Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

“This is Adam. Shawna? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

“They’re reopening Shawna? Unreal. Did something happen – did they finally find her?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing that dramatic. Her name came up during another investigation.”

“Investigation of what?”

“Are you still a journalist, Mr. Green?”

Laughter. “A journalist? As in working for the Cub ? No, I graduated. I’m a freelance write – Scratch that, that’s pretentious, I write ad copy. ‘Golden Dewdrops, an organic breath of morning freshness.’ Half of that was mine.”

“Which half?”

“You don’t want to know – So what’s up with Shawna? What’s this other investigation all about?”

“Sorry, I can’t get into that,” I said. “But-”

“But I’m supposed to talk to you.” He laughed again. “Psychologist, huh? What is this, some kind of FBI profiling thing? Doing a special for A & E?”

“No, I really am working with LAPD. I was reviewing Shawna’s case and came across your coverage in the Cub . You were more thorough than anyone else and-”

“Now you’re butt-kissing. Yeah, I was good, wasn’t I? Not that there was much competition. No one else seemed to give a damn. Too bad Shawna’s dad wasn’t a senator.”

“Big-time apathy?”

“I won’t say that, but it wasn’t exactly a task force offensive either. The unicops did their thing, but they’re no geniuses. And the guy LAPD assigned was an old fart – Riley.”

“Leo Riley.”

“Yeah. Ready to retire – I always felt he was phoning it in.”

“Where’d you get the material for your coverage?”

“Hung around the unicop station – mostly watched them work the phones and tack up flyers. When I bugged them, they treated me like a pain-in-the-ass kid – which I was, but so what, I was still covering it. I got the distinct feeling I was the only one making a deal out of it. Except for Mrs. Yeager, of course – Shawna’s mother. Not that it did her much good – they shined her on too. Finally, she started complaining, and some dean and the head unicop met with her and told her they were really on it. She didn’t think much of Riley either.”

He paused. “I think Shawna’s dead – I think she was dead soon after she disappeared.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. If she was alive, why wouldn’t she have turned up by now?”

“Could we talk about this face-to-face?” I said. “Breakfast, lunch, or whatever?”

“LAPD’s buying?”

“I’m buying.”

“Cool,” he said. “Sure, my screen’s blank, anyway – can’t gear myself up for a go at ‘Ginkoba Ginger Gumdrops.’ Let’s see, what time is it – ten. Make it brunch, eleven. I’m over in Baja Beverly Hills – Edris and Pico, east of Century City. There’s a Noah’s Bagel right down the block – nope, too dinky. How about the kosher deli on Pico near Robertson?”

“Sure, I know the place.”

“Or maybe I should go for something even pricier.”

“The deli’s fine.”

“Yada yada,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get an extra sandwich to go.”

I arrived ten minutes early, secured a rear booth, and nibbled sour pickles while I waited. The deli was clean and quiet. Two elderly couples bent over soup, one young, bewigged Orthodox Jewish mother corralled five kids under the age of seven, and a Mexican weight lifter in bicycle tights and a sleeveless sweatshirt trained on chopped liver and a rye heel and a pitcher of iced tea.

Adam Green showed up at 11:05. He was a tall, lanky, dark-haired kid wearing a black V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, and regular-cut blue jeans that transformed to easy-fit baggy on his ectomorphic frame. Size-thirteen sneakers, gangly limbs, a face that would’ve been teen-idol handsome but for not quite enough chin. His hair was short and curly, and his sideburns dropped an inch lower than Milo’s. A tiny gold hoop pierced his left eyebrow. He spotted me immediately, plopped down hard, and grabbed a pickle.

“Killer traffic. This city is starting to entropize.” He bit down, chewed, grinned.

“L.A. native?” I asked.

“Third generation. My grandfather remembers horses in Boyle Heights and vineyards on Robertson.” Finishing the pickle, he lifted a mustard jar, rolled it between his palms. “Okay, now that we’re auld acquaintances, let’s cut to the chase: What’s really up with Shawna?”

“Just what I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Another investigation. But why? ’Cause some other girl dropped off the face of the earth?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Something like that… I always thought it would make a good book, Shawna’s story. Death of a Beauty Queen – something like that. You’d need an ending, though.”

A waitress came over. I ordered a burger and a Coke, and Green asked for a triple-decker pastrami-turkey-corned beef deluxe with extra mayo and a large root beer.

“And to go?” I said.

He showed lots of teeth and slapped his back against the booth. “Don’t think you’re safe yet.”

When we were alone again, he looked ready to ask another question, but I got there first. “So you think Shawna was dead soon after she went missing?”

“Actually, at first I thought she’d gone off with a guy or something. You know – a fling. Then when she didn’t show up, I thought she was dead. Am I right?”

“Why a fling?”

“’Cause people do that. Am I right about her probably being dead?”

“Could be,” I said. “Did you learn anything about Shawna that you didn’t put in your articles?”

He didn’t answer, had another go at the mustard jar.

“What?” I said.

He blew out air. “It’s like this. Her mom was a nice person. Basic – as in countrified. I don’t think she’d been to L.A. in years – she kept talking about how noisy it was. So here she was, someone who’d grown up in this hick town, raised a daughter all by herself. Shawna’s dad died when she was little – some kind of trucker. Just like a country song. And the daughter turns out to be gorgeous, goes on to become a beauty queen.”

“Miss Olive.”

“Shawna’s idea – entering pageants. Her mom never pushed her – at least that’s what she said, and I believe her. There was something about Mrs. Yeager. Straight. Salt of the earth. She supported herself and Shawna waiting tables and cleaning houses. They lived in a mobile home. Shawna was her main source of pride, then Shawna wins that Olive thing, announces she hates Santo Leon, is going up to L.A. to study at the U. Mrs. Yeager lets her go, but she worries all the time. About L.A., the crime. Then it happens – her worst nightmare comes true. I mean, can you think of anything worse?”

I shook my head.

He said, “Mrs. Yeager was destroyed – completely. It was pathetic. She comes up here by herself, no money, not a clue as to what things are like. The U – Just the size of it scared her. She hadn’t made any plans to stay anywhere, ended up in a crappy motel. Near Alvarado, for God’s sake. She was taking two-hour bus rides to Westwood, taking her life in her hands walking around MacArthur Park at night. No one’s giving her guidance, no one’s giving her the time of day. Finally, she gets her purse snatched and the U puts her in a dorm room. But still, no one’s really paying her any attention. I was the only one.”

He frowned. “To be honest, I went after the story in the beginning because I thought it was a cool human-interest hook. Then, after I met Mrs. Yeager, I forgot about that – Mostly I sat there while she cried. It kind of soured me on journalism.”