Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“Good. Now for the Myers boy. I know you're not going to like this but the reason I wanted to meet you was I went by that group home in Baldwin Hills, made like a cop, talked to the landlady and the other residents.”

Daniel kept his voice even. “That puts you at risk, Gene.” Me, too, my friend.

“I was convincing, Danny, believe me. Sturgis already did telephonic interviews, so why not be more thorough? I told the landlady- a Mrs. Bradley- that I was following up on Sturgis's interviews. She's black, they all are, it didn't hurt, believe me. And guess what? I talked to a fellow Sturgis hadn't spoken to because he was out that day. Lived right next door to Myers. Closest thing Myers had to a friend.”

“Closest thing?” said Daniel. “Myers didn't have real friends?”

“The picture I got was that Myers was hard to like, full of attitude. Didn't hang out with the others, mostly stayed in his room reading braille and listening to jazz. This particular fellow likes jazz, too, so he and Myers had that in common. He's a paraplegic in a wheelchair, says Myers was always after him to look into different exercises, vitamins, alternative remedies, try to rehab himself. The guy had been shot in the spine, said, “What the hell did he expect me to do, grow a new backbone?' But he tolerated Myers because even though Myers could be a pain he really seemed to care. He also said Myers had been talking about going to school to become a psychologist. Anyway, the main thing I got out of this guy was that Myers didn't like the trade school one bit. On the contrary: He hated it, was planning to write some article about it as soon as he graduated.”

“An exposÉ?”

“That's what it sounded like, Myers never gave him specifics. It's probably nothing but it does give us a victim with higher-than-average enemy potential. I figure the next step is, find out if there was anyone at the school who had an especially hostile relationship with Myers. Which makes sense on another level, because whoever got him into that alley probably also knew the neighborhood.”

“The director said there was no one Myers had problems with.”

“Maybe she didn't know or maybe she's lying to keep the school out of the spotlight. Heck, for all we know this Wilson Tenney got a job at the school and ran into Myers. As a custodian. Let's say he stole stuff and Myers found out. Here's Tenney, already killed three people- nonwhite people- and Myers was an abrasive black guy mouths off to him one time too many, threatens to blow the whistle.”

Daniel said nothing.

“It's wild but it's plausible,” said Gene. “You agree it should be looked into?”

“I'll look into it.”

Gene shifted around again. “I've got time, just sitting around. I could go over to the school as one of those kindly retired gents looking to volunteer-”

“Thanks, but I'll do it, Gene.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure. I've got the perfect equipment.” Daniel lifted his bad hand.

Gene's mouth closed. Then he said, “How're you going to pull it off without putting Sturgis's nose out of joint?”

“I'll find a way.”

Gene sighed. “Okay, just call me if you change your mind.”

“Believe me, I will. And Gene-”

“I know, keep my nose out of it.”

“I really appreciate everything-”

“But keep my nose out of it.” Gene laughed.

“How's the packing going?” said Daniel.

Gene laughed some more. “Changing the subject? The packing's finished. My illustrious life in boxes. I finally heard from the leasing agent. She's got a couple who'll take the house til the market gets better. Physical therapists, they work full-time at Luther King, so they should be able to keep up with the rent. I'm in good shape, ready to live the good life in the land of sun and sand.”

“Great,” said Daniel, pleased that Gene could think in positive terms without Luanne. Or at least fake it. “So the new house will be ready soon?”

“Five more days, they claim.” Gene slumped. “Guess I better get used to feeling useless.”

“You've been very useful, Gene.”

“Not really. A file, shoes, big deal… to be truthful, it's more than that, Danny. It's the case itself. Ugly. Even for guys like us, it's ugly. And pardon me for saying so, but it doesn't sound as if you're getting much movement.”

On Wednesday morning, Milo called to tell me he'd caught up with Loren Bukovsky, the local Mensa chapter chairman.

“Not a bad fellow, understandably curious about why I was looking into Meta. I told him it was a financial thing, large-scale covert investigation, hinted around that it had something to do with stolen computers, and asked him to keep it to himself. He promised to and my sense is he might keep his word, because he doesn't like Meta, thinks they're “insufferables' who look down on Mensa.”

“Because Mensa folk aren't smart enough for them?”

“Bukovsky denies that. Emphatically.”

“What if Bukovsky doesn't keep it to himself and it gets back to someone in Meta?”

“Then we deal with it. It could even work out to our advantage: One or more of their members turn out to be bad guys and show their hands and give us moving targets. Which is better than none.”

“That,” I said, “sounds like rationalization.”

“No, Alex, it's the truth, you didn't screw things up. As it stands, we're nowhere with this group. Even Bukovsky, for all his hostility, didn't know much about them, just that they'd started back east, cropped up in L.A. two or three years ago, then took a low profile.”

“Two years ago,” I said. “Right around the time of Sanger's article. And publication of The Brain Drain.”

“Next item: got hold of Zena Lambert's tax returns for the last three years. Her sole income was the salary from PlasmoDerm. Before that she made no money at all. So how she started the store is still an open question.”

“Maybe a trust fund,” I said. “Like Andrew Desmond.”

He looked at me. “Andrew's got rich parents?”

“Comfortable.” I gave him the profile.

“Sounds like a charming fellow,” he said. “The only other thing to report is Melvin Myers's body was clean of drugs and Bob Pierce says none of the local crackheads knew him, so it wasn't dope that got him in that alley… You're really up for this secret-agent stuff, aren't you?”

“Got my shoe-phone in gear.”

At 4:00 p.m., Daniel phoned.

“I'd like to show you the cover apartment on Genesee. You may never actually have to use it, but this way you'll be accustomed to it.”

“I'll meet you there. What's the address?”

“I'm near your house,” he said. “If you don't mind, I'll come by and take you.”

He was there ten minutes later and he gave me a brown paper Ralph's Market bag. Inside was a change of clothes: lightweight black cotton pants, black cotton mock turtleneck washed nearly gray, baggy gray herringbone sportcoat with the label of Dillard's department store in St. Louis on the inside breast pocket, rubber-soled black shoes from Bullock's, L.A.

“Costume rehearsal?” I said.

“Something like that.”

“No underwear?”

“Underwear is underwear.”

“True. I don't see Andrew going for flaming red silk.”

I inspected the jacket. The wool emitted a weak scent of insipid cologne.

“The St. Louis touch is nice,” I said, “but Andrew's lived in L.A. for several years.”

“I don't see him as someone who likes to shop,” he said. “His mother sent it to him.”

“Good old Mom.” I put the clothes on. The sportcoat was a little baggy but not a bad fit.

The mirror showed me a nicely shabby getup that would play well in lots of L.A. settings. The beard helped, too. It had grown into the itch stage, thick and coarse and straight with more gray hairs than I'd expected. From my cheekbones to my Adam's apple I was covered, the lower half of my face effectively obscured.