Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“What do you think about the way he did it?” I said. “So publically.”

“Pretty bizarre,” he said. “What do you think?”

“Could he have been making a statement?”

“Such as?”

I shrugged. “Had Nolan shown any exhibitionistic tendencies?”

“Showing off? Not in the course of duty. Oh, he was into his body- getting buffed, tailoring the uniform, but lots of young cops are that way. I still don't know what you mean by a statement.”

“You mentioned before that cops always tried to minimize the shame of suicide. But Nolan did just the opposite. Made a spectacle of himself. Almost a public self-execution.”

He said nothing for a long time. Lifted his wineglass, drained it, refilled, and sipped.

“You're suggesting he punished himself for something?”

“Just theorizing,” I said. “But you're not aware of anything he might have felt guilty about.”

“Not something on the job. Did his sister tell you anything along those lines?”

I shook my head.

“Nope,” he said. “That just doesn't make sense.”

The waiter approached.

“I'm finished,” said Baker.

I seconded the motion, declined dessert, and handed over my credit card. Baker took out a big cigar and wet the tip.

“Mind?”

“No.”

“Against restaurant rules,” he said. “But they know me here and I sit where the wind carries it away.”

He inspected the tight brown cylinder. Hand-rolled. Biting off the tip, he placed it in his napkin and folded the linen over the scrap. Taking out a gold lighter, he ignited the cigar and puffed. Bitter but not unpleasant smoke filled the space between us before dissolving.

Baker eyed the boats in the marina and sat back, catching sun.

Puff, puff. I thought of how he'd likely stuffed Milo's locker full of porn.

“Supreme waste,” he said. “It still bothers me.”

But sitting there, smoking and drinking wine, cleanly shaved face buttered by sun, he looked the picture of happiness.

I left him on the terrace with his cigar and the rest of the wine. Just before I stepped onto the pathway that led back to the hotel parking lot, I stopped and watched him smile as he said something to the maitre d'.

Man at leisure. No clue he'd been talking about the death of a colleague.

Would it have bothered me had Milo not warned me about him?

For all his open manner, he'd told me less than Dr. Lehmann: Nolan had been an isolated, smarter-than-usual cop who played it by the book.

None of the serious problems Lehmann had alluded to. On the other hand, Baker had been Nolan's training officer, not his therapist.

Still, it was my second face-to-face meeting for no apparent reason.

People scurrying to protect themselves in the event of a lawsuit?

Over what?

Helena still hadn't called. Maybe she'd decided that only Nolan would understand what Nolan had done. If she dropped out of therapy, it was out of my hands, and on some level that didn't bother me. Because Lehmann was right: Real answers were often unobtainable.

Once home, I tormented myself with a faster-than-usual run up the glen, showered and changed, and set out for Beverlywood at four-fifteen, reaching the Carmeli home with ten minutes to spare for the five o'clock meeting.

The house was a neatly kept single-story ranch on a block full of them. A negligible lawn sloped up to a used brick driveway. Parked on top were a blue Plymouth minivan and a black Accord, both with consulate plates. The curbs were empty save for two Volvo station wagons and a Suburban parked down the block and an electrical-company van across the street. Other driveways hosted more vans and wagons, lots of infant seats. Utility and fertility.

Tucked east of the Hillcrest Country Club and south of Pico, Beverlywood had been developed in the fifties as a starter community for the families of junior executives on their way to senior partnerships and manses in Brentwood and Hancock Park and Beverly Hills, and some people still called it Baja Beverly Hills. L.A. had essentially abandoned street maintenance, but Beverlywood looked manicured because of a homeowners' society that set standards and kept the trees trimmed. A private security company patrolled nightly. The land boom of the seventies had raised housing prices to the half-million mark and the downslide had kept them at a level where striving families found themselves at the top of their dream, nesting here permanently.

Milo pulled behind me two minutes later. He had on a bottle-green blazer, tan slacks, white shirt, and yellow-and-olive tartan tie. Green giant, but not jolly.

“Finally managed to locate six more creeps from the initial M.O. files, all moved to Riverside and San Berdoo. None check out time-wise, and their P.O.'s and/or therapists vouch for them. Nothing on DVLL, either, so I'm ready to chuck that one into the garbage file.”

At the house, Zev Carmeli answered Milo's knock, wearing a dark suit and a grim expression.

“Come in, please.”

There was no entry hall and we stepped right into a low, narrow, off-white living room. The deep green carpeting was amazingly similar in hue to Milo's jacket and for a second he looked like a fixture. The tan couches and glass tables could have been rented. The beige drapes drawn over the windows were filmy but most of the light came from two ceramic table lamps.

Sitting on the largest couch was a beautiful brown-skinned woman in her thirties with very long, curly black hair and moist, deep-set black eyes. Her lips were full but parched, her cheekbones molded so severely they seemed artificial. She wore a shapeless brown dress that covered her knees, flat brown shoes, no jewelry. Her eyes were nowhere.

Carmeli moved to her side and hovered and I fought not to stare.

Not because of her beauty; I'd seen Irit's death photos and here was the woman she might have become.

“This is Detective Sturgis and Dr. Delaware. My wife, Liora.”

Liora Carmeli began to stand but her husband touched her shoulder and she remained seated.

“Hello,” she said very softly, struggling to smile but not getting close.

We both shook her hand. Her fingers were limp and her skin was clammy.

I knew she'd resumed teaching school and couldn't be this depressed with her students. So our visit had raked things up.

“Okay,” said Carmeli, sitting next to her and waving at some chairs on the other side of a glass coffee table.

We sat and Milo went through one of those little detective speeches full of sympathy and empathy and possibility that he hates to deliver but delivers so well. Carmeli looked angry but his wife seemed to relate a bit- shoulders straightening, eyes focusing.

I'd seen that before. Some people- usually women- respond to him immediately. He gets no satisfaction from it, always worried that he'll fail to produce. But he keeps delivering the speech, knowing no other way.

Carmeli said, “Fine, fine, we understand all that. Let's get on with it.”

His wife looked at him and said something in what I assumed was Hebrew. Carmeli frowned and tugged down at his tie. They were both good-looking people who seemed drained of their life-juices.

Milo said, “Ma'am, if there's anything you can-”

“We know nothing,” said Carmeli, touching his wife's elbow.

“My husband is right. There's nothing more we can tell you.” Only her mouth moved when she spoke. The brown dress tented and I could see no body contours beneath it.

“I'm sure you're right, ma'am,” said Milo. “The reason I have to ask is sometimes things occur to people. Things they think are unimportant so they never bring them up. I'm not saying that's actually the case here-”

“Oh for God's sake,” said Carmeli, “don't you think if we knew something we'd tell you?”