Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“A month in and he’s thinking he’s a tough guy,” he said. “No impulse control… yeah, sounds like your basic prison hit. Were he and Duchay in the same facility?”

“No.”

“Lucky for Duchay. If he’d been seen as Turner’s buddy, he would’ve been next.”

“Duchay didn’t get away clean in prison. Coroner said there were old knife scars on his body.”

Milo said, “But he was alive until last night. Big and tough enough to defend himself.”

“Or he learned to avoid trouble,” I said. “He got early release for good behavior.”

“That means he didn’t rape or shank anyone in front of a guard.”

Silence.

Binchy said, “I’ll follow up on what exactly Van Nuys was told, Loot. Enjoy your trip to New York, Doctor.”

After he left, Milo jammed some papers into his attaché case and the two of us descended the stairs to the back of the station. We walked a couple of blocks to where I’d parked the Seville.

He said, “Guys like Turner and Duchay attract bad stuff.”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” I said.

“What?”

“Rand makes it through eight years of the C.Y.A., gets out, and three days later he’s dead.”

“Your feeling this, huh?”

“You aren’t?”

“I pick and choose when I bleed.”

I opened the car door.

He said, “What’s really getting to you, Alex?”

“He was a stupid, impressionable kid who lost his parents in infancy, probably suffered brain damage as a baby, got raised by a grandmother who resented him, was ignored by the school system.”

“He also killed a two-year-old. At that point, my sympathies shift.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let it eat at you. Go have fun in La Manzana Grande.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

“Why the hell not?”

“What if I’m relevant to the case?”

“You’re not. Good-bye.”

I drove home thinking about Rand Duchay’s last moments. Perhaps a temple shot meant he’d been looking straight ahead, hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe he’d experienced no final fireburst of terror and pain.

I pictured him lying facedown in some cold, dark place, beyond knowing or caring. Eight-year-old TV images flew into my head. Barnett and Lara Malley exiting the courtroom. She, sobbing. He, tight-lipped, smoldering. So rigid with anger he’d come close to striking a cameraman.

Demanding the death penalty.

Now both murderers of his daughter were gone. Would he find comfort in that?

Had he played a role in it?

No, that was trite and illogical. Revenge was a dish best eaten cold, but eight years between deaths was arctic. Milo was right. Damaged boys like Turner and Duchay did attract violence. In a sense, what had happened was the predictable termination of two wasted lives.

Three.

I checked my overnight bag, packed the toothbrush I’d forgotten, and put the house in relative order. Logging onto a weather site, I learned I’d be arriving tomorrow in the midst of a snowstorm.

Low: fifteen, high: twenty-nine. I pictured white skies and sidewalks, the flicker of Manhattan lights in our window as Allison and I holed up in a nice warm suite with butler service.

Why had Rand called me?

The phone rang. Allison said, “Thank God, I caught you. Alex, you won’t believe this.”

Strain in her voice. My first thought was something had happened to her grandmother.

“What’s up?”

“Gram’s friend, the one who was coming from St. Louis, suffered a stroke this morning. We just got the call. Gram’s taking it hard. Alex, I’m so sorry, but I can’t leave her.”

“Of course not.”

“She’ll be fine, I know she will, she always is- is your ticket refundable? I’ve already called the hotel and canceled. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, sounding calm. No act, I was relieved that I wouldn’t be going. What did that say about me?

“… despite the situation, I’m going to try to get out of the two-week extension, Alex. One week, tops, then I’ll call my cousin Wesley and ask him to do a shift. He’s a chem prof at Barnard on sabbatical in Boston, so his hours are flexible. It’s only fair, right?”

“Right.”

She paused for a breath. “You’re not too upset?”

“I’d love to see you but things happen.”

“They do… it’s freezing, anyway.”

“Fifteen to twenty-nine in New York.”

“You looked it up,” she said. “You were all prepared to go. Boo hoo.”

“Boo hoo hoo,” I said.

“The suite had a fireplace. Dammit.”

“When you come back we’ll light mine.”

“In seventy-degree weather?”

“I’ll buy some ice and sprinkle it around.”

She laughed. “That’s some picture… I’ll get back as soon as I can. One week, tops… uh oh, there’s Gram calling me again, what now? She wants more tea… sorry, Alex, talk to you tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

“Are you all right?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You sound a little distracted.”

“Just disappointed,” I lied. “Everything will work out.”

“Nothing like optimism,” she said. “With all you see, how do you manage that?”

Allison had been widowed in her twenties. Her basic disposition was a good deal sunnier than mine. But I was a better faker.

“It’s a good way to live,” I said.

“Oh, yeah.”

Monday night, I reached Milo at his house. It was just after ten and his voice was thick with scotch and fatigue.

“It’s one a.m. in New York, dude.”

“I’m still on Pacific Standard.”

“What happened?”

“Allison’s grandmother needed her.” I filled him in.

“Sorry about that. What’s on your mind?”

“Just checking in,” I said.

“On Duchay? Turns out weekends at the construction site are for cleanup, but the supervisor said he’d never met Duchay. So either the story was bogus or Duchay was confused. Other than that, zippo to report. My working theory was that Duchay hooked up with some C.Y.A. bad guy buddy in order to do something bad. They got into conflict and the buddy did him.”

“What makes you think he was planning anything?”

“Because eight years in lockup is a Ph.D. in bad. The reason I figured a buddy was because Duchay’s pattern was criminal collaboration.”

“One crime’s a pattern?”

“When it’s a crime like his. And you need to consider this, Alex: The plan may have involved you. As in target.”

“Some theory,” I said.

“Step back and try to be objective,” he said. “A convicted thrill murderer phones you out of the blue, says he wants to talk about his crime but won’t give details. If it was really some confession-absolution deal, why wait eight years? He could’ve written you a letter. And why you? He had spiritual advisers- do-gooders who’d love to grant him absolution. The whole thing smells, Alex. He lured you out.”

“Why would he want to hurt me?”

“Because you were part of the system that sent him away for eight years. And his knife wounds say it wasn’t a vacation. Nine sticks, Alex, and three had gone deep. There were scars on his liver and one of his kidneys.”

Margaret Sieff- the woman Rand had called “Gram”- had been clear about my allegiance.

Randolph’s laywer said you weren’t necessarily on our side.

Maybe she’d transmitted that to Rand. Or Lauritz Montez had. He’d seen me as a prosecution tool, had gone along with Sydney Weider’s petition to keep me away from the boys.