Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“When you called were you thinking about Barnett Malley?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But even in general terms, I was thinking Rand would make a good trophy for some testosterone-laced sociopath out to make his rep.” He looked down at his food but didn’t touch it. “Anyway, I appreciate the warning, but if I got freaked out about every victim’s family member going after me I’d be a basket case.”

He held his hands out, palms up, steady. “See, no anxiety.”

Just compulsively organized table items.

I said, “You’re in Beverly Hills now. Must be a different level of offenders.”

“B.H. is more than just celebrity shoplifters. We handle a lot of West Hollywood’s felony cases, so, no, I’m not sleeping at the wheel.”

“Didn’t mean to imply you were.”

He took a long time assembling a salmon and cream cheese sandwich. Picked out capers one by one and imbedded them around the outer edge of the bagel’s whitened, bottom half. Inspecting his handiwork, he closed the sandwich but didn’t eat.

I said, “How much contact did you have with Rand after he went away?”

“I called him a couple of times,” said Montez. “Then I moved on. Why?”

“He phoned me the day he died, said he wanted to talk about Kristal but wouldn’t give details over the phone. We made an appointment and I showed up but he didn’t. A few hours later, he was found- dead. Any idea what could’ve been on his mind?”

He played with the sandwich on his plate, nudging it with his thumb until it sat dead center. When he looked up, his jaw was taut. “This isn’t really about warning me, is it? It’s about pumping me for information.”

“It’s both,” I said.

“Right.”

“We’re not in an adversarial position, Mr. Montez.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he said. “In my world everything’s adversarial.”

“Fine, but now we’re on the same side.”

“Which is?”

“Getting some justice for Rand.”

“By locking his killer up?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good start?” I said.

“In your world,” he said.

“Not in yours?”

“You want to know something?” he said. “If the cops do find whoever shot Rand and the P.D.’s office gets the case, I’d be happy to take it.”

“Even if the shooter turns out to be Barnett Malley?”

“If Malley accepted me, I’d do my best to keep his ass out of prison.”

“Pretty detached,” I said.

“Survival skills go beyond guns,” said Montez.

“When you represented Rand, did you sense he was holding back about anything?”

“He was holding back about everything. Wouldn’t communicate with me, basically he played mute. No matter how many times I told him I was on his side. It could’ve been frustrating but the script had already been written. I never got a chance to bring in my own shrink because of the plea deal. Sure, I would’ve liked to know what was going on in that kid’s head. Which I didn’t get from your report. That was a masterpiece of omission. All you said was that he was stupid.”

“He wasn’t bright,” I said, “but there was plenty going on in his head. I thought he felt remorse and I said so. I doubt your expert would’ve come up with any profound abstractions.”

“Just a dumb kid? Bad seed?”

I said nothing.

“Yeah, I sensed remorse, too,” he said. “Unlike his compadre. Now that one was a piece of work. Evil little bugger, if Rand hadn’t gotten involved with him, his life could’ve turned out a whole lot different.”

“Troy was the main killer,” I said. “But Rand admitted hitting Kristal.”

“Rand was a dumb, passive follower who hooked up with a cold little sociopath. In a trial, I would’ve emphasized the follower angle. But like I said, nothing would’ve mattered.”

“The script.”

“Exactly.”

“Who wrote it?”

“The system,” he said. “You don’t murder a cute little white kid and walk away.” His hand brushed over his butter knife. Adjusted the angle of the handle. “Weider claimed she wanted to mount a team defense. I was so green I bought it. That tells you something about the system, doesn’t it? One year out of law school and Rand got me as his one-man army.” He waved a finger. “Justice for all.”

“Why’d she change her mind?”

“Because all she wanted to do was pump me for information. Once we got to court, she was going to pull a switcheroo and dump all over my client. Her prelim motions emphasized Rand’s size and strength, she had all this expert research data showing low I.Q. sociopaths were more likely to turn violent. If it had gone to trial, Turner would’ve been morphed into some frail little dupe who’d been physically intimidated by Rand. Anyway, we were spared all that. The case went down easy.”

“Not for the Malleys,” I said.

He showed me his palm. “I can’t think in those terms. And if Barnett Malley doesn’t understand that, I’m ready for him. Nice seeing you again, Doctor.”

I stood and asked if he knew where I could find Sydney Weider.

“Going to warn her, too?”

“And pump her for info.”

Montez pulled out a pair of sunglasses, held the lenses up and used them as mirrors. One end of his bow tie had drooped lower than its counterpart. He frowned and righted it.

“You can probably find her,” he said, “on the tennis court or the golf course or sipping a Cosmopolitan on the country club terrace.”

“Which country club?”

“I was speaking metaphorically. I have no idea if she belongs to any club but it wouldn’t surprise me. Sydney was rich then, so she’s probably richer now.”

“Rich girl playing at the law?” I said.

“Good insight, you must be a psychologist. The first time you met Sydney she’d be sure to let you know where she was coming from. Swinging the Gucci purse, letting drop all the relevant data in machine-gun monologue. Like you were a student and she was teaching Introductory Sydney.”

“She talked about her money?”

“About her daddy the film honcho, her husband the film honcho, all the industry parties she was ‘compelled’ to attend. The sons at Harvard-Westlake, the house in Brentwood, the weekend place in Malibu, the Beemer and the Porsche on alternate days.” He mimed a finger-down-the throat gag.

“When did she leave the P.D.’s office?” I said.

“Not long after the Malley case closed, as a matter of fact.”

“How soon after?”

“Maybe a month, I don’t know.”

“Think it had anything to do with the case?”

“Maybe indirectly. Her name got into the paper and soon after she got a fat private practice offer from Stavros Menas.”

“Mouthpiece of the high and mighty,” I said.

“You’ve got that right. What Menas does is more P.R. than criminal defense. Which makes him the perfect L.A. guy. He alternates between a Bentley and an Aston Martin.”

“Does she still work for him? She’s got no office listing.”

“That’s ’cause she never worked for him,” he said. “The way I heard it, she changed her mind and retired to a life of leisure.”

“Why?”

He glanced down at his food. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“Burnout?”

“Sydney didn’t feel deeply enough to burn out. She probably just got bored. With all her money there was no reason for her put up with all the shit. When I first heard she quit, I figured she was going to try to get a movie deal out of the case. But it didn’t happen.”

“You figured because her husband’s a film exec?”

“Because she’s like that. Manipulative, out for herself. She’d fly to Aspen for the weekend on a private jet, be at work Monday in a Chanel suit and try to sound convincing about fighting for justice for some dude from Compton. By lunchtime, she’d be dropping names about who sat next to her at The Palm.” He laughed. “I’d like to think she’s not real happy, but she probably is.”