Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

Cherish Daney said, “We never even got a chance to buy him clothes.”

We walked back to the front of the house. She peered through a window. “Here’s my husband. I’d better go help him.”

Drew Daney came through the gateway gripping two large bags of groceries in each arm. An even larger mesh sack filled with oranges dangled from his right thumb.

Cherish took the fruit and reached for one of the bags.

Daney held on. “I’m okay, Cher.” Dark eyes sighted us over the groceries. He stopped and placed the load on the ground.

“Dr. Delaware.”

“You remember.”

“It’s an unusual name,” he said, coming forward. His wrestler’s frame had taken on fifteen or so pounds, most of them soft, and his thick, wavy hair was graying at the temples. He wore a beard now, a stubbly silver thing, neatly trimmed around the edges. His white polo shirt was spotless and pressed. So were his blue jeans. Same color scheme as his wife.

“Also,” he said, “I read your report to the judge, so your name stuck in my mind.”

Cherish looked at him and went inside the house.

“How’d you come to read it?” I said.

“Sydney Weider wanted my opinion, as Troy’s counselor. I told her I thought it was a careful document. You didn’t want to go out on a limb and say something unscientific. But you clearly weren’t willing to give the boys a pass.”

“A pass on murder?” said Milo.

“At the time we were hoping for a miracle.”

“We?”

“The boys’ families, Sydney, my wife, myself. It just seemed that putting the boys away forever wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Forever turned out to be eight years, Reverend,” said Milo.

“Detective… what’s your name, please- ”

“Sturgis.”

“Detective Sturgis, in the life of a child, eight years is eternity.” Daney ran a hand through his hair. “In Troy’s case, a month was eternity. And now Rand… unbelievable.”

“Any idea who might’ve wanted to hurt Rand, sir?”

Daney’s lips puffed. His toe scuffed one of the grocery bags and he lowered his voice. “I don’t want my wife hearing this, but there probably is something you should know.”

“Probably?”

Daney eyed the front door of his house. “Could we find a place to talk later?”

“Sooner’s better than later, sir.”

“Okay, sure, I see your point. I’ve got a youth council meeting in Sylmar at two. I could leave a little early and meet you in, say, ten minutes?”

“Sounds good,” said Milo. “Where?”

“How about at the Dipsy Donut on Vanowen, a few blocks west.”

“We’ll be there, Reverend.”

“Both of you?” he said.

“Dr. Delaware’s consulting on the case.”

“Ah,” said Daney. “Makes sense.”

“Told you,” said Milo, as we drove away. “You’re still the opposing team.”

“And you?”

“I’m the sleuth assigned the honor of clearing Duchay’s murder.”

“Want me to wait in the car while you two bond?”

“Right. Wonder what the rev wants to keep from his wife.”

“Sounds like something that would scare her.”

“Scary,” he said, “is always interesting.”

The doughnut stand was a flimsy white booth on a cracked blacktop lot, topped by a six-foot, partially eaten doughnut with humanoid features. Brown plaster, chipped in several spots, tried to resemble chocolate. Wild-eyed merriment said the deep-fried creature loved being devoured. Three grubby-looking aluminum table-and-bench sets were scattered on the asphalt. The signage had lost a couple of letters.

DI SY DON T

Milo said, “And here I was thinking she did.”

The place was full of customers. We went inside and breathed fat and sugar and waited in line as three harried kids bagged and served oversized fritters to a salivating throng. Milo bought a dozen assorted, finished a jelly and a chocolate in the time it took to get back to the car.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s part of the job description. And chewing’s aerobic.”

“Enjoy.”

“You say that but you’ve got this disapproving thing going on.”

I took a hubcap-sized apple Danish out of the box and got to work on it. “Satisfied?”

“Creative people are never satisfied.”

We sat in the Seville where he polished off a jelly-filled.

I said, “Wonder what Rand did between six-thirty and nine.”

“Me, too. Forgot coffee, want some?”

“No, thanks.”

He returned to the doughnut shack just as the Reverend Drew Daney drove up in an older white Jeep. I got out of the car and Milo came back with two coffees.

He offered Daney the doughnut box.

Daney had added a blue blazer to his ensemble, had his hands in his pockets. “Any crèmes?”

The three of us sat at one of the outdoor tables. Daney found a raspberry crème, bit into it, exhaled with satisfaction. “Guilty pleasures, huh?”

“You got it, Reverend.”

“I’m not ordained so you can just call me Drew.”

“Didn’t finish seminary?”

“Chose not to,” said Daney. “Same for Cherish. We both got involved in youth work and decided that was our calling. I don’t regret it. A pulpit is usually more about internal politics than good works.”

“Youth work,” said Milo, “as in foster care.”

“Foster care, homeschooling, coaching, counseling. I work with several nonprofits- the meeting in Sylmar.” He looked at his watch. “Better cut to the chase. This is probably nothing but I feel it’s my duty to tell you.”

He finished his doughnut, wiped crumbs from his lap. “Six months ago, Rand was transferred to Camarillo, awaiting discharge. Thursday night my wife and I drove up and brought him home. He looked as if he’d landed on another planet.”

“Disoriented,” I said, using his wife’s term.

“More than that. Stunned. Think about it, Doctor. Eight years of extreme structure- his entire adolescence spent behind bars- and now he’s released to a strange new world. We fed him dinner, showed him his room, and he went straight to bed. All we had was a converted service porch, but I tell you, that boy looked grateful to be in a small space again. The next morning, I was up at six-thirty as usual, went to check on him. His bed was empty, made up neat as a pin. I found him outside, sitting on the front steps. He looked worse than the previous night. Dark circles under his eyes. Really jumpy. I asked him what was wrong and he just stared at our front gate, which was wide open. I told him everything would be okay, he needed to give himself time. That only made him more agitated- he started shaking his head, really fast. Then he covered his face with his hands.”

Daney demonstrated. “It was as if he was hiding from something. Playing ostrich. I pried his fingers loose and asked him what was wrong. He didn’t answer and I told him it was important for him to let his feelings out. Finally, he told me someone was watching him. That caught me off-guard but I tried not to show it. I asked him who. He said he didn’t know but he’d heard sounds at night- someone moving around outside his window. The property’s small and neither my wife nor I had heard anything. I asked him what time. He said during the night, he didn’t have a watch. Then he said he heard it again early morning- right after sunrise- got up and found the gate open and saw a truck driving away fast. We always close the gate, but it’s just a pull-latch and sometimes if it’s not shut tight, the wind blows it open. So I didn’t consider that any big deal.”

“What kind of truck?” said Milo.

“He said a dark pickup. I didn’t push him because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. It just didn’t seem that important.”