Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

Krug took a bite of his burger. “Excellent, huh? One thing the French are good for is cheese… anyway, whatever bragging Nestor might’ve done in the past, his crowing days were over.”

He reached in his pocket and brought out a postmortem shot of a hollow-cheeked visage. Matted hair, sallow complexion, death-glazed eyes bottomed by gray pouches. Patchy facial hair came across as a gray skin rash.

Like his sister, Nestor Almedeira had a round face. Bad living had wiped out any other resemblance to her.

I motioned for the picture and took a closer look. Nestor had been the baby of the family, but he looked ten years older than Anita. His head had been tilted by the morgue photographer to give a view of the entrance wound. Left temple, black-and-ruby hole sharpened by stellate skin shredding and framed by a pointillist ring of powder.

Milo said, “Was he sitting when he was shot?”

“Right on the park bench,” said Krug. “Your kiddie killer was sitting, too?”

“Maybe in a car. Anything happening on the case, Phil?”

“You’re about it,” said Krug, finishing his burger and wiping his lips. “Be sure to let me know if you learn anything. Be nice to close this one, even if no one else gives a shit.”

“No family agitation,” said Milo.

“You met the sister. She thinks Nestor was scum. Family wasn’t making any moves to claim the body, coroner had to keep bugging them. Finally, one of the brothers paid for the mortuary to pick it up.”

Krug waved and the waitress brought the check and placed it in the center of the table. He took some time cleaning his mustache, pulled a steel toothpick from his shirt pocket and worked it around his gum line.

“So.” He smiled.

Milo picked up the check.

Krug said, “You made my day,” and sauntered out.

When the waitress came by for payment, Milo said, “We’ll have coffee.”

She glanced disapprovingly at the completed bill. “I’ll have to retotal.”

Milo handed her a wad of bills. “Keep it.” She flipped through the money and winked. “On the house.”

As she returned to the counter, he said, “If Malley was the white man who paid Nestor to hit Troy Turner, Nestor was an obstacle that had to be cleared up. On the other hand, Nestor had a big mouth, and for all those years at C.Y.A. he never gave Malley up.”

“Because he wanted to get out,” I said. “But once he was free- and stoned- his inhibitions dropped. He bragged to Anita, so there’s a good chance he talked to other people. The problem is, they were probably people who didn’t care.”

“Other junkies and losers,” he said. “To them he’d be just another fool shooting off his mouth. Anita did care and tried to report it and everyone shined her on.”

Milo pulled on his upper lip. “Another proud moment for the department… Nestor’s crime scene sounds a lot like Rand’s. And Lara’s. Okay, that makes Malley suspect-of-the-week.”

“There’s another unnatural death we should think about. Jane Hannabee was killed a few months after Troy. When I interviewed her she predicted Troy’s death. Said his notoriety would make him a desirable target. From what Anita said, that’s exactly how Nestor saw him.”

“You think Hannabee figured out who paid to kill Troy?”

“Or she was eliminated out of revenge because she spawned Troy,” I said.

“You destroy my family, I destroy you. Man, that’s cold.”

“So is shooting your own wife six months after she’s lost her only child and faking it as suicide.”

His forehead creased. “Hannabee wasn’t shot.”

“Neither was Troy,” I said. “Because Troy was behind bars and with all of C.Y.A.’s problems, they keep firearms out. Shooting someone in a homeless encampment in the middle of the night would be possible but extremely reckless. Hannabee’s murder was so stealthy it wasn’t discovered for hours. She was pulled out of her sleeping bag, cut, slid back in, rewrapped in plastic.”

“You’re saying signature doesn’t matter to Malley.”

“He’s not governed by a structured compulsion because his goal isn’t sexual satisfaction. His goal is housecleaning. Whatever gets the job done.”

“Alex, if Malley’s really done all these people, he’s still a serial killer. Guess Rand’s grandmother’s the lucky one, dying of disease.”

The coffee arrived. The waitress set Milo’s mug down with exquisite caution, leaned over and flashed a triangle of freckled chest. Tight wrinkles tugged at her cleavage. She lingered for a second before straightening.

“Anything else?” she said with a song in her voice.

“Nope, we’re fine, Elise.”

“You’re very kind,” she said.

“So they tell me.”

We headed back to West L.A., taking Sixth again. Milo slowed to glance at Lafayette Park. Trees, lawns, benches, a few men sitting, a couple of others walking. The courthouse on Commonwealth loomed. Who’d have thought so much threat resided in empty, green space.

He said, “Anyone approaching the campgrounds where Malley lives from either direction on Soledad would be spotted easily. There’s nowhere to hide on the road, so forget surveillance. Not that surveillance would tell me anything. Doesn’t sound as if Malley’s gonna go pub-crawling and blab to lowlife friends.”

He rubbed his face and made an abrupt lane shift that evoked frenzied honks. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.

The honker’s Toyota whipped in front of us. On the rear bumper was a War Is Not the Answer sticker.

Milo growled. “It got rid of slavery in America and Nazis in Germany.”

I said, “If Malley’s still active in the drug trade, he might leave the campsite periodically.”

“Unless I can watch him, how the hell do I find that out?”

“Maybe his boss is more aware of his comings and goings than she let on.”

“Bunny the stuntwoman? Think there’s more than a work relationship, there? I sensed something personal going on.”

“Maybe. She made a point about not keeping tabs on Malley. Which was an answer to a question you didn’t ask.”

“The lady protesting too much?” he said. “If she is Barnett’s love-interest, questioning her further is only going to alert him. I’m gonna call the coroner about Nestor’s belongings, check out his dump on Shatto despite what Krug said. Anita was right about Krug. He doesn’t give a shit. I also know a Ramparts uniform who might be able to turn me on to some street junkies, maybe I’ll get lucky and find out Nestor blabbed to someone else. Better check into Jane Hannabee’s death, too. Big-time fun, huh?”

“Can you handle more complication?”

“What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”

“If Malley’s anger extends to everyone he perceives as having been on the boys’ side, and killing Rand rekindled his rage, the Daneys could be in jeopardy. If Malley was outside Rand’s window that night, he could’ve been spying on them as well.”

He thought about that. “Yeah, they should probably be warned, but it’s tricky. What if they go over to Malley’s place and try to talk things out? Being all spiritual and positive about basic human goodness and all that. If we’re right about what happened to Rand, heartfelt discussion with Cowboy Barnett is not a prescription for longevity.”

“Warn them not to have contact with him,” I said.

“Think I can compete with God?”

“Good point,” I said. “Cherish, especially, might try to talk things out. She fancies herself a therapist.”

“God bless the God-pushers. You like feel-good religion, Alex? Inherent blessedness of the human spirit, eternal forgiveness, the certainty of an afterlife where all is bright and airy?”