Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

“Good story, Alex. Great story, makes perfect sense. But clever plots don’t earn warrants.”

“You’ve already got grounds for a warrant,” I said. “Drew’s statutory rapes. Get the downtown juvey team interested, toss the house, include the Jeep in the paperwork.”

“For that I need DNA to prove what Daney did to Valerie,” he said. “Or one of the other girls coming forward.”

“You saw him with Valerie at the clinic.”

“I saw him waiting and picking her up. It’s suggestive but not probative. Any progress on Beth Scoggins?”

“No.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that.”

“Allison’s adamant?”

“Let’s leave it at ‘just like that,’ ” I said.

Silence. “Any other suggestions?”

“Isolate Cherish and talk to her. Don’t mention the murders right off, tell her you know about Valerie’s abortion and that you suspect Drew was the father. She might be willing to acknowledge her suspicions about the molestations or even go all the way and talk about Kristal.”

“If she’s so intent upon clearing herself, why didn’t she come forward after Rand was murdered?”

“Like Rand, she’s living under the same roof with Drew. Maybe she’s worried she doesn’t have enough evidence to ensure he’d be put away.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “But we’ve left something out: Cherish and Malley. If he’s her squeeze, why wouldn’t she tell him? And if she did, why didn’t he cooperate with me? Something’s still wrong with the picture, Alex. I’m not ready to put Barnett or Cherish on the good-guy list.”

“We know what list Drew’s on and he’s living with eight underage girls. Then there’s Miranda.”

“I am not unaware of the exigencies.”

“Didn’t mean to imply you weren’t.”

“Let me sleep on this. So to speak. In the morning, I’ll get Binchy to watch the Daney house really early, which ain’t gonna be a snap, Galton Street being so quiet. If Cherish leaves first, Sean’ll follow her and hand her off to me. If Drew leaves, Sean’ll stay on him and I’ll pay Cherish a little visit.”

“Either way, let me know.”

“You might very well be there.”

The doorbell, followed by spirited knocking, woke me at seven a.m. My clouded brain knew what was happening: Allison had come by before work, wanting to make up.

I stumbled out of bed, padded to the door in my boxers, flung it open with a welcoming smile.

Milo stood there, wearing a tired green blazer, gray cords, yellow shirt, brown tie. In one hand was a box of Daffy Donuts, in the other two extra-large cups of the same outlet’s coffee. He squinted at me as if I were a rare and unsavory species.

“Revenge?” I said.

“For what?”

“Last night’s wake-up call.”

“Huh- oh, that. No, I was just dozing in the chair. Stayed up till three, working over a bunch of scenarios.”

He stepped past me. I left him in the kitchen and put on a robe. When I returned, the box was open, revealing a jarringly vivid assortment of fried things. Milo ’s paw was wrapped around a coffee. He’d made admirable progress on a bear claw the size of a puppy.

Same thing he’d ingested during the second meeting with Drew Daney and I said so.

“Yeah, I was inspired,” he said, spewing crumbs. “Give grease its due.” He pointed at the other cup. “Drink and awaken, lad.”

“Daffy instead of Dipsy?”

“My local purveyor, indie outfit. I’m doing my bit for free enterprise.”

I sipped the coffee, tasted copper and dishwater and something vaguely javalike. Fighting the urge to spit, I said, “Decide on any new scenarios?”

“No, I’ve decided to go steady with the one you gifted me with: Cherish tried the shrink bit, moved too fast, scared the hell out of Rand, Drew caught on.” He stuffed what was left of the bear claw in his mouth. Sugary lips twisted upward. “Here I was thinking all that pacing you therapy folk do- all those months of ‘Uh huhs’ and ‘I hear you’s’- was to keep the payment rolling in.”

“Here I was thinking cops didn’t always sacrifice their pancreases to sucrose.” I yawned. “Are we off somewhere this morning or is there more to talk about?”

“We’re off when Sean calls.”

“When’s that?”

“I told him to start watching the house at seven and touch base hourly. Finish your coffee, get cleaned up and dressed.”

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” I said, and left the cup on the table.

When I got back he was sprawled in the living room, cell phone to his ear, nodding and pumping his left leg. “Thanks, great, really great.” Snapping the phone shut, he stood. “You still look half-asleep.”

“You don’t,” I said. “What’s fueling you?”

“The remote possibility that things could fall into place. That was Sue Kramer, God bless her. She was up with the birds, too, following leads in other time zones. If I were of the hetero persuasion I’d betroth her.”

“She’s already married.”

“Picky, picky. Anyway, she found out a few things about both our boys. Let’s get going, I’ll tell you in the car.”

He asked me to drive and when I started up the Seville, his head dropped onto his chest. As I took the Glen toward the Valley, he snored with gusto. At Mulholland, his head shot up and he began reciting as if there’d been no lull.

“The cowboy was born in Alamogordo, like I said. Moved to Los Alamos when he was ten because the ranch where his dad worked shut down and Pops got a janitorial gig at the nuke lab. The family lived there for ten years. One sib, an older sister, married with kids, works for the city of Cleveland. After high school, Barnett did a couple of years as truck driver, then he got a job with Santa Fe P.D.”

“He was a cop?”

“Worked patrol for eighteen months until a couple of complaints about undue force brought him and the department to a mutual understanding.”

“He quit, no prosecution.”

He nodded. “After that, there were some years when he reported no income, as best as Sue can tell, he drifted around as a laborer. He got on the dude ranch circuit ten years ago, moved to California. After he got married, he switched to swimming pool maintenance. Other than a short temper with suspects when he was twenty-one, he’s got nothing iffy in his background. The surface impression seems to be all of it: a taciturn loner whose life hasn’t turned out so great.”

“As opposed to Daney.”

“Reason he was hard to trace is he changed his name. He was born Moore Daney Andruson, is five years older than he claims on his driver’s license. Grew up in rural Arkansas, one of seven kids, at least three of whom have ended up in prison for violent crimes. His folks were itinerant preachers on the hillbilly circuit.”

“The part about growing up in the church was true,” I said.

“More like growing up in revival tents. With reptiles. His daddy was one of those rattlesnake handlers, religious rapture supposed to protect him against venom. Until it didn’t.”

“How’d Sue find all this out?”

“Despite being a scumbag the name change was legal and Daney has been reporting income with the IRS, on and off since he was eighteen. His credit history as Moore D. Andruson bottomed out twelve years ago. Lots of unpaid bills, a couple of bankruptcies.”

“Wonder why he bothered to file returns,” I said.

“He didn’t have much choice. His early jobs were salaried, required withholding, SSI, all that good stuff. Now that he bills the state, there’s different paperwork required.”