Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“Hole in the condom, or some other trick. Beth Scoggins thinks Daney drugged her. Maybe he did that routinely. And in a sense, married women would be easier targets than teenage girls. Because convincing them to terminate would be a cinch. Until Daney met up with a married woman who resisted. Because she’d been yearning to have a baby for a long time.”

“Lara,” he said.

“Daney’s got brown eyes. He’d like us to think he’s Mr. Observant, but he didn’t chance upon the genetic angle.”

“And now he’s throwing it in my face with all that phony reluctance. Oh, man.”

I reached over and tapped his attaché case. “Long as you’re at it, I’d suggest a few other DNA tests.”

We took the 101 to the 5 South, headed for the Mission Street exit. Milo drove way too fast, seemed distracted. “If Malley’s innocent, why wouldn’t he talk to me?”

“The system failed him, he’s a burnout… I don’t know. The same logic could be twisted in his favor: If he was hiding something would he want to get you suspicious?”

“I guess,” he said. “But I’m still not comfortable dropping him. Even if Daney does turn out to be Kristal’s daddy.”

“Hey,” I said, “an open mind’s a terrible thing to waste.”

He laughed. Gripped the wheel and fed more gas, glanced back at the case on the backseat. “All of a sudden there’re all these possibilities. I have a confession: If Daney did everything you think he did, I have encountered a level of bad that creeps me out.”

“So you’re human.”

“Only on alternate days.” He took another look back at the case. The unmarked stayed in lane. “Either way,” he said, “the motive for Rand’s the same, covering up the truth about Kristal. But there’s still the problem of how Rand found out. And the fact that Kristal was nearly two, talk about your late-term abortion. If Daney has this psycho lust to destroy his own sperm, why would he wait that long?”

“Maybe he kept working on Lara to terminate. She got angry, refused, broke off their relationship. Daney had to step aside but he couldn’t accept losing. He kept fantasizing. Plotting. Found a thirteen-year-old he could hire to kill.”

“Lara shopping at the mall, the boys hanging at the arcade.”

“Another possibility,” I said, “is that Lara’s relationship with Barnett grew progressively rockier and she decided to leave him. Because she had her own fantasies.”

“Hooking ol’ Drew.”

“The guy who’d come through biologically. But putting pressure on Drew would’ve been a fatal error.”

“He puts a hit on the kid. Does Lara, too.”

“Or she really was a suicide. She had an inkling of why Kristal had been killed, couldn’t come forward because it would have implicated her. Her depression deepened and she killed herself.”

“Head-shot in a car?” he said. “Same as Rand? To me that says they were both murdered by the same person.”

“Or whoever shot Rand imitated Lara’s suicide.”

He knuckled his temple, made an abrupt lane change, put on more speed. “Daney’s character notwithstanding, Malley’s the one with the guns and it was one of those that killed Lara. And he’s also got a thing for other guys’ wives.”

He slapped the dashboard. “How ‘bout this for a screenplay: The Malleys weren’t the only ones swinging. They met Drew and Cherish at a swap party. Drew and Lara parted ways but Malley and Cherish are still doing it.”

I considered that. “It might help explain Barnett accepting Lara’s pregnancy. If it was the product of a group scene, the threat would be depersonalized.”

“It takes a village,” he said. “Whatever the case, no way I’m scratching the cowboy off my list.”

We parked in the coroner’s lot and entered the north building. Milo talked to Dave O’Reilly, a thin, red-faced, white-haired man with a keen, searching intellect, and asked for Kristal Malley’s tissue samples and Valerie Quezada’s aborted fetus.

“You just dropped Quezada off,” said O’Reilly. “Something come up?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I’m sure I don’t. Okay, I’ll call down and have them put it in a refrigerator bag and a Styrofoam biohazard box.”

“All official,” said Milo. “I like that.”

“I like tall, skinny brunettes with big natural boobs.”

We returned to the car. Milo put the box in the trunk, along with the attaché case, and started up the engine. A white coroner’s van pulled around from the back of the building and cruised through the lot before turning toward Mission.

He said, “Wonder what police work was like in the rubber hose days.”

“You and Daney alone in a room?”

“Me and anyone I damn well want alone in a room.” He bared his teeth. “Think Daney was telling the truth about knowing Weider before the murder?”

“Why would he lie?”

“Puffing up his chest, more hero-of-the-story crap,” he said. “Making like he’s got big-time contacts at the P.D., masterminded the whole defense.”

“Easy enough to check out,” I said. “And if he was telling the truth about working with inner-city teens, I’d be interested in one particular delinquent other than Troy.”

“Nestor Almedeira.”

“And the dedicated lawyer who stood up for his rights.”

Not that easy to check out.

We sat in the coroner’s lot and Milo phoned the Public Defender’s Office. Several transfers later, he ended up with a supervisor. I watched as amiability morphed to wheedling, then deteriorated to veiled threats. He hung up growling.

“All I want is what would be in a normal court record if Nestor wasn’t a juvenile and the file wasn’t sealed. I can get it eventually if I fool around long enough at the Hall of Records, but it’s gonna take time. Stonewalling bastards. They hate cops and everything else that’s good and true.”

“Try Lauritz Montez,” I said.

“He likes cops?”

“He’s vulnerable and weak-willed.”

The call to Montez’s Beverly Hills office was answered by a tape.

I took the phone, punched 411, and asked for the number of Dr. Chang’s dental office on Alvarado. There’s nothing more effective with a doctor’s staff than having a doctorate. I had Anita Moss on the line within seconds.

“How may I help you, Doctor?”

“Ms. Moss, I was with Detective Sturgis the other day- ”

“ With him? You’re not a cop?”

“I’m a psychologist. I consult to the police- ”

“I’m sorry, I’m busy- ”

“Just one question and I’ll be out of your way: Which attorney represented Nestor on the manslaughter charge?”

“Why?”

“It could be important. We’ll find out anyway, but you could make things easier.”

“Okay, okay. A blond lady,” she said. “With a funny name- Sydney something.”

“Sydney Weider.”

“She put a lot of pressure on my mom to attend every hearing, even though my mom wasn’t in good health. She ordered her to sit where the judge could see her, and cry a lot. Told my mom she’d have to take the stand when it came time for Nestor to be sentenced and lie about what a good son Nestor was and then cry a whole bunch more. Coaching her as if Mom was stupid. As if Mom wasn’t crying all the time, anyway.”

“She put on an aggressive defense.”

“I guess,” she said. “I always felt she was doing it more for herself- to win, you know? If she cared about my mother, she wouldn’t have bossed her around like that. It didn’t matter anyway. Nestor was guilty, they did this plea-bargain thing. Which was okay with me. I didn’t want my mom to have to cry for strangers.”