Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

Long-haired blond woman, both hands gripping the wheel. Cherish Daney’s eyes were fierce.

She drove to the corner, came to a rolling stop, turned right, sped off.

A bit of a head start but four cylinders wouldn’t be much challenge.

Morning traffic was thin and I picked her up easily, hurrying west on Vanowen. Using a slow-moving camper as a shield, I kept my eye on the little car’s sagging bumper as it approached the Ventura Freeway East.

She chugged up the on-ramp, lost momentum climbing, and slowed. I pulled ahead of the camper, drove to the bottom of the ramp, and waited until she made it over the hump. If a cop saw me, I’d have some explaining to do.

But no cops in sight. Very few people in sight. The Corolla finally disappeared from view and I shot forward.

Cherish Daney merged nervously into the slow lane, swerved a bit as she switched to the center. One hand to her ear; talking on a cell phone. She needed a half mile to build up to seventy-five miles per, maintained that speed on the route through North Hollywood, past Burbank and into Glendale, where she exited at Brand Boulevard.

Maybe this was nothing more than a shopping trip at the Galleria and I’d feel foolish.

No, the mall wasn’t open this early. The look I’d seen on her face said she wasn’t thinking about bargains.

I stayed two vehicles behind the Corolla on Brand and drove south.

Past the Galleria. One mile, two, two and a quarter.

Suddenly, without signaling, Cherish Daney yanked the Corolla’s wheel and bumped up into the parking lot of a gravel-roofed coffee shop called Patty’s Place. A banner on the window promised Breakfast Special: Best Huevos Rancheros in Town! Below that: Dip Into Our Never-Empty Coffeepot! Our Hotcakes Are Flappelicious!

Despite all that culinary temptation, Glendale appeared skeptical- only three other vehicles sat in the wide, sunny lot.

Two compacts. A black pickup.

Cherish pulled up alongside the truck. Before she got out, Barnett Malley was at her side. He had on the same outfit I’d seen at his cabin plus a wide-brimmed leather hat. Yellow gray hair streamed over his collar. His thumbs were hooked in his belt and his long legs bowed.

Cowboy Buckaroo.

Cherish Daney was all city girl: fitted yellow top, black pants, high-heeled black sandals. Her white blond hair, loose in the car, was now pinned in a chignon.

The two of them moved toward one another, seemed about to touch, stopped just short of contact. Without exchanging a word, they walked toward the restaurant, in perfect step. When Malley held the door open for Cherish, she glided past him without hesitation.

Used to it.

They stayed in there just short of an hour and when they left he held her elbow. My diagonal watch-spot afforded a clear view of Patty’s Place, but I was too far away to make out facial expressions.

Barnett Malley held Cherish’s car door open, waited until she got behind the wheel before entering the black pickup. She drove away, continued south on Brand, and he followed soon after. I was third in the convoy, hanging a block behind.

They drove to a Best Western near Chevy Chase Boulevard. Through the motel’s glass facade two levels of rooms were visible above a bright aqua pool.

Barnett Malley went in and Cherish Daney waited in her car. Seven minutes passed before she got out of the Corolla, glanced around, tamped her hair. The Seville was one of many cars in the motel lot and this time I was close enough to pick up nuance.

Tight face. She licked her lips repeatedly. Glancing at her watch, she patted her hair again, tugged at her blouse, ran a finger across her lower lip. Inspecting the digit, she rubbed it against a trouser leg. Then she locked her car, took a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, and marched grimly toward the motel’s entrance.

Thinking about sins of the flesh? Or had the concept lost its punch?

She reemerged alone forty-five minutes later. Still tense, slightly hunched, the way she’d been the first time I’d met her. Arms clamped close to her body. Racewalking to the Corolla, she backed out, sped away.

I let her go and waited.

Malley appeared after nine minutes. His hat was in his hand, his walk was loose and easy, and he smoked a long, thin cigar.

I followed him onto the 134 West. A mile or so later, he switched to the 5 North; when he got on Cal 14 twenty miles later, I lowered my speed and put a couple of eighteen-wheelers between us. He was pushing eighty-five and the next twenty-three miles were consumed like fast food. When he got off at the Crown Valley exit, I kept going, took the next exit, got back on the freeway, and headed back toward L.A.

Like Milo had said: This was his turf, nowhere to hide.

I was home by one p.m. My cell calls to Milo ’s house had been answered by his machine. He wasn’t at his desk.

Allison would be working for another couple of hours. The plan was we’d get together at five, maybe see a movie. I fed the fish, tried to relax, got on the phone again.

Milo said, “Hey.”

“Malley does leave his house,” I said. “All he needs is a bit of motivation.”

I told him what I’d seen.

He said, “This changes everything.”

At two p.m. Milo strode through the front door that I’d left open. Grabbing an orange juice carton, he said, “I need fresh air.” We went down to the pond.

“I was trying to be well-adjusted,” he said. “As in sniff the petunias. Rick was off so we went walking in Franklin Canyon, then grabbed some brunch at Urth Café. All the beautiful folks, and me for contrast.” He touched his gut. “Whole grain waffles- kind of takes the fun out of overeating.”

He tipped the juice carton to his lips.

I said, “Sorry to spoil your leisure.”

“What leisure? Rick got called to stitch up a kid who fell out of a tree and the whole time I was thinking about the case and faking mellow.” He tossed food pellets at the water, muttered, “Come to Uncle Milo.” The koi swarmed and splashed. “Nice to be appreciated.”

He gulped until the juice was gone, kneeled and picked a few leaves out of the mondo grass that rims the pond rocks. Ground them to dust between his fingers before sitting down. “Malley and Cherish doing the nasty. Good old reliable human frailty.”

“It fits what Allison said about the Daneys not communicating well. With Cherish’s skepticism about the black truck. She was downplaying Barnett as a suspect.”

“Diverting attention from her boyfriend,” he said. “How do you think the two of them got together?”

“Had to be something related to Kristal.”

“They were on opposite sides of the aisle.”

“Love is strange,” I said.

“What, they passed each other in the hallway and clicked? From everything we’ve heard, Malley despised anyone on the defense team.”

“Apparently anyone but Cherish.”

He scratched his nose. “Think it’s been going on for eight years?”

“It’s not brand new,” I said. “They were comfortable with each other.”

“Good old Cherish, woman of the cloth. Meanwhile the cowboy’s cherishing her in some sleazy motel.”

“It was actually a pretty nice place,” I said. “AAA certification, swimming pool- ”

“Yeah, yeah, and water beds that bounce to the rhythm of misbegotten passion. What is it with these religious types, Alex?”

“There’re plenty of decent religious folk doing good works. Some people are attracted to religion because they’re struggling with forbidden impulses.”

“And others see it as a way to make a buck. How much does the county pay to take care of foster kids?”