Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“Good question,” said Sharavi. “I'll try to find out.”

I examined the shot of Helga Cranepool some more. She was in motion but a fast lens had captured her without blur- stepping out of a door holding two white shopping bags. The window behind her displayed apples and oranges. The lettering on one of the bags said D'AGOSTINO.

“He was on his way to a business lunch,” said Sharavi. “We found her grocery shopping on Lexington Avenue on Saturday.”

“Both of them are pretty grim-looking,” said Petra Connor.

“Maybe being brilliant's not what it's cracked up to be,” said Milo.

Sharavi flipped the first photo over. Farley Sanger in a red polo shirt and canvas hat, a pretty blond woman, and two blond children sitting in a motorboat still moored to a dock. Flat, green water, hints of marsh grass at the periphery.

Sanger still looked unhappy and the woman seemed cowed. The children had turned away from the camera, showing thin necks and yellow hair.

“Not exactly Norman Rockwell,” said Connor.

Milo asked if he could have the pictures and Sharavi said sure, they were copies for him.

I thought about the fact that he'd waited til Milo arrived to display them. Waited to let loose with details.

Cop-to-cop. I was a very small part of this.

“Onward,” said Milo. “The Melvin Myers stabbing. I met with Mrs. Grosperrin, the director at Myers's trade school. At first she kept describing Myers as the perfect student. Too perfect, so I pressed her and she finally admitted he could also be a giant pain: quick temper, chip on his shoulder, always looking for signs of discrimination against the handicapped, complaining the school patronized the students instead of treating them like adults, the facilities sucked, the course offerings sucked. Grosperrin figured it was because Melvin's mother had cooped him up for so long, now he was feeling his oats. She said Myers saw himself as a crusader, tried to turn the student council into some big deal- greater voice for the students, more respect from the administration.”

“A leader but abrasive,” I said. “Someone who could have made enemies.”

“Grosperrin denied he'd had any conflict with anyone, claimed the faculty understood where he was coming from and admired him. For his spunk, quote unquote.”

“What about the people at Myers's group home?”

“Four residents, I talked to three and the landlady, over the phone. They said basically the same thing. Melvin was bright, but he could piss you off with his smart mouth.”

“Still,” said Connor, “none of the other victims was abrasive. It sounds like who they were made them victims, not what they did. ”

“Did Mrs. Grosperrin have any idea what could have lured Myers into that alley?” said Sharavi.

“None,” said Milo. “But one thing's for sure: He didn't get lost. She said he knew the area like the palm of his hand, had trained himself to memorize the entire downtown grid. So someone offered him motivation to walk through that alley. And that's where we stand. You schedule a time for visiting the bookstore yet, Alex?”

“Daniel suggested Thursday or Friday. To give the beard some time.”

“Good idea,” he said, “Andrew.”

The three of them left, talking procedure, cop-to-cop, as I thought about Nolan Dahl.

The parallels to Ponsico; another bright boy destroying himself.

Not very profound. IQ was no defense against pain. Sometimes it hurt to perceive too clearly.

But the next morning it stayed with me.

Dr. Lehmann's bleak situation. The things Helena was better off not knowing.

Things that left Nolan drowning in guilt?

I'd assumed a sexual secret, but maybe not. Helena had talked about Nolan's embracing extremes.

How far had he taken it?

Had he transferred out of West L.A. because of something he'd done in West L.A.?

Irit had been murdered in West L.A. When I'd visited the killing site after Latvinia's murder, I'd thought about a monster in a uniform.

A cop?

A big, strong, smiling, handsome young cop?

Disgusting… but a West L.A. cop would know the park's backroads, be able to lose himself.

A cop could always offer a reason for being somewhere.

West L.A. didn't patrol the park, the rangers did… a cop on lunch break?

Code 7 for doughnuts and homicide?

But no, that made no sense. Nolan had been dead several weeks by the time of Latvinia's and Melvin Myers's murders. And there wasn't a shred of evidence that Nolan had ever hurt anyone but himself.

Malignant imagination, Delaware. The time line, all wrong.

Unless there was more than one killer.

Not just a boy-girl thing, a killing club. That would explain the varying M.O.s.

A group game: dividing the city up, one police district per player. Nolan telling them how to do it because he was an expert on procedure…

Enough. I was defaming a dead man because he'd been smart. No doubt Nolan had revealed secrets Lehmann thought best left buried.

Still, Helena had run away.

Why?

Her home phone was disconnected now. Longterm move.

With both parents gone, no close family, who would she turn to in times of stress?

Distant relatives? Friends? I didn't know any of them.

Didn't know much about her at all.

She had mentioned one former relative: the ex-husband.

Gary's a pulmonologist, basically a nice guy. But he decided he wanted to be a farmer so he moved to North Carolina.

I called Rick at Cedars and he came on the line sounding impatient but softening when he learned it was me.

“Sure,” he said. “Gary Blank. He used to work here, too. Good lung man, Southerner. Kind of a country boy at heart. Why?”

“I'm wondering if Helena would have turned to him for support.”

“Hmm… the divorce was friendly. As divorces go. And Gary's an easygoing type. If she asked him to put her up, my guess is sure, he'd hold the door wide open.”

“Thanks.”

“So… you're still trying to reach her.”

“You know me, Rick. Never developed a taste for unfinished business.”

“Yup,” he said. “Used to be that way, myself.”

“Used to be?”

He laughed. “Yesterday.”

North Carolina had three area codes-704, 910, 919- and I tried Information for all of them before cashing in with 919.

Gary S. Blank, no degree. A rural route near Durham.

Dinnertime in North Carolina.

Helena answered after two rings.

She recognized my voice right away and hers got strained. “How'd you find me?”

“Lucky guess. I don't mean to be intrusive, but I just wanted to see how you're doing. If this makes things worse for you, just say so.”

She didn't answer. I could hear music in the background. Something baroque.

“Helena-”

“It's okay. You just caught me off-guard.”

“I'm sorry-”

“No, it's okay. I'm- I guess I'm touched that you cared. I'm sorry for skipping out without an explanation but… this is very hard, Dr. Delaware. I- it's just hard. You really caught me off-guard.”

“No need to-”

“No, it's okay. It's just- I got stressed out, decided to make a clean sweep.”

“Was it something you learned about Nolan?”

Her voice got higher. “What do you mean?”

“You never made another appointment after finding that family photo album in Nolan's garage. I was just wondering if there was something in there that upset you.”

Another long silence.

“Jesus,” she finally said. “Shit.”

“Helena-”

“Jesus Christ- I really don't want to talk about this.”

“No problem.”

“But I- Dr. Delaware, what I'm saying is, it's water under the bridge. Nothing I can change. None of my business, really. I've got to concentrate on what I can do. Get past this, move on.”