Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

He glanced at the old woman. Still hugging herself, staring out at the darkened street. She seemed to be fighting for composure.

I said, “She spread the word Peaty was dangerous.”

Milo nodded. “The ol’ gossip mill was chugging along. Before Vasquez dummied up, he told me Peaty always rubbed him the wrong way.”

“Prior conflict?”

“No fights, just lots of tension. Vasquez didn’t like Peaty living so close. The term he used was ‘fuckin’ crazy dude.’ After he said that, he started moving his head back and forth and up and down. I said, ‘What’re you doing, Armando?’ He says, ‘Crossing myself. You got me cuffed so I’m doing it this way.’ ”

“Did Peaty ever bother his wife?”

“He stared at her, which is consistent with what everyone else says. ‘Fuckin’ crazy stare.’ Unfortunately for Vasquez, it’s not justification for blowing Peaty’s brains out.”

Sean Binchy came over, still looking uneasy. “Need me for anything more, Loot?”

“No, go home. Relax.”

Binchy flinched. “Thanks. Hey, Doc. Bye.”

Milo said, “You did fine, Sean.”

“Whatever.”

When he left, I said, “What’s bothering him?”

“The lad has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He worked a robbery case all day, got off at eleven, and decided on his own to watch Peaty. He started here, didn’t see Peaty’s minivan, went out for a burger at a twenty-four-hour spot, got back just after midnight and spotted the van a block up that way.”

He pointed east. “He was looking for a watch spot in the alley when he heard the three shots. Peaty caught all of ’ em full-faced. You wouldn’t figure that physiog could get any uglier but…”

“Sean’s feeling guilty about not being here.”

“About the burger. About nothing. No way he could’ve prevented it.”

“Did he arrest Vasquez?”

“He called for backup then went up the stairs. Peaty’s body was out on the walkway between the apartments. At that point, Sean waited for the blues and they went door to door. When they got to Vasquez’s apartment, Vasquez was sitting on his couch watching TV, the gun’s right next to him and so are the wife and the oldest kid. Vasquez puts up his hands and says, ‘I killed his ass, do your thing.’ The wife starts bawlin’, the kid stays real quiet.”

“How’d it happen?” I said.

“When I got to specifics, Vasquez got laryngitis. My sense is he’s been stewing on Peaty for a while, started bubbling over when ol’ Ertha told him about my visit. For some reason, tonight he got tired of doing nothing, saw Peaty come home, and went out to tell him to stay away from Mrs. Vasquez. As they say in the papers, a confrontation ensued. Vasquez claims Peaty made a move on him, he needed to defend himself, boom boom boom.”

“Vasquez went out there armed.”

“There is that minor detail,” he said. “Maybe some lawyer will try to twist it as evidence Vasquez was scared of Peaty.”

“Alcohol or dope involved?” I said.

“Vasquez admits to four beers and that fits with the empties in his trash basket. With his body weight that might or might not be relevant, depends what the bloodwork turns up. Now let’s see if the techies are through with Peaty’s domicile.”

A room and a half bath, both tiny and putrid.

Fetid mélange of old cheese, charred tobacco, body gas, garlic, oregano.

An empty, grease-stained pizza box sat open on the metal-frame double bed. Crumbs dandruffed rumpled sheets the color of wet newsprint and green bedcovers printed with a repeating pattern of top hats and bowlers. Several, large, unpleasant stains on the sheets. Wads of dirty laundry filled most of the floor space. A waist-high stack of Old Milwaukee six-packs and the bed filled what was left. Fingerprint dust everywhere. That seemed unnecessary- the body had fallen outside- but you never knew about lawyers’ creativity.

Milo kicked his way through the jumble and approached a wooden packing crate that served as a bed stand. Cluttering the top were oily takeout menus, balled-up tissues, crushed empty beer cans- I counted fourteen- a gallon bottle of Tyger fortified wine two-thirds empty, an economy-sized flask of Pepto-Bismol.

The only real furniture other than the bed was a ragged three-drawer dresser that supported a nineteen-inch TV and a VCR large enough to be quaint. Rabbit-ear antenna.

I said, “No cable box,” and opened a dresser drawer. “His entertainment needs were simple.”

Inside were boxed videotapes, stacked like books in a horizontal shelf. Loud colors. Lots of X’s. Not-So Legal Temptresses, Volumes 1 through 11. Shower Teen, Upskirt Adventures, X-Ray Journey, Voyeur’s Village.

The bottom two drawers held clothing that looked no fresher than the mess on the floor. Under a tangle of T-shirts, Milo found an envelope with $600 in cash and a small plastic box marked Sewing Kit, filled with five tightly round joints.

The half bath was a cubicle in the corner. My nose had accommodated to bedroom stench but this was a new challenge. The shower was fiberglass, barely big enough for a woman, let alone a man of Peaty’s bulk. Originally beige, now brown, with a blackish-green crop of something flourishing at the drain. A streaked, spotted mirror was glued to the wall over the sink; no medicine cabinet. On the floor next to the cracked, grimy toilet was a small wicker box. Inside was an assortment of antacids and OTC analgesics, a toothbrush that looked as if it hadn’t been used in a while, an amber pharmacy bottle containing two Vicodin pills. The original prescription had been for twenty-one tabs, prescribed by a doctor at a Las Vegas clinic seven years ago and filled at the clinic’s pharmacy.

“Saving it for the bad times,” I said. “Or the good.”

“The occasional highball,” said Milo. “Trailer-park style.”

He returned to the bedroom, searched under the bed, came up dusty and empty-handed. Held his hands away from his slacks, glanced at the bathroom. “I’m not sure using that sink would make me cleaner…let’s see if there’s a hose outdoors.”

Before we descended the stairs, he took me for a look at the kill-spot. Peaty had shed a lot of red. The spot where he’d fallen was demarcated by black tape.

A uniform stood outside the Vasquez apartment. Milo saluted her and we found a hose near Mrs. Stadlbraun’s apartment. She was back inside, drapes drawn tight.

When he finished washing off, he said, “Any insights?”

“If Peaty’s our bad guy, he didn’t keep trophies or anything else of interest,” I said.

But I was wrong.

In the rear of the rust-spotted red minivan, Milo found boxes of cleaning supplies, tarps, brooms, mops, washcloths. Buried under the tarps was a brown, double-decker toolbox. A key-lock dangled from the hasp but it had been left unbolted.

Milo gloved up and opened the box. In the top foldaway rack were screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, pliers, little plastic cylinders of screws and nails. In the compartments below were a set of burglar picks, two rolls of duct tape, a box cutter, a wire cutter, a push-button stiletto, a spool of thick, white nylon rope, four sets of women’s panty hose, a blue steel automatic pistol wrapped in a grubby pink washcloth.

Loaded gun. Plenty of ammunition left in the box of.22-caliber bullets wedged into a corner of the toolbox.

Next to the bullets, something else wrapped in terry. Round, firm.

Milo unwrapped it. Souvenir snow globe. The pink plastic base read MALIBU , CALIF. SURF’S UP!

He upended the sphere. White flakes fluttered over a cobalt ocean. He examined the underside of the base. “Made in U.S.A. New Hampshire. That explains it. Sons of bitches wanted to think of us frozen just like them.”