Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

The Teague residence squatted on a third-acre table of what looked to be swept dirt. Eight-foot chain link gave the property a prison-yard feeling. Something in common with his ex-wife: They both liked being boxed off.

But this house was dark, no outdoor lighting. Milo used his penlight to sweep the property. The narrow beam made it a lengthy exercise, alighting on windows and doors, lingering long enough to arouse suspicion, but neither that nor the continuing hound concerto brought anyone out to check.

The flashlight continued to roam, found a GUARD DOG ON DUTY sign, but no animal materialized to back up the warning. A chain heavy enough to moor a yacht tied the gate to the fence. A fist-sized padlock completed the welcome. The house was a basic box with a face as flat as Spike’s but none of my pooch’s personality. Pale stucco on top, dark wood siding below. A few feet away sat a prefab carport. A long-bed truck with grossly oversized tires and chromium pipes rested in front of the opening. Too tall to fit inside.

“No squawk box, no bell,” said Milo, scrutinizing the gate.

“Different tax bracket than Jane’s.”

“Could make a fellow irritable.” He rattled the chain, called out, “Hello?” got no response, pulled out his cell phone, dialed, waited. Five rings, then a voice on the other end barked loud. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear.

“Mr. Teague – Sir, please don’t hang up – This is Detective Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Force… Yes, sir, it’s for real, it’s about your daughter… Lauren… Yes, sir, I’m afraid I am… Sir, please don’t hang up – This isn’t a prank… Please come outside, we’re right in front of your house… Yes, sir, at the gate – Please, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He pocketed the phone. “Woke him up and he’s not pleased.”

We waited. Two minutes, three, five. Milo muttered, “Tobacco Road,” checked his watch.

Still no lights on in the little house. Finally, the door opened and I saw the outline of a figure standing in the opening.

Milo called out, “Mr. Teague? We’re over here.”

No answer. Twenty seconds passed. Then: “Yeah, I see you.” Gravel voice. Thicker than I remembered, but I didn’t remember much about Lyle Teague. “Whyn’t you show some I.D.?”

Milo flashed the badge and waved it. The skimpy moon provided little help, and I wondered what Teague could see from this far.

“Do it again.”

Milo’s black brows rose. “Yes, sir.” Another wave.

“How do I know it’s not a Tijuana special?”

“Department’s not that hard up, sir,” said Milo, forcing himself to keep his voice light.

Teague took a few steps closer. Silent steps. Bare feet, I could see them now. Saw the barrel of his bare chest. Wearing nothing but shorts. One hand tented his eyes, the other remained pinioned to his side. “I’ve got a shotgun here, so if you’re not who you claim to be, this is fair warning. If you are, don’t lose your cool, I’m just protecting myself.”

Before the speech was complete, Milo had stepped in front of me. His hand was under his jacket, and his neck was taut. “Put the shotgun down, sir. Go back inside your house, phone the West L.A. Division at a number I’m going to give you, and check me out: Milo Sturgis, Detective Three, Homicide.” He recited his badge number, then the station’s exchange.

Teague’s shotgun arm flexed, but the weapon remained sheathed in darkness.

Milo said, “Mr. Teague, put the shotgun down, now. We don’t want any accidents.”

“Homicide.” Teague sounded uncertain.

“That’s right, sir.”

“You’re saying… This is about Lauren? You’re saying she…?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Teague.”

“Shit. What the hell happened ?”

“We need to sit down and talk, sir. Please put down the shotgun.”

Teague’s gun arm remained pressed to his side. He stumbled closer, catching just enough moonlight to limn his flesh. But the light didn’t reach above his shoulders, and he turned into a headless man: white torso, arms, legs, making their way toward us unsteadily.

“Fuck,” whispered Milo, stepping back. “Put the gun down, sir. Now.”

“Lauren…” Teague stopped, spit, kneeled. Placed the shotgun on the ground, straightened, shot both arms up at the sky. Laughed and spit again. Close enough so I could hear the plink of saliva hitting dirt.

“Lauren – Lord, Lord, this is fucked .”

He made his way over to the gate, head down, arms stiff and swinging. Reaching into a shorts pocket, he took a long time to produce a key, tried to spring the padlock, fumbled around the hole, cursed, began punching the chain link.

Milo said, “Let me help you with that, sir.”

Teague ignored him and gave the lock another stab, with no more success. Breathing hard. I could smell his sweat, vinegary, overlaid with the rotted malt of too many beers. He pounded the fence again, cursed raggedly. Getting a closer look at him sprang a memory latch in my head. Same face, but his features had coarsened and his eyes had regressed to piggish slits. A clot of scar tissue weighed down on the right eye. Still bearded with a full head of long, wavy hair, but the strands were gray and drawn back in a ponytail that dangled over one beefy shoulder, and the once-barbered facial pelt was an unruly bramble.

As he attacked the fence his biceps bunched and his chest swelled. Big, slablike muscles but slackened – drained of bulk, like goatskins emptied of wine.

“Give that to me,” said Milo.

Teague ceased punching, stared at the lock, panted, tried once more to fit the key into the hole. His knuckles were bloody, and wild hairs, pale and brittle as tungsten filament, had come loose from the ponytail. The shotgun, lying in the dirt like a felled branch, might’ve made him feel younger, sharper.

Finally, he succeeded in springing the lock, ripped the chain free, and flung it behind him. It clattered in the dirt, and he yanked the gate open, holding his hands out defensively, letting us know he didn’t want to be comforted.

“Inside,” he said, hooking a thumb at his house. “Fuck if I’m going to let any of these bastards see it.” Squinting at me, he stared, and I prepared myself for recognition. But he turned his back on both of us and began marching toward his front door.

We walked along with him.

Milo said, “By the bastards you mean the neighbors?”

Teague grunted.

“Neighbor troubles?” asked Milo.

“Why do you think I came out carrying? If the assholes were human, they’d be neighbors. They’re fucking animals. Couple of months ago they poisoned my Rottweiler. Tossed in meat laced with antifreeze, the damn dog got kidney failure and started shitting green. Since the summer we’ve had three drive-bys. All those shitty apartments crammed with low life. Fucking wetbacks, cholos, gangbangers – I’m not prejudiced, hired plenty of them in my day, for the most part they worked their asses off. But that scum, over there?” His lower jaw shot out and beard hairs bristled. “I’m living in a war zone – this used to be a decent neighborhood.”

The shotgun was in reach. Milo got to it first, emptied the weapon, pocketed the shells.

Teague laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not blowing anyone’s head off. Yet.” He stared at me again, looked puzzled, turned away.

“Yet,” said Milo. “That’s not too comforting, sir.”

“It’s not my goddamn job to comfort you.” Teague stopped, placed his hands on his hips, spit into the dirt, resumed walking. The shorts rode lower, and strands of white pubic hair curled above his waistline. I remembered the way he’d dressed to showcase his body. “Your job is to find the low-life motherfucker who killed my daughter and bust his fuckin’ ass.”