Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“Is there anything else you can say about him?”

“At first, I just figured it for guy behavior- checking out the goods. After the Badge got stolen was when I started thinking he could’ve been up to no good. Was the phone used?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where’d they call? Outer Mongolia or some crazy place?”

“ L.A. ”

“Well,” said Angeline Wasserman, “that shows a lack of creativity. Maybe I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“Him being some high-level crime guy and not just a crook.”

“High level because he knew what a Badge was,” said Milo.

“The whole image- being at Barneys, driving a Rover.”

“A Range Rover?”

“A real pretty one, shiny and new-y.”

“What color?”

“Silver, mine’s anthracite. That’s why it didn’t bother me at first, his looking at me. Both of us with Rovers, parked near each other? Kind of a twinsie karma, you know?”

Anew stack of rugs arrived. Angeline Wasserman inspected a fringe. “These knots are tangled.”

Milo muttered, “Story of my life.”

If she heard him, she didn’t indicate. “Darius, are these the best you’ve got?”

Driving to Butler Avenue, I said, “AmEx Black, never used.”

“I know, same as with the Gaidelases. But do you see them tooling around in a Range Rover that just happens to match Nora Dowd’s?”

No need to answer.

When we arrived at the station, Milo demanded his messages from the new receptionist, a terrified bald man in his forties named Tom, who said, “There’s nothing new, Lieutenant, I promise.”

I followed Milo ’s chuffy climb up the stairs. When we reached his office, he unpacked his attaché, placed the autopsy file next to his computer, and requested a BOLO on the Range Rover, all before sitting down.

“How about this, Alex: Nora and Meserve have an 805 love nest and those brochures were a diversion. I’m thinking something on the beach because what’s a rich girl without a beach house? Could be right there in Camarillo, or farther north- Oxnard Harbor, Ventura, Carpinteria, Mussel Shoals, Santa Barbara, or points beyond.”

I said, “Could be points south, too. Maybe Meserve didn’t know Latigo because he’d hiked there.”

“Nora’s a Malibu gal,” he said. “Has a rural hideaway tucked in the mountains.”

“Something registered to her individually, not part of the BNB partnership.”

“Easy enough to find out what she pays property tax on.” He flipped the computer on. The screen flashed blue, then black, sparked a couple of times, and died. Several attempts to reboot were greeted by silence.

He said, “Expelling profanities is a waste of oxygen. Let me borrow someone else’s terminal.”

I used the time to leave another message for Robin. Read through Michaela’s autopsy findings again.

Playing with veins and arteries.

The PlayHouse.

Nora tiring of theatrical abstractions. Meeting Dylan Meserve and discovering common interests.

Embalming. Nora’s taste in pets.

Milo returned.

“Good news?” I said.

“If failure’s your idea of success. The circuit that feeds all the computers is down, tech support was summoned hours ago. I’m going downtown to the assessor’s office to do it the old-fashioned way. If tax leeches communicate with their buds in other counties maybe I can get hooked up with Ventura and Santa Barbara. If not, I’m on the road again.”

Humming the Willie Nelson song.

“You’re taking this well.”

“All part of my audition,” he said.

“For what?”

“Mentally stable individual.” Grabbing his jacket, he opened the door and held it for me.

I said, “Taxidermy.”

“What?”

“The coroner’s guess about embalming. Think Nora’s fluffy dog.”

He sat back down. “Some horrific arts and crafts thing?”

“I was thinking stage prop.”

“For what?”

“Grand Guignol.”

He shut his eyes, knuckled a temple. “Your mind…” The eyes opened. “If Dowd and Meserve have an evil hobby, why wasn’t Michaela actually messed with?”

“She was rejected,” I said. “Same for Tori Giacomo. Or not. Scattered bones make it impossible to know.”

“Why?”

I shook my head. “That level of pathology, the symbolism can be beyond anyone else’s comprehension.”

“Two pretty girls wrong for the part,” he said. “The Gaidelases, on the other hand, have never been found. Meaning maybe their heads are hanging on a damn wall?”

Another temple massage. “Okay, now that the images are firmly planted in my brain and I’m sure to have a lovely day, let’s get the hell out of here.”

I followed him up the hall. When we reached the stairwell, he said, “Snuff and stuff. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

On our way out, Tom the receptionist sang out, “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

Milo ’s reply was sotto voce and obscene. He left me standing on the sidewalk and continued to the staff parking lot.

Seeing his irritation at the lost messages brought to mind the disgusted look on Albert Beamish’s face yesterday.

Constitutional crankiness? Or had the old man, ever eager to spread dirt on the Dowds, poked around and actually learned something useful? Tried to tattle and got no callback?

No sense overloading Milo ’s circuits. I drove to Hancock Park.

Beamish’s doorbell was answered by a tiny Indonesian maid in a black uniform clutching a dust-clogged feather duster.

“Mr. Beamish, please.”

“No home.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“No home.”

Walking over to Nora’s house, I took a close look at the barn doors of her garage. Bolted. I nudged the panels, felt some give, but my bare hands were unable to spread the doors wide enough. Milo had left it at that. I wasn’t bound by the rules of evidence.

Fetching a crowbar from the trunk of the Seville, I carried it parallel to my leg, went back, and managed to pry the doors an inch apart.

A stale gasoline smell blew out. No Range Rover or any other vehicle. At least Milo could be spared the bother of a warrant.

My cell phone beeped. “Dr. Delaware? It’s Karen from your exchange. I’ve got a message from Dr. Gwynn that was marked priority. He asked if you can come by his office soon as you have a chance.”

“Dr. Gwynn’s a she,” I said.

“Oh…sorry. Louise wrote this one down, I’m new. Do you usually specify gender?”

“Don’t worry about it. When was the call?”

“Twenty minutes ago, just before I came on.”

“Did Dr. Gwynn give a reason for wanting me over?”

“It just says asap, Doctor. Want the number?”

“I know it.”

For Allison to reach out, it had to be something bad. Her grandmother. Another stroke? Worst-case scenario?

Even so, why call me?

Maybe because she had no one else.

Her message tape picked up. I drove to Santa Monica.

Empty waiting room. The red light next to her name was unlit, meaning no session in progress. I pushed open the door to the inner offices, proceeded through a short hall to Allison’s corner suite. Knocked on her door and didn’t wait for an answer.

She wasn’t at her desk. Or in one of the soft white patient chairs.

When I said, “Allison?” no one answered.

This felt wrong.

Before I could process that thoroughly, the back of my head exploded in pain.

Hammer-on-melon pain.

Cartoonists are right; you really do see stars.

I reeled, got smashed again. Back of the neck this time.