Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“Beth says Drew delighted in going around Cherish. From petty stuff like eating doughnuts on the sly to leaving her with the scut work while he took his ‘assistants’ out on the road.”

“Okay,” he said, “maybe that worked for a while, but she finally caught on.”

“And started sleeping with Barnett Malley.”

“Her own brand of sin.”

I said, “How did Daney’s greed come into the picture with Demchuk?”

“He’d been hinting around for a while about getting a cut of the action. Demchuk lent him money to put him off- small amounts he never repaid, she figures three, four grand total. Recently, though, he’s gotten pushier. Coming out and asking for his share, outright. Insisting he’s her best ‘referral source.’ Implying he might go elsewhere. Demchuk’s not the sharing type. And Daney’s timing couldn’t be worse because Demchuk’s ready to retire, wants to sell the clinic. She was figuring she’d buy him off with a screw-you payment. I told her selling the place wasn’t gonna be easy when all the bad stuff about Daney came out. Made that sound more imminent than it is. Demchuk tried to stay cool but I could tell I shook her. That’s why she was willing to deal him off. As in handing over Valerie Quezada’s aborted fetus.”

“She keeps them?”

“No, she tosses them in the trash out back, which is a health code violation. I had her fish it out and put it in dry ice, then I brought it over to the coroner’s to be stored with Kristal Malley’s tissue samples. Which is where I am now, breathing in the aroma of decomposition and drinking county coffee. No word on my DNA requisition yet, but now it looks like I’ll have another package to send to Cellmark. We get Daney’s DNA in the fetus, I’ve got a gift for the Juvey Sex Crimes unit they just started downtown.”

“You’re bringing them into it?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Not until I get closer to Daney for murder. But the pedophilia thing could turn out to be good leverage.”

“How long can you sit on it?”

“Eight girls living on Galton Street bothers my sleep, but I can’t risk screwing things up by moving without evidence. First order of business is to get DNA from Daney. Any suggestions about how to approach it?”

“Arrange a meet by playing his ego. You’ve bought into his suspicions of Barnett Malley but Malley remains a mystery man; ask him if he has any other suggestions.”

“That part’s true. Still researching Malley and can’t come up with a damn thing. Okay, a face-to-face with Dynamic Drew. Then what? Swipe his toothbrush for the sample?”

“That’s the easy part,” I said. “He likes doughnuts.”

Rain fell the next morning, and the temperatures dropped into the high fifties. L.A. finally auditioning for winter. When Milo pulled the unmarked into the Dipsy Donut lot at ten a.m., the sky had closed and Vanowen Boulevard smelled of wet laundry.

Drew Daney was there, drinking coffee at the same aluminum table. Exact position he’d occupied the first time- a man of patterns.

He had on a brown corduroy car coat, rested his denim haunches on newspaper he’d spread to soak up dampness from the bench. When he saw us, he smiled and waved.

Warm smile. It spread his stubbly silver beard. His eyes crinkled.

This was the face of evil. He could’ve served as a model for a tool supply catalog.

Milo pumped his hand as if they were longtime buddies. “Morning. Not hungry?”

Daney winked. “Waiting for you guys.”

“How about I get us an assortment?”

“Sounds good, Lieutenant.”

Milo left and I sat down opposite Daney. My assignment, should I choose to take it, was to check out nonverbal cues and whatever “psych stuff” I came up with.

“Way I figure, Alex, having you along will play to his ego. Make him feel like a peer… even though you’re peerless.”

I watched Daney’s teeth disappear as his smile shifted to a closemouthed one. “Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice.”

“Hey, anything I can do to help.” Under his car coat he wore a spotless yellow polo shirt, tight across his broad chest. Well-developed musculature. His complexion glowed and his eyes were clear.

Picture of vitality; sometimes- too often- good things happen to bad people.

I said, “How’s your wife doing?”

The question made him blink. “In terms of?”

“ Rand ’s death. She seemed pretty affected.”

“Of course she was,” he said. “We all are. It’s a process- healing.”

“Your foster kids were affected?”

“Definitely. Rand wasn’t with us long, but he was a presence. You know what it’s like.”

“Dealing with death?”

“That and kids in general,” he said. “The developmental stages they go through.”

“What’s the age range of your wards?”

“They’re all adolescents.”

“There’s a challenge.”

“You bet.”

“Is that by choice?”

“We’re masochists,” he said, chuckling. “Seriously, a lot of people don’t want the baggage teens bring to the table, so Cherish and I figured that’s where our efforts would be best spent.” Boyish shrug. “Sometimes I wonder, though. It can feel like temporary insanity.”

“That I can believe.”

He looked over at the doughnut stand. Crowded, just like the first time.

I said, “ Rand wasn’t that long out of his teens. That could also be an issue for your kids.”

“Sure,” he said quickly, but his eyes told me he wasn’t tracking.

“Perceived similarity,” I went on. “There’s a whole bunch of data on how it relates to empathy.”

“If it could happen to him, it could happen to me?” he said. “Sure, makes total sense. But what I was referring to are the core issues they’re wrestling with. Sense of identity, establishing autonomy. And, of course, they think they’re immortal.” Wry smile. “We did, at that age, right? All that stuff we kept from our parents.”

I forced my own smile. Trying not to think about what this guy did to young girls’ autonomy.

A thirteen-year-old bleeding out in a prison supply room.

I said, “Thank God my parents never knew some of the things I did.”

“You were a wild guy?” he said, shifting closer. Engaging me with those warm dark eyes. As if I were the most important person on earth.

Return of the teeth.

Charisma. The most skillful psychopaths know how to play it like a guitar. Sometimes the smartest ones get to the top of the corporate ladder or the highest rungs of elected office. In the end, though, shallow theatrics are often counterbalanced by laziness and sloppiness.

Doing someone else’s wife in the marital bed.

Writing and shopping a thinly described screenplay and expecting it to make you an overnight millionaire.

Impregnating minors for a hobby and billing the state for their abortions.

For all his wizardry at manipulation, Daney was miles from where he wanted to be, the lifestyle he’d glimpsed after hooking up with Sydney Weider: Brentwood, Aspen, private jets, red carpet fantasies. All that upscale pillow talk fevering his brain.

Look at me look at me look at me!

Eight years later, instead of all that, he was a middle-aged guy running around singing camp songs and trying to cadge money from Dr. Marta Demchuk.

Fool’s move; Demchuk was tough and Daney’s smarmy mojo worked only on the weakest of victims.

He flexed a thick wrist, ran his hand through his thick, wavy hair.

I said, “I was never wild enough to get into serious trouble, but I had my moments.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

“How about you?”

He hesitated for a moment. “Nah, I was a good boy. Maybe too good.”