Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“The view,” she said without turning. “Still unobstructed.”

“Looks like it’s going to stay that way. Bob had his lower acre surveyed and it’s definitely unfit for construction.”

“Bob the Neighbor,” she said. “How’s he doing?”

“When he’s in town, he seems well.”

“Second home in Tahiti,” she said.

“Main home in Tahiti. Nothing like inherited wealth.”

“That’s good news- about the view. I was hoping for that when I oriented the room that way.” She let the curtain drop. Smoothed the pleats. “I did a decent job with this place. Like living here?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

She cinched the robe tighter, half faced me. Her hair was wild, her lips slightly swollen. Faraway eyes.

“I thought it might be strange,” she said. “Coming back. It’s less strange than I would’ve predicted.”

“It’s your place, too,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“I mean it.”

She baby-stepped over to the far end of the bed, played with the edges of the comforter. “You haven’t thought that through.”

I hadn’t. “Sure I have. Many a long night.”

She shrugged.

“The place echoes, Robin.”

“It always did. We were aiming for great acoustics.”

“It can be musical,” I said. “Or not.”

She pulled at the comforter, squared the seam with the edge of the mattress. “You do all right by yourself.”

“Says who?”

“You’ve always been self-contained.”

“Like hell.” My voice was harsh.

She looked up at me.

I said, “Come back. Keep the studio if you need privacy, but live here.”

She tugged at the comforter some more. Her mouth twisted into a shape I couldn’t read. Loosening the robe, she let it fall to the floor, reconsidered, picked it up, folded it neatly over a chair. The organized mind of someone who works with power tools.

Fluffing her hair, she got back in bed.

“No pressure, just think about it,” I said.

“It’s a lot to digest.”

“You’re a tough kid.”

“Like hell.” Pressing her flank to mine, she laced her fingers and placed them over her belly.

I drew the covers over us.

“That’s better, thanks,” she said.

Neither of us moved.

Once I’m roused, I’m restless for hours.

As Robin slept, I prowled the house. Ended up in my office and composed a mental list. Switched to a written list.

First thing tomorrow I’d contact Erica Weiss and tell her about Hauser. More ammunition for her civil suit. If Hauser’s control was that loose, mounting legal problems might not stop him from harassing me. Or getting litigious himself.

This whole mess could cost me. I tried to convince myself it was the price of doing business.

Must be nice to be that serene.

Replaying the scene at the restaurant, I wondered how Hauser had lasted this long as a therapist. Maybe the smart thing would be filing a preemptive suit against him. Officers Hendricks and Minette had appeared to see things my way, so a police report would help. But you never knew.

Milo would know what to do but he had other things on his mind.

So did I.

My offer to Robin spilling out like Pentothal chatter. If she said yes, would that constitute a happy ending?

So many what-ifs.

Milo said, “I was just about to call you.”

“Kismet.”

“You don’t want this type of kismet.” He told me why.

I said, “I’ll be right over.”

The note I left on the nightstand read:

Dear R, Had to go out, a bit of the ugly stuff. Stay as long as you’d like. If you have to go, let’s talk tomorrow.

I dressed quietly, tiptoed to the bed, and kissed her cheek. She stirred, reached up with one arm, let it drop as she rolled over.

Girl fragrance mixed with the smell of sex. I took one last look at her and left.

Reynold Peaty’s corpse had been wrapped in translucent plastic, tied with stout twine, and loaded onto the right-hand stretcher in the white coroner’s van. The vehicle remained parked in front of Peaty’s apartment building, rear doors open. Bolted metal racks secured the body and the empty stretcher to its left.

Busy nights in L.A., double occupancy transport was a good idea.

Flanking the coroner’s van were four black-and-whites, roof lights pulsing. Terse recitations from dispatch operators sparked the night but no one was listening.

Lots of uniforms standing around trying to look official. Milo and Sean Binchy conferred near the farthest cop car. Milo talked and Binchy listened. For the first time since I’d known the young detective, he looked upset.

Over the phone, Milo told me the shooting had taken place an hour ago. But the suspect was just being taken down the stairs of Peaty’s building.

Young Hispanic guy, heavily built, broad skull helmeted by dark stubble. Escorted by two huge, gym-rat patrolmen who diminished him.

I’d seen him before, when I’d driven past the building last Sunday.

Father of the young family heading for church. Wife and three chubby little kids. Stiff gray suit that looked out of place.

Kids having kids.

He’d aimed hard eyes my way as I stopped in front of the building. No view of his eyes now. His arms were cuffed behind him and his head hung low.

Barefoot, wearing a black XXXXL T-shirt that nearly reached his knees, saggy gray sweatpants that threatened to slip off his hips, and a big gold fist on a chain that swung over the shirt’s snarling pit bull BaaadBoyz logo.

Someone had forgotten to remove the bling. Milo went over and rectified the situation and the iron-pumper cops seemed abashed. The suspect looked up as Milo fiddled, heavy lids tenting. When Milo got the chain off, the kid smiled and said something. Milo smiled back. He checked behind the kid’s ears. Waved the cops on and handed the necklace to an evidence tech who bagged it.

As the uniforms got the shooter into one of the idling cruisers and drove away, Mrs. Ertha Stadlbraun stepped out of her ground-floor flat and walked to the sidewalk. Standing just right of the taped perimeter, she shivered and hugged herself. Her dressing gown was custard-yellow and quilted. Fuzzy white mules encased her feet and yellow rollers turned her hair into white tortellini. Shiny bright skin; some kind of night cream.

She shivered again and tightened her arms. Tenants stared out of windows. So did a few residents of the dingbat next door.

Milo beckoned me over. His face was sweaty. Sean Binchy stayed behind, not doing much of anything. When I got there, he said, “Doctor,” and chewed his lip.

Milo said, “Hot town, summer in the city.”

“In February.”

“That’s why we live here.”

I told him about seeing the suspect before. Described the kid’s demeanor.

He said, “That fits.”

A coroner’s attendant slammed the van’s doors shut, got in, drove away.

I said, “How close is his apartment to Peaty’s?”

“Two doors down. His name’s Armando Vasquez, he’s got a sealed juvenile gang history, claims to be a steadily working, church-going married man for the past four years. Has a landscaping gig with a company that maintains some of the big B.H. properties north of Sunset. He used to just mow grass but this year he learned to trim trees. He’s pretty proud of that.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-one. Wife’s nineteen, three kids under five. For the most part they stayed asleep while I tried to chat with their daddy. One time the oldest toddled in. I let Vasquez kiss the kid. Kid smiled at me.” He sighed. “Vasquez has no adult sheet, so maybe he’s telling the truth about finding God. The neighbors I’ve spoken to so far say the kids can be noisy but the family doesn’t cause problems. No one liked Peaty. Apparently, everyone in the building’s been jabbering about him, since we met with Stadlbraun.”