Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“Around what time?”

“Five-ish. Wow, so this is like an investigation?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You can’t tell me what they did?”

“Sorry, Heather.”

“Cool, I understand.”

“So they’ve only been here twice.”

“That’s all I saw.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Three years, off and on.”

“How’d they act on Thursday?”

“The same. That’s how I remember. Lauren said they didn’t talk, just sat. He ate, she didn’t.”

“Ten percent tip.”

“Eight percent, actually.” She grinned. “I guess it’s my charm.”

I thanked her and gave her another ten.

“Oh, wow, you don’t have to,” she said, but she made no effort to return the money. “If you want I can keep an eye out and if they come in again I’ll call you.”

“I was just going to ask.” I handed her my card.

“Psychologist,” she said. “Like crazy criminals, Hannibal Lecter stuff?”

“It’s not always that exciting.”

“My sister went to a psychologist. She was pretty screwed up, had some real bad friends.”

“Did it help her?”

“Not really. But at least she moved out and I don’t have to listen to a bunch of yelling.”

“Guess you’d call that partial success,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said absently. As she drifted back to the register, I saw her re-count her money.

I got back on the 134 West, checked for messages when traffic slowed.

One from Olivia Brickerman. I exited the freeway on Laurel Canyon, drove to Ventura Boulevard, found a spot across the street from an adult motel, and called her office.

“Your Mr. and Mrs. Daney are pretty good at the paper game,” she said. “They total about seven grand a month fostering. They’ve been taking in kids for just over seven years, haven’t made any attempt to hide the fact that they’re exceeding the limit by two wards. That tells me they’re vets who know the system’s broke. Mrs. Daney has also applied for certification as an educational therapist, which would entitle her to additional treatment money. Generally, that requires some sort of teaching credential but there’s been some loosening of the regs due to shortages of providers. This help?”

“Very much. How badly is the system broken?”

“The geniuses in the state legislature just turned down a request for more caseworkers and the counties are already severely shorthanded. Meaning no one checks anything. A couple more things about the Daneys: They always foster teenagers with learning disabilities. What I found really interesting is that all their wards have been females. Which is unusual, there’s no shortage of boys in the system.”

“Can foster parents pick and choose age and sex?” I said.

“There’s supposed to be mutual consent between the agency and the caregiver. In the best interests of the child.”

“So you can ask for a girl.”

“Alex,” she said, “right now, if you’re white and middle class and don’t have a criminal record, you can ask for just about anything and get it.”

I thanked her and asked for a list of the Daneys’ wards.

She said, “All I’ve been able to find is the last few years. I’ll fax it to you soon as I get off. Regards to Allison. I hope I wasn’t too cheeky with the Snow White stuff.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Brilliance has its privileges.”

“You flatter me, darling.”

The only Martin Boestling I found listed in the phone book was a “confectionery dealer” on Fairfax Avenue. Unlikely, but it was an easy drive over Laurel Canyon.

The Nut House turned out to be a double storefront a block north of the Farmer’s Market/Grove complex. The Parking in Rear sign kept its promise and I found a space next to a green van with the store’s name, address, and website under a giant cashew that resembled an eyeless grub. A locked screen door covered an open delivery arch. I rang the bell and a heavy, kerchiefed woman in her sixties peered out, turned the bolt, and trod back wordlessly toward the front of the store.

The space was one big room lined with bins of candy, coffee, tea, rainbow-hued desiccated things, equally garish jellied morsels, and nuts. At least a dozen varieties of almonds. A sign said No Peanuts Here, Allergic People Don’t Worry.

The shoppers, all female, strolled the aisles and scooped goodies into green bags rolled from overhead spools. The green-aproned man at the register was mid-fifties, round-shouldered, and stocky with dark wavy hair. His face looked as if it had argued with a wall and lost. His hands were outsized and blocky and he bantered easily with two women checking out. In the Internet photo I’d found, he’d been tuxedoed, arm in arm with Sydney Weider. She’d changed a lot. Martin Boestling hadn’t.

I scooped smoked almonds into a bag, waited until the shop was quiet, and approached.

Boestling rang up the sale. “You’ll like these, an Indian family in Oregon does the smoking themselves.”

“Great,” I said, paying. “Mr. Boestling?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I’m looking for a Martin Boestling who used to produce films.”

He transferred the almonds to a paper bag, slid it across the counter, started to turn away.

I showed him my police I.D.

He said, “Police shrink? What’s this all about?”

“I consult to- ”

“And now you’re at The Nut House. How apropos.” His eyes aimed at the woman behind me in line. “Next.”

I stepped aside, waited until she checked out.

Martin Boestling said, “Anything else I can do for you, purchase-wise?”

“It’s about Sydney Weider,” I said. “And Drew Daney.”

His big hands became flesh cudgels. “What is it exactly that you want?”

“A few minutes of your time, Mr. Boestling.”

“Why?”

“Daney’s the subject of an investigation.”

Silence.

“It could be serious,” I said.

“You want dirt.”

“If you’ve got any.”

He waved the kerchiefed woman over. “Magda, take over. An old friend just dropped in.”

We walked up Fairfax, found an unoccupied bus bench, sat down. Martin Boestling had forgotten to remove his apron. Or maybe he hadn’t.

He said, “Sydney was a bitch from hell, he was a fucking bastard, end of story.”

“I know about the gonorrhea.”

“Know how big my dick is, too?”

“If it’s relevant I can probably find out.”

He grinned. “You’d think it would be relevant, size mattering and all that. I married Sydney because she was smart and rich and good-looking and loved to screw. Turned out, she was making a fool out of me from the day we tied the knot.”

“Promiscuous.”

“If she had showed restraint, you could’ve called her promiscuous. Day of the wedding, she screwed one of my so-called friends.” He began ticking his finger. “The pool boy, the tennis pro, the fish tank guy, bunch of lawyers she worked with. It was only later, after the divorce, that people started to come up and tell me, phony sympathy in their eyes. Sorry, Marty, we didn’t want to make waves. I could never prove it but I’m convinced she screwed some of her clients, too. You know the kind of clients she worked with?”

“Indigent.”

“Murderers, robbers, scumbags. Think about that: She’s keeping long office hours in order to spread her legs for lowlife while I’m hustling to support her in the style to which she’d become accustomed. I hated the industry, stayed with it because I was desperate to impress her. Know where we met?”

“Where?”

“Your investigation didn’t carry you that far back? We met at the Palisades Vista Country Club where her family belonged and I was working my way through the U. as a towel jockey. Spritzing rich people with bottled water while they turned like chickens on a spit. Should’ve known how it was going to be when Sydney left her rich boyfriend in the dining room so she could do me in a cabana. We dated off and on for a while, until I graduated and got a job in the mailroom at CAA and convinced her to marry me.”