Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“Jumpy woman and I made her jumpier. Scared the hell out of her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be reminded of her former life. Getting poorer can do that to you. Not that I’m weeping, she’s still living in the Palisades.”

I said, “Can you find out if she and Boestling split up?”

“Why?”

“Her getting poorer. And I got the feeling she lived alone.”

“So?”

“Her reaction was bizarre.”

“Hold on.” He went off the line, came back several minutes later.

“Yeah, they’re divorced. Filed seven years ago and closed three years after that. That’s as much as I can get without driving downtown. Three years of drawn-out legal battle couldn’t be fun and maybe she didn’t get what she wanted. Now here’s my show-and-tell: Went over to Nestor Almedeira’s dump on Shatto. All the roaches you can stomp. Like Krug said, no one remembers Nestor ever existing. After some prodding, the clerk thought maybe Nestor sometimes hung out with another junkie named Spanky, but he had no idea what Spanky’s real name was. Male white, twenty-five to forty-five, tall, dark hair and mustache. Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

“The hair coulda been dark blond or maybe reddish or reddish brown. The mustache coulda been a beard. Clerk’s about five-two, so I’m figuring anyone would look tall to him. At eight a.m. his breath reeked of booze, so don’t buy stock on his advice. Nestor’s belongings are nowhere to be found. I asked around about Krug and he’s got a rep as a lazy guy. I’d bet he never bothered to go through Nestor’s treasures, gave the other junkies in the place time to do the vulture bit on Nestor’s dope kit, whatever else they figured they could use or sell. The rest probably got tossed.”

“Including Troy Turner’s prison I.D.,” I said. “ No street value in that. Or maybe Nestor carried it on him and the killer took it as a souvenir.”

“If the motive was hushing Nestor, that’s a real good bet. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could get a warrant for Cowboy Barnett’s cabin and the damn thing’s sitting in a drawer? Next item: Jane Hannabee. Central can’t seem to find her murder book, one of the D’s who worked the case is dead and the other moved to Portland, Oregon. I’m waiting for his callback. I did manage to locate the coroner’s report on Hannabee, they’re supposed to be faxing it any minute. Last but not least, I background-checked the old stunt gal, Bunny MacIntyre. She’s an upright citizen, has owned the campsite for twenty-four years. Anyway, that’s my life. Suggestions?”

“With no dramatic leads, I’d follow up on Sydney Weider.”

“Back to her? Why such a big deal?”

“You had to be there,” I said. “The way she went from wary to panicked. Also, she angled for the case eight years ago and Montez voiced a half-joking suspicion that she and Boestling wanted to make a movie about it. I know none of that ties together, but she twanged my antenna.”

“You wanna talk to the ex, it’s fine with me. What about the Daneys? How’d they react to being warned?”

“They weren’t in.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this: You give the Daneys another try and- ah, here’s the coroner’s fax on Hannabee falling through the slot… looks like lots of paper, let me check it out, if anything interesting comes up, I’ll call you.”

I made two more attempts at the Daney residence. The phone kept ringing.

No machine. Considering all the foster kids they cared for, that seemed odd.

At a quarter to six, I called Allison at her office.

“One more patient, then I’m free,” she said. “Want to do something different?”

“Like what?”

“How about bowling?”

“Didn’t know you bowled.”

“I don’t,” she said. “That’s why it’s different.”

We drove out to Culver City Champion Lanes. The place was dark and black-lit, throbbing with dance music, and crowded with skinny, young, hair-gelled types who looked like reality show rejects. Lots of drinking and laughing and ass-grabbing, twelve-pound balls guttering, a few clackering hits.

Every lane taken.

“Studio night,” said the pouch-eyed, middle-aged attendant. “Metro Pictures has a deal with us. They toss the slaves a perk once a month. We make out good on booze.” He eyed the cocktail lounge on the alley’s north end.

“Who are the slaves?” said Allison.

“Messengers, gofers, assistant directors, assistants to assistant directors.” He smirked. “The industry. ”

“How long does it last?” I said.

“Another hour.”

“Want to wait?” I asked Allison.

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s play that machine where you try to fish out cool prizes.”

I spent five bucks moving a flimsy robotic claw around a pile of twenty-cent toys, trying in vain to snag a treasure. Finally a tiny pink fleece troll-like thing with a dyspeptic smile managed to get an arm caught in a pincer.

Allison said “How cute,” dropped it in her purse, and touched her lips to mine. Then we entered the lounge and took a booth at the back. Red-felt walls, moldy carpeting so thin I could feel rough cement underneath. This far from the lanes, the technopop was reduced to a cardiac throb. Allison ordered a tuna sandwich and a gin and tonic and I had a beer.

She said, “What mischief have you been up to?”

I caught her up.

“The eight-year lag stayed in my mind,” she said. “How about this: The fact that Rand was being released set something off in Malley. Does he use amphetamines or coke?”

“Don’t know.”

“If he does, that could prime his rage further. He’d know about Rand ’s release, right?”

“At least thirty days before,” I said. “So life stress made him do it?”

“We see it all the time with substance abuse patients. People fighting impulses and bad habits and doing fine. Then something hits them and they backslide.”

Murder as a bad habit. Sometimes it boiled down to that.

Monday night, I slept at Allison’s. She had six Tuesday patients and I left just before eight. During the drive home, I tried the Daneys’ house again. Still no answer.

Family vacation with the foster kids? Homeschooling meant their schedule was flexible, so maybe.

Or had they encountered something nonrecreational?

I drove through Brentwood and into Bel Air, turned off Sunset onto Beverly Glen. Passing the road that leads up to my house, I continued north into the Valley.

Galton Street was peaceful, a guy watering his lawn, a couple of kids chasing each other, birds flittering. The noise from the freeway was a chronic, distant throat-clearing. I came to a stop half a block up from the Daney property. The redwood gate was shut and the fence blocked out everything but a peak of roofline.

I recalled how crowded the lot had been by three buildings. No room for parking, any vehicles would have to be out on the street. Drew Daney’s white Jeep wasn’t in sight. I had no idea what Cherish drove.

I nudged the Seville forward, searched for a black truck or anything else that seemed wrong. A dark pickup was parked two houses up.

Black? No, dark blue. Longer than Barnett Malley’s truck, with an extra seat, twenty-inch tires and chrome rims.

Plenty of trucks in the Valley.

I came to a stop ten feet from the gate, was about to turn off the engine when a small, beige car pulled away from the curb across the street and raced past with as much pep as four cold cylinders would allow.

Toyota Corolla, lots of dents and pocks, a few Bondo patches on the doors. I caught a split-second glimpse of the driver.