Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

Milo said, “Does your silence indicate I’m making sense?”

“Anything’s possible,” I said. “But he didn’t sound hostile over the phone.”

“I know, just troubled.”

“Back when I evaluated him there was no hostility, Milo. He was meek, cooperative. Unlike Troy, he never tried to manipulate me.”

“He had eight years to stew, Alex. And don’t forget: He cooperated and still got sent to hell. You know what C.Y.A.’s like. No more status offenders and mischief makers. This year there were six murders in the system.”

“Liver scars,” I said.

“Even with that, most people would think Duchay got off easy for what he did. But try telling that to the guy who went through it. I’m thinking one very bitter twenty-one-year-old ex-con. Maybe he had plans to pay lots of people back and you were first on the list.”

“Why do you have doubts about him hooking up with a prison buddy?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said it was your working theory.”

“Lord, I’m being parsed, ” he said. “No, I haven’t abandoned the basic premise. I just haven’t come up with any buddies Duchay met in lockup yet. C.Y.A guy I spoke to said he had no gang affiliations, was ‘socially isolated.’ ”

“Any disciplinary problems on his record?”

“Quiet, compliant.”

“Good behavior,” I said.

“Yada yada.”

“So what’s next?”

“Talk to people who knew him, try to get a fix on his movements that day. I had Sean hit every store on Westwood for three blocks north of Pico to see if anyone spotted Duchay lurking around. Nada. Same for the Westside Pavilion, so if he went in there, he didn’t make an impression. Tomorrow morning I visit Reverend and Mrs. Andrew Daney.”

“Reverend and Reverend,” I said. “They were both studying to be ministers.”

“Whatever. I talked to her- Cherish, there’s a name for you. She sounded pretty broken up. All those good intentions blown to bits.”

“Why’d you take the case on, big guy?”

“Why not?”

“You don’t care much for the victim.”

“Who I like or don’t like has nothing to do with it,” he said. “And I am deeply hurt by your intimations to the contrary.”

“Yada freaking yada,” I said. “Seriously, you can pick and choose. Why this one?”

“I picked it to make sure you’re not in continuing danger.”

“I appreciate that but- ”

“A simple thanks will suffice.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Try to enjoy the sunshine until Dr. Gwynn returns.”

“What time are you seeing the Daneys tomorrow?”

“Not your problem,” he said. “Sleep in.”

“Should I drive?”

“Alex, these people were advocates for the boys. That could make you not their favorite person.”

“My report wasn’t a factor in the decision to certify them as juveniles. Which, I should point out, is exactly what their lawyers were asking for. There’s no logical reason for me to be targeted.”

“Strangling and beating a two-year-old wasn’t logical.”

“What time?” I said.

“The appointment’s for eleven.”

“I’ll drive.”

I picked him up at the station at ten-thirty and took the Sepulveda Pass out to the Valley. He said nothing as we crossed Sunset and passed the spot where Rand Duchay’s body had been found.

I said, “Wonder how he got from the Valley into the city.”

“Sean’s checking the buses. Probably a waste of time. Like so much of what we do.”

The Galton Street address where Drew and Cherish Daney advised spiritually was in a blue-collar Van Nuys neighborhood, a few blocks from the 405. The sky was the color of newspaper pulp. Freeway noise was a constant rebuke.

The property was fenced with redwood tongue-and-groove but the gate was open and we entered. A boxy, pale-blue bungalow sat at the front of the eighth-acre lot. At the rear were two smaller outbuildings, one a converted garage painted a matching blue, the other, set slightly back, an unpainted cement block cube. The free space was mostly pavement, broken by a few beds of draft-friendly plants edged with lava rock.

Cherish Daney sat in a lawn chair to the left of the main house, reading in full sun. When she saw us she shut the book and stood. I got close enough to read the title: Life’s Lessons: Coping with Grief. A piece of tissue paper extended from between the pages.

Her hair was still white-blond and long, but the teased-up bulk and side-wings of eight years ago had been traded for bangs and simplicity. She had on a white, sleeveless top over blue slacks and gray shoes, the same silver chain and crucifix she’d worn that day at the jail. Most people put on weight as they get older but she had reduced to a hard, dry leanness. Still a young woman- mid-thirties was my guess- but fat’s a good wrinkle filler and her face had collected some tributaries.

The same sun-bronzed complexion, the same pretty features. Noticeable curve to her back, as if her spine had bowed under some terrible weight.

She smiled without opening her mouth. Red-rimmed eyes. If she recognized me, she didn’t say so. When Milo gave her his card, she glanced at it and nodded.

“Thanks for seeing us, Reverend.”

“Sure,” she said. A screen door slammed and the three of us turned toward the sound.

A girl, fifteen or sixteen, had come out of the main house and stood on the front steps holding what looked to be a school workbook.

Cherish Daney said, “What do you need, Valerie?”

The girl’s return stare seemed resentful.

“Val?”

“Help with my math.”

“Of course, bring it over.”

The girl hesitated before walking over. Her wavy black hair trailed past her waist. Plump build. Her face was dusky, round, her gait stiff and self-conscious.

When she got to Cherish Daney, she alternated between looking at us and pretending not to.

“These men are police officers, Val. They’re here about Rand.”

’’Oh.”

“We’re all very sad about Rand, aren’t we, Val?”

“Uh-huh.”

Cherish said, “Okay, show me what the problem is.”

Valerie opened the book. Sixth-grade arithmetic. “These ones. I’m doing them right but I’m not getting the right answers.”

Cherish touched the girl’s arm. “Let’s take a look.”

“I know I’m doing them right.” Valerie’s fingers flexed. She rocked on her feet. Glanced at Milo and me.

“Val?” said Cherish. “Let’s focus.” Touching Valerie’s cheek, she guided the girl’s eyes toward the book.

Val shook off the contact but stared at the page. We stood there as Cherish attempted to unravel the mysteries of fractions, speaking slowly, enunciating clearly, skirting the line between patience and patronizing.

Not losing her patience during Valerie’s lapses of concentration. Which were frequent.

The girl tapped her feet, drummed her hands on various body parts, wriggled, craned her neck, sighed a lot. Her eye contact was hummingbird-flighty and she kept glancing over at us, shooting her gaze to the sky, then down on the ground. The book. The house. A squirrel that scampered up the redwood fence.

I’d gone to school for too long to resist diagnosis.

Cherish Daney stayed on track, finally got the girl to focus on a single problem until she achieved success.

“There you go! Great, Val! Let’s do another one.”

“No, I’m okay, I get it now.”

“I think one more’s a good idea.”

Emphatic head shake.

“You’re sure, Val?”

Without answering, Valerie ran back toward the house. Dropped the workbook and cried out in frustration, bent and retrieved it, flung the screen door open and disappeared.