Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

“Maybe Donnie did a threesome with the girls and Davida discovered she liked Jane better than him.”

“And…?”

“And, maybe Newell felt threatened.”

“So he decided to pop her after what…twenty-five years?”

Barnes smiled. “Yeah, it’s thin- but think of this. Williman told us male-to-female’s an easy way to transmit the clap. And Donnie’s male.”

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“You want to interview Newell in hopes he’ll give you lurid details about a threesome.”

“Maybe.” Barnes laughed. Then he turned serious. “No way to bring up gonorrhea with him in a cop-to-cop chat…okay, let’s shift gears: if there was a sexual relationship between Davida and Jane, it could be a motive for Minette being jealous. Jane just moved back to Berkeley about a year ago. After three failed marriages, maybe she wanted something from her youth.”

Amanda regarded her partner. “Didn’t you date Jane?”

“Uh, yeah, but not for long.”

“Why not?”

“She was a piece of work. No such thing as a casual conversation, everything was a debate.”

“Did it end badly?”

“No, it just ended. I stopped calling and she didn’t care.”

“Seeing as there’s no hard feelings, why don’t you ask her about her relationship with Davida instead of asking Newell?”

“Because Davida was murdered and I don’t know how truthful Jane will be with me. I can approach Donnie differently.”

“Cop to cop,” she said. “But you can’t bring up venereal disease.”

Barnes grew silent. “Okay, the whole thing sucks.”

“Hey,” she said, “I like the way your mind works, I’m just trying to keep things organized. Are you really suspicious of Newell?”

“Maybe intrigued is more the right word.”

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac and a flight attendant launched into the usual spiel, pretending they had a choice who to fly with. When the announcements were over, Amanda said, “I like the Davida/Jane thing. I don’t know if it’s relevant but it’s always good to look at close friends first.”

Barnes said, “I reckon we should also think a little bit about what we’re gonna do in LA, especially since the department paid for luxurious transportation. Who’s our contact at LAPD?”

Amanda checked her notes. “Detective Sergeant Marge Dunn. She told me her lieutenant- his name is Decker- is very curious about Marshall Bledsoe.”

“What mischief did that dirtbag pull off there?”

“A local synagogue was ransacked about five years ago and Decker always felt that there was someone behind the scenes.”

Amanda couldn’t help it; she was a Bay Area snob.

San Francisco was a city; LA was a monster. The freeways stretched for miles without a break in the urban ugliness and the traffic never seemed to let up.

At least this time of year, the sky was clear and blue, a welcome change from the fog. Dirty air, but warm enough for the Berkeley detectives to roll down the windows of their compact rental. The tin can wheezed at the slightest hint of an incline. Barnes drove while Amanda navigated. Allowing for ten minutes of getting-lost time, it took them an hour and a quarter to reach the West Valley stationhouse- a square, windowless brick thing. Larger than Berkeley PD, but minus the style.

There she was, Ms. I’m-So-Sophisticated. No matter how hard she fought clichés, Northern Cal – and her own social status- wouldn’t be denied.

She tried to focus on their case, but no new ideas had surfaced since she and Will had deplaned. They walked to the station entrance in silence, and were met in the lobby by Detective Sergeant Marge Dunn.

She looked around forty- tall, big and blond with soft brown eyes and a bright smile. Escorting them up to the detectives’ room, she knocked on the wall to the lieutenant’s cubicle even though the door was open.

The man who waved them in was in his fifties- a fit fifties. A moustachioed redhead with flecks of white in his hair. He wore a blue buttondown shirt, coral silk tie, gray slacks, shiny black wingtips. Amanda thought he could’ve easily been a lawyer. When he stood up, the top of his head wasn’t that far away from the ceiling.

Another big one. She put him at six four, minimum. He extended a huge, freckled hand to her, then to Will.

“Pete Decker,” he said. “Welcome. Have a seat.” He offered them two plastic chairs. “You two want anything to drink?”

“Coffee would be nice,” Barnes said.

“Times two,” Amanda said.

“Pot’s low, I’ll make a fresh one,” Marge Dunn said. “You want some, Loo?”

“Absolutely, thanks,” Decker answered. “And while you’re out there, ask dispatch to send another cruiser by Bledsoe’s house to see if the truck’s back in the driveway.”

Barnes said, “Bledsoe’s gone?”

“Probably out with Mom. I don’t see him leaving town before Thanksgiving.” Decker looked Barnes and Amanda over without making too much of a show of the scrutiny. Crossing long legs, he leaned back in his chair. “I wanted to keep a low profile so we don’t spook him. All the bozo has to do is take out a checkbook, pay his fines and he’s out. We’re hoping he isn’t savvy enough to know that, although if he murdered a state representative, he’s not naïve. What evidence do you have on him?”

“Nothing,” Barnes answered.

Decker smiled. “Well, that’s not good. We need some excuse beyond unpaid parking tickets to bring him in for questioning.”

“Bledsoe’s head of the White Tower Radicals,” Amanda said. “Two days before Davida Grayson’s murder, two White boys egged her on the steps of the state capitol. We think Bledsoe gave that order and maybe more.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” said Decker. “Those two are locked up, right? Have they implicated Bledsoe?”

“No, but Bledsoe doesn’t need to know that,” Barnes said. “Maybe if we scare him enough, we can pry something out of him.”

Marge Dunn came back in with the coffees. “No truck in the driveway.”

Decker said, “Anything else besides Bledsoe on your agenda?”

“One other interview,” Barnes said. “Some bigot named Harry Modell, heads a group called Families Under God. We found three very nasty letters that he wrote to Grayson.”

Amanda said, “If you want us to wait for Bledsoe first before we interview Modell, we can do that. We’ll work around you.”

Decker said, “Someone from West Valley should make the arrest, and if I’m going to give up a detective, you might as well interview Modell and make good use of your time.” He turned to Marge. “How’s your schedule looking?”

“Holiday light,” Marge answered. “I can wait around until he shows. Just need my thermos and my iPod.”

Harry Modell’s address was a trailer park nestled in the oaks of the foothills among miles of unspoiled landscape. Not a hint of a dug-in structure could be seen anywhere. “Happy Wandering Mobile Community” consisted of fifty slots, all occupied, with generators going full blast.

Modell’s slice of LA real estate was Space 34. His TravelRancher was sided in yellow vinyl with white trim. Perched on a flat roof, a dish aimed south. As Barnes and Amanda climbed a makeshift plywood ramp to the front door, they saw TV images blinking through a stingy front window. Barnes knocked on the door, waited an appropriate amount of time, got no answer and knocked again.

A voice from inside told him to go away.

“Police,” Barnes yelled. “We need to speak with you, Mr. Modell.”

The voice, louder, creaky, told him to fuck himself.

Barnes blew out air and looked at his partner. “We can’t force our way inside.”