few."

"Nicholas Hoffman?"

He took a long, slow sip. "Smart enough, from what I hear. So when are you packing out?"

"I'm not sure yet, Tom."

"So what happens to your project with Moreland?"

"There isn't much of a project."

"What was it all about, anyway?"

"Reviewing his files to see if we could find themes."

"Themes?"

"Patterns of disease."

"Mental disease?"

"All kinds."

"That's it?"

"That's as far as it got."

"And if you found patterns, then what?"

"We'd write it up for a medical journal. Maybe a book of our own. How's your own book going?"

"Great."

"Going to add a chapter on the murders?"

"You better believe it… So how's Robin?"

"Fine."

"Doggy okay, too?"

"Great."

"Any chance Moreland put Ben up to killing those girls?"

I exaggerated my surprise. "Why would he?"

He put the drink down, uncrossed his legs, scooted forward. "Let's face it, Alex, the guy's strange."

"He's a little different."

"Like Norman Bates was different. That place- those bugs. And what the hell does he do all day in that lab? It sure ain't medicine, 'cause Ben handles most of the medical situations- or at least he used to till Pam came over. So what's the old guy up to all day?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, you've been working with him."

"In separate buildings."

"What's he hiding?"

"I don't know that he's hiding anything."

His mustache turned down. The black line was as flat as a grease-pencil scrawl, but he smoothed it anyway.

"He probably told you about the hassle Ben gave me. Probably made me out to be a thief."

"He said you were looking for something. Were you?"

"Sure. Reporter's instincts. Because the minute I got to that place I started having a strange feeling."

"About what?"

"Just general weirdness. And obviously I was right. All that do-gooding and his best boy's a serial killer. People are pissed, Alex. If you care about that pretty lady and that cute little pooch, you'll head back to lala land pronto."

His voice had stayed low and even, but his eyes were holes burnt in linen.

"That sounds almost like a warning, Tom."

"Word to the wise, Alex. Strategic assessment based upon the data at hand."

I smiled. "And that sounds kind of corporate. Almost like a quarterly report."

He reached for the scotch. Missed, groped, got hold of it, drank. When he lowered the glass, his lower lip was wet and shiny. "Guess I'd better be taking you back to Weird Castle."

"Guess so."

We left the house and he walked ahead of me and got into the VW. The engine squealed but it wouldn't turn over.

"Damn," he said, without a trace of regret. "Battery must have gone dead. I'd call Harry or Skip for a jump, but they're back in town with everyone else."

"I'll walk." I started down the road.

"I feel terrible," he called after me. When I looked over my shoulder he was smiling.

The clouds had moved directly over the shoreline, and the air was warm and sticky.

I encountered no one on my way to the harbor, but a stray yellow mutt with a gray muzzle heeled for a while, then ran off as I reached Front Street. A group of young men standing near the intersection watched me over their cigarettes, grumbling as I passed and ignoring my "good morning."

Dennis's police car was still parked in front of the municipal center. He wouldn't want to play taxi.

I'd accepted Creedman's invitation in order to check him out. He'd wanted me there for the same reason.

Pumping me and warning me off.

Then stranding me.

His decor said someone was paying him well. His reaction to my crack about quarterly reports said it was probably Stasher-Layman.

Had it been a mistake to let him know I was onto that? No matter, I'd be gone soon.

I walked along the docks, ignoring stares. The municipal center's door opened and Dennis came out, followed by three small men, one middle-aged, the others in their twenties. They all wore thin shirts and jeans and talked wildly as Dennis tried to appease them.

The middle-aged man stamped a foot, waved a fist, and shouted. Dennis said something and the fist waved again. The man pointed and touched his heart. Dennis put a hand on his shoulder. The man shook it off angrily.

People started to move in from the street.

Dennis glared and they dispersed, very slowly.

The older man stamped and touched his heart again. One of the younger men turned and I got a look at his face: plain, round, acned.

Unmistakable resemblance to Betty Aguilar.

Dennis ushered them back inside and I continued south. I hadn't gone far before I heard footsteps behind me. A quick look back: some of the youths I'd passed at the intersection. Four of them, hands in pockets, advancing quickly.

I stopped, looked at them blankly and when that didn't stop them, tried to stare them down.

They kept coming.

I crossed the street, ending up in front of the Trading Post. The structure was sealed with yellow crime-scene tape. Some things were the same everywhere.

Slim's Bar was closed now too, but several beer swillers loitered in the gravel bed that served as the tavern's parking lot.

The four men behind me hesitated, then jogged across.

I reversed direction and headed back toward the center.

The youths picked up speed. One of them had something in his hand. A short wooden club- like a cop's billy, but sawn-off.

I ran.

They did, too. Their mouths were open and their eyes were fixed.

The police station wasn't far, but the hangers-on at Slim's could be a problem.

As I got closer, they closed rank, forming a human wall.

Skip Amalfi among them, flushed, his lips pursed in an attempted belch. Anders Haygood, next to him, stolid and sober, the gray eyes amused.

The boys to my back shouted something.

The Slim's crowd moved forward.

Caught in the middle.

More shouts, loud murmuring, then someone's voice above it all: "Idiots!"

Jacqui Laurent had burst through the Slim's crowd. Taller than most of the men, she wore a grease-specked apron over her flowered dress and was waving something.