Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

I hung up.

I went to the Claremont that evening after work. Parking on the street to avoid a sixteen-dollar valet charge, I hiked up Tunnel Road on foot, passing Rennert’s tennis club to reach the minty glow of a marquee welcoming guests of the Lamorinda Women’s Book Society Autumn Cotillion.

The creamy tiers of the hotel rose tilting from the hillside, out of scale and lost in time, like some elderly politician who will not die. I’d been inside, years ago, for a Cal donor event, where I was trotted out and made to pose for photos with the boosters. Hometown hero, full-court general, savior. Folks had faith in me, back then. Maybe they thought they’d be getting a collector’s item, something with eBay value or at least worthy of a place on the den wall, next to their old-timey yellow-and-blue pennants.

The lobby had since been spruced up with jewel tones and aluminum tubing. In the main ballroom, the dance was in full swing. Teenage girls in ball gowns and boys in slouchy suits spilled into the lobby, gabbing and taking pictures.

At the reception desk, I badged, asked for Emilio.

In short order I was sitting in a back office across the desk from Emilio’s boss, Cassandra Spitz.

“You understand I can’t just tell you that,” she said.

“I wouldn’t ask unless it was important,” I said.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But you don’t stay in business for a hundred years by giving out the names of your guests.”

“Nice job with the remodel, by the way.”

She grinned. She appeared to be enjoying the diversion from her usual workweek drudgery. “Thank you, Deputy. I can tell you that we had a variety of events taking place that weekend. You could try asking me about those in broad terms.”

“I’m asking.”

She typed, read from her screen. “Let’s see... There was the Ellis-MacDonald wedding in the Empire Ballroom, on Saturday. Cocktails for the Berkeley Public Library Foundation, Sunday evening in the Sonoma.”

“What about earlier in the week?”

“Wednesday through Saturday, we hosted the annual meeting of the California Psychological Association.”

I said, “The guest in room four fifteen was here for that.”

“I couldn’t say.”

I showed her a photo of Rennert. “What about him?”

Her smile vanished.

“Was he part of the conference?” I asked.

“No.”

“He was here, though.”

She stared warily at the photo. “This gentleman — I’m sorry, I don’t know his name.”

“Walter Rennert.”

“Mr. Rennert came to the hotel and requested to speak to one of the guests.”

“The individual in room four fifteen. Doctor...”

She smiled. Nice try.

I smiled. “When was this?”

“Friday evening. Around six thirty.”

That fit with the phone log. He’d run out of patience. “Can I see the CCTV?”

“We only keep the last ten days.”

“Okay. Rennert shows up and asks to speak to an individual, who may or may not be the individual from room four fifteen, who may or may not have been here for the conference. Did he say what he wanted to see this person about?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Our staff offered to deliver a message to the guest. Mr. Rennert got extremely agitated and began demanding to know the guest’s room number. I came out to try and resolve the situation. I could tell he was intoxicated.”

That fit, too. “Were you aware that he’d been trying to call the guest?”

“Not right then. Later one of the desk clerks told me she’d patched him through earlier in the day.”

“Eighteen times,” I said.

Her eyes saucered. “Oh.”

I said, “Were you able to resolve it?”

“Not in the least. He walked away from me. I thought he’d gone, so I went back to my office. But apparently he started poking his head into the conference rooms, one by one, until he found who he was looking for.”

“And then?”

“There was an incident,” she said.

“What kind of incident?”

“Yelling, mostly.”

“Did it get physical?”

She shook her head. “Security asked him to leave and he did.”

“What were they yelling about?”

“Not they,” she said. “Him. It was completely one-sided.”

“Sounds like a night to remember.”

She shrugged that off. “A hundred years, Deputy. It wouldn’t make the list.”

She typed something, then got up, adjusting the angle of her screen. “Sorry to do this, but I have to go check on the kitchen. Unless you have more questions.”

“Thanks very much for your time.”

“You’re welcome. Can you find your way out?”

“I think I can manage.”

She left me alone.

You don’t stay in business for a hundred years by having a shitty relationship with local law enforcement. Cassandra Spitz had moved her screen just enough for me to see a page from the hotel’s electronic registry.

The booking ran from Wednesday, September 6, through Saturday, September 9, for a total of three nights. The guest had been given room four fifteen — nonsmoking, junior suite, king bed, single occupancy — at the conference rate.

I wrote down the name. While that probably would have sufficed for me to track him down, conveniently enough, the registry entry listed a cellphone number, so I wrote that down, too. The number had a 310 area code: Los Angeles.

Rennert with a jones for a fellow shrink.

To learn why, I’d have to call up this Alex Delaware dude.

Dr. Alex Delaware didn’t have a personal website, but he’d merited joint full clinical professorships at USC’s Department of Psychology and med school. I found his faculty page. He specialized in children: anxiety, pain control, trauma, custody; he’d published extensively on the effects of chronic and terminal disease. He belonged to a handful of professional societies, consulted to Western Pediatric Medical Center, had won a graduate teaching award.

More interesting, he served as a police consultant.

At the CPA annual meeting, he’d delivered a lecture titled “Pediatric Forensic Evaluation: Separating Fact from Fiction.”

I called his office, expecting a receptionist or voicemail.

He picked up with a simple “Hello.”

I introduced myself.

“Alameda,” he said. Mellow voice, young-sounding for a guy with all that paper.

“I have some questions for you about Walter Rennert.”

Hoping for a reaction, getting none, I went on: “I understand you had a run-in with him recently.”

He said, “Would you mind giving me your badge number, please?”

I didn’t have a whole lot of standing. I complied.

“I’m going to have a friend of mine call your office.” His voice had taken on some steel. Still mellow, still even, but assertive without being abrasive. Someone who could hold his ground with a ranting drunk.

I said, “When do you think you’ll be getting back to me, Doctor?”

“After my friend clears you.”

Too mellow? Maybe he’d follow through. Maybe he wouldn’t.

I said, “Sure, thanks.”

A short while later Vitti came out to see me. “I just got pinged by some lieutenant at LAPD wanting to know if you’re legit.”

“For a case,” I said.

“Yeah, huh.” He scratched his pate. “Anyhow, I told him you’re a bastard.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

“My pleasure.”

I phoned Delaware. “Are we okay to talk?”

“If you can make it quick. I have a patient in a few minutes.”

“How did you know Dr. Rennert?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “Not personally.”

“It sounds like he knew you.”

“He knew who I was, but that’s as far as it went,” Delaware said. “I haven’t had any contact with him in twenty years. More.”