Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“The court-appointed lawyers claim to be.”

“I finally got permission to see him yesterday, drove out to Riverside.”

“How’s the place they put him in?”

“Grim,” I said. “Assisted care facility, a hundred Alzheimer’s patients and Billy.”

“Learn anything?”

“He’s in shock and disoriented. I got about three minutes before the attorney-on-premises ended it.”

“Why?”

“Billy started crying.”

“Because of you?”

“That was learned counsel’s opinion,” I said. “Mine was that Billy has lots to cry about and not letting him express it will only make matters worse. I told learned counsel Billy needs a full-time therapist, I wasn’t volunteering for the job, only suggesting he find someone. He begged to differ. When I got back, I phoned the judge who wrote the placement order. Haven’t heard from her yet but I’m thinking of other judges who might be willing to help.”

“You see Billy as totally clean?” he said.

“Unless you find something more ominous at his duplex than Star Wars action figures and Disney videos.”

He shook his head. “Like a kid’s place. Boxes of sugar cereal, bottles of chocolate milk.”

I said. “Being a kid’s hard enough. Being neither boy nor man is something else. Any sign of Billy’s allowance money?”

“Nope, just coins in a piggy bank. Some of the pennies date back to the sixties.”

“Fifteen hundred a month and all he spent on was pizza and Thai food and rental movies. It explains Reynold Peaty’s drop-ins. He pretended to be Billy’s friend, had his way with the cash.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “Except no money showed up in Peaty’s dive.”

“A guy like Peaty would have ways to spend it,” I said. “Or, if his relationship with Brad went beyond janitor and boss, maybe the money found its way back to Cuz. Then Cuz set him up to die.”

He frowned. A muscle just below his left eye jumped.

I said, “What?”

“What a family.” He found a stale cigar in a drawer, rolled it, and bit off the end. Spat it into his wastebasket.

“Two points.” I stood and walked to the door. “Time to view the disk.”

He stayed put. “It’s really a bad idea, Alex.”

“I want to get it over with.”

“Even if someone does subpoena you, it could be months away,” he said.

“No sense harboring fantasies all that time.”

“Trust me, your fantasies can’t be worse than reality.”

“Trust me, ” I said. “They can.”

Cold, yellow room.

The interview table had been pushed to one side. Metal table, same battleship gray as the bomb shelter.

The things you notice.

Two chairs faced a thirty-inch plasma TV on a wheeled table. A DVD player sat on the bottom shelf. Lots of snarled cables. A sticker affixed to the bottom of the monitor warned against anyone outside the D.A.’s office touching the equipment.

I said, “Suddenly the prosecutors turn generous?”

“They’ve sniffed the air,” said Milo. “Smelled Court TV, screenplays, book deals. The warning from on-high is no O.J. on this one.” He drew a remote control module from his jacket pocket and flicked on the monitor.

Sat down next to me, slumped and closed his eyes and stayed that way.

Blue screen, video menu printout. Time, date, D.A’s evidence code.

I took the remote from Milo ’s hands. His eyes remained shut but his breathing quickened.

I flicked.

A face filled the screen.

Big blue eyes, tan skin, symmetrical features, shaggy blond hair.

Jane Doe Number One.

Milo had asked if I wanted to start out of sequence with Michaela. I’d considered that, said let’s do it in order.

Hoping lack of personal contact would help.

It didn’t.

The camera stayed close.

An off-screen voice, male, smooth, amiable, said, “Okay, audition time. Digging it so far?”

Zoom shot of the girl’s smile. Moist, white teeth, perfectly aligned. “Sure am.”

“Sure am, Brad. When you’re presenting yourself to a casting agent or anyone else, it’s important to be direct and specific and personal. ”

The girl’s smile altered course, became an ambiguous crescent. “Um, okay.” The camera moved back. Nervous blue eyes. Giggle.

“Take two,” said Brad Dowd.

“Huh?”

“Sure am…”

“Sure, Brad.”

“Sure. Am. Brad.”

The girl’s eyes shifted to the left. “Sure. Am. Brad.”

“Perfect. Okay, go on.”

“With what?”

“Say something.”

“Like what?”

“Improvise.”

“Umm…” Lip-lick. A glance back at battleship-gray walls. “It’s kind of different. Down here.”

“Dig it?”

“Umm…I guess.”

“I. Guess…”

“I guess, Brad.”

“It is different,” said Brad Dowd. “Hermetic. Know what that means?”

Giggle. “Umm, not really.”

“It means isolated and quiet. Away from all the hassle. The Sturm und Drang.”

No response from the girl.

“Know why we’re auditioning you in a hermetic place?”

“Nora said it was serene.”

“Serene,” said Brad. “Sure, that’s a good word. Like one of those meditation things, ohmmmm, Shakti, bodhi vandana, cabalabaloo. Ever do any meditation?”

“I did Pilates.”

“ I. Did. Pilates…”

“Brad.”

Off-screen sigh. “A hermetic place means less distraction. Right?”

“Right- Brad.”

“A hermetic, serene place strips away superfluous elements so it’s easier to find your center. Not like back in class where everyone’s looking and judging. No one will judge you here. Never.”

The girl smiled again.

“What do you think of that?” said Brad.

“It’s good.”

“It’s good?”

“It’s real good.”

“Brad!”

Blue eyes jumped. “Brad.”

“It’s. Good- ”

“It’sgoodBrad. I’m sorry I’m kinda nervous.”

“Now, you interrupted me.”

“Sorry. Brad.”

Ten-second silence. The girl fidgeted.

Brad Dowd said, “Totally forgiven.”

“Thanks. Brad.”

Ten more seconds. The girl worked at relaxing her posture.

“Okay, we’re serene and hermetic and ready to do some serious work. Do you like Sondheim?”

“Um, don’t know him- Brad.”

“Doesn’t matter, we’re not going musical, this is a drama day. Lower your left shoulder strap- make sure it’s the left one because that’s your good side, your right side’s a little weak. Be sure not to take off your whole top, this isn’t porno, we just need to see your undraped posture à la classical sculpture.”

The camera pulled back, showed the girl sitting primly on a folding chair, wearing a skimpy red top held in place by spaghetti straps. Bare, tan, slender legs, advertised by a short, denim skirt. Sandaled feet planted on the ground. High-heeled brown sandals.

“Go ahead,” said Brad.

Looking confused, she reached up and loosened the right strap.

“Left!”

“Sorry, sorry, always had trouble with- sorry, Brad, always had trouble…” She switched to the left, fumbled, lowered.

The camera moved in on smooth, golden shoulder. Drew back to a full-body view.

Fifteen seconds passed.

“You’ve got a beautiful torso.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

“Know what a torso is?”

“The body- Brad.”

“The upper body. Yours is classical. You’re very lucky.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

“Think you’ve also got talent?”

“Umm, I hope so- Brad. ”