Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“Zev-”

“And don't think about sneaking out the back door, Sharavi. Someone's watching.”

“You're making a huge-”

The connection broke. As he put down the phone, two men came in, both young, one blond, one dark-haired. Dark suits, open-necked white shirts. He knew them by face and name. Guards from the consulate, Dov and Yizhar. He hadn't heard them enter. Carmeli had known the phone call would distract him.

Mr. Ninja, indeed.

“Erev tov,” said Dov.

And a good evening to you, too, schmuck. “Do you have any idea what you're doing?”

The man shrugged.

Yizhar smiled and said, “Following orders. Who says the only good Germans are Germans.”

Milo was at his desk at the West L.A. station when Captain Huber called him in.

Huber was doing paperwork at a chaotic desk and didn't look up or speak. His bald spot was pink, slightly flaky.

“Sir.”

“Your lucky day, Sturgis. Meeting downtown with Deputy Chief Wicks. What'd you do, solve a crime or something?”

“When?”

“Now. Ahora. They even sent a car and a driver- big Afro-Amer two-striper waiting just outside my office, you're really rating today.”

Huber stopped writing, but kept his head down. “Maybe it's an affirmative-action thing, diversity and all that good stuff. Don't look so glum.”

Never making eye contact, so he had no idea about Milo's expression.

“I-”

Now Huber looked up sharply, thick face mottled with anger. Wicks's call had caught him by surprise. Out of the loop.

Milo suddenly understood why and his bowels began to churn.

“What's that, Sturgis?”

“I'm on my way.”

“Looks like you are, indeed. Making any progress on your cases?”

“Which ones?” said Milo.

“All of them.”

“We're doing okay.”

“Good. Don't keep them waiting. Close the door on your way out.”

Body-searched, pockets emptied, daniel sat sandwiched between the two men in the consulate car, breathing in their tobacco smell, knowing there was no chance to break free. He feigned relaxation.

They drove him to the consulate, placed him in Zev Carmeli's office, and remained outside the door.

He sat wondering if Zev would show.

Feeling like an idiot for neglecting the obvious. How could he have not seen it? How could it have been any other way?

Denial, pathological denial.

Had Milo been intercepted, too? How far did this go?

Hopefully, it wouldn't matter, Alex walking into the date unprotected. Just a date with a crazy girl and back to the Genesee apartment.

More denial.

Alex was expecting full coverage, would behave accordingly.

He remembered the tranquil look on Baker's face, all those murders and the guy was taking in the sun, unbothered by life.

Guy like that, nothing would bother him.

He looked around Zev's office. Saw something that could help, pocketed it, and knocked on the door.

Dov opened it. “What?”

“Bathroom.”

“You're sure?”

“Up to you, soldier. I can piss on his desk.”

Dov smiled, took his arm firmly, and propelled him to a nearby unmarked door.

No need for another search, the first had been so thorough.

“Have fun,” Dov told him.

Once inside, Daniel urinated, flushed, turned on the faucet, took the cell phone he'd lifted from Zev's desk out of his pocket, and dialed a familiar number. Time for only one call- he hoped the phone was a normal line, not one of Zev's preassigned coded things.

Ringing. Good.

Pick up, friend, pick up, pick up…

“Hello?”

“Gene? It's me. I can't talk long. I need your help.”

Knocking on the door. Dov's voice, “Hey, you drown or what? How long does it take to pee?”

“Wait til you reach my age,” Daniel called out.

“Ain't that the truth,” said Gene.

Zena was at the store when i made the confirmation call.

“How gallant of you to verify, A.”

“Just wanted to make sure you weren't too worn out from the party.”

“Me? Never. On the contrary, bursting with energy. I shall prepare comestibles- pasta with clams, Caesar salad, fruit of the vine.”

“The woman cooks, too.”

“Oh, do I.” She laughed. “I simmer and sometimes I boil over. I'll leave a key in the empty flowerpot near the door. I'll be ready.”

At 9:30 I put on an Andrew uniform: gray shirt, baggy gray pants, the same tweed sportcoat. The same cologne.

Starless night, a washed-slate sky, the air reeking of wet paper, damp around the edges.

I took La Brea to Sunset. The boulevard was rife with spandex and leather, delusions passing as hope. East of Western it changed: darkened buildings hemmed by shadow-strewn corners, everything murky, grubby, too quiet.

I drove automatically, slowly, as if riding a track, reached Lyric just after ten o'clock, and climbed the winding road, now stripped of cars.

Rondo Vista was mortuary silent. Zena's garage was closed and one car was parked in front of her house. Fifty-eight T-bird. Pink with a white top, faded and scarred.

Had to be hers.

The same faint light from her window. Setting the mood?

I parked and headed for the door. The covered pathway was dark, the dead spider plants shuddered in the night breeze. Feeling an inexplicable pang of first-date anxiety, I groped til I found the key in the pot, resting atop a mound of bone-dry planter's mix.

Music from inside.

Electric guitars played slowly.

Beautiful, dreamy music.

“Sleepwalk,” by Santo and Johnny.

Zena setting the mood. I remembered the song from my childhood. She hadn't been born when it hit the charts.

I unlocked the door, expecting to find her downstairs in the bedroom, maybe some kind of cute note directing me to the stuffed animals.

She was right there in the living room.

Lit by a single pole lamp with a weak blue bulb.

Theatrical.

Nude, on the sofa.

She reclined, one arm extended along the top of the couch, like Goya's “Naked Maja.” Wide-eyed with eagerness, her tiny white body perfectly formed, pearly in the steely light. Nipples pink and erect, oversized for the small, white breasts, black hair sprayed static. Her legs were spread just enough to offer a view of bleached-blond pubic patch. Her other arm rested on her flat, smooth belly.

I smelled clam sauce but the lights were out in the kitchen.

No preliminaries. How to get out of this-

“Hi,” I said.

She didn't speak. Or move.

I came closer, was inches away before I saw the ligature around her neck. Copper wire, biting into the slender stem, so tight it had been invisible.

Wide, wide blue eyes. Not seductiveness. Surprise, the final surprise.

I turned to run, was caught by the elbows from behind.

A knee in the small of my back sent a jolt of pain up my spine and made my legs give way.

Then hands around my neck, more pain, different- an entire new definition of pain, as the back of my head exploded.

Milo's driver was named Ernest Beaudry and he was coal-black, maybe thirty, handsome, impassive, a devout Baptist, with a bristly mustache that looked laser-trimmed and an eighteen-inch neck turned to asphalt by shaving bumps.

The car was a blue unmarked Ford, same model as Milo's but newer and much cleaner, parked in the West L.A. station lot. Beaudry stayed close to Milo as they approached it, held the door open for him.

“Some service, Officer.”

Beaudry didn't answer, just shut the door and got into the driver's seat.

He managed the car skillfully. Driving was one of his favorite things. As a kid he'd fantasized about becoming a professional race driver til someone told him there were no black ones.