Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“Bet you don’t.” Giggle. “Who’s it for?”

“Um... says here P. Duke.”

New voice, male. Stentorian. “Who’s there, baby?”

“UPS for you, Daddy.”

“I didn’t order anything from UPS.”

Reed: “Are you P. Duke? Shipment from Zappos?”

Duke: “What the hell’s Zappos?”

Deandra Demarest: “That’s clothing, Daddy. They got cool stuff.”

“I didn’t order any clothing.”

Reed: “Says here this address, P.—”

Duke: “I know what it says but it’s not mine. ”

Reed: “Are you rejecting the shipment, sir?”

“I sure as hell didn’t order any—”

Deandra Demarest: “Why don’t we see what’s in it, Daddy? Maybe it’s a cute shirt or somethin’.”

Another giggle.

Phil Duke, softer: “You got me a shirt?”

“We-ell... don’t you like surprises, Daddy?”

“I mean sure, baby, but—”

Reed: “Sir, if you could just sign here on this screen, I’ve got a whole bunch more deliveries.”

“Yeah, sure, but I’m not paying for something I didn’t order.”

“Sir,” said Reed, “like the lady said, it could be a gift.”

Tyrell Lincoln’s head rose, as if his neck had been elevated by a mechanical hoist. He rose to a crouch. One hand took hold of the door handle.

Waiting for the code word.

Duke: “Where do I sign?”

Reed: “Right here, this little machine.”

Duke: “Everyone’s got a stupid computer — hey, where you going, baby? We got to see if you actually—”

“I need something to open it, Daddy.”

Reed: “Sign here, too, please, sir.”

“You need two?”

“Yes, sir.”

Grumble. “Like I need a shirt. ”

“Hey, sir,” said Reed. “Think of it as early Christmas. ”

Lincoln bolted the van.

Monchen and I hurried to the front, squinting as we shared the passenger window.

Too dark to see much but the earplugs told plenty, spitting out a grunting, panting scuffle.

Duke: “Hey— wha— the—”

Deandra Demarest, using a new voice, shrill as a screech owl. “Let go of him, you fuck! Let go you you fu— Daaaa-deeee!”

I rolled down the window.

Monchen said, “Is that okay? Don’t you need to be authorized?”

Talking right at my nostrils. Full-on taco breath from his food-truck dinner.

More than a desire for fresh air led me to stick my head out.

Monchen edged closer, muttering, “Oh, man, it’s happening.”

Tyrell Lincoln had positioned himself five feet from the front door, half crouched, hands out, as if ready to receive a pass.

Inert, as he watched the manic ballet in the doorway.

Moe Reed grappling with Phil Duke. Short struggle. Reed’s massive right arm clamped on Phil Duke’s wrist, flinging a good-sized man outward with the ease of someone flicking a dandelion.

Duke’s body beelined to Tyrell Lincoln’s left hand. Lincoln, without shifting any other part of his body, snagged Duke like a relay runner grabbing a baton. In a breath, Duke’s arms had been bent behind his back and he was facedown on his perfect lawn, cuffed.

Reed, no longer visible, had entered the house.

From his wire: “Police! Freeze! Police! Don’t move!”

“Go away!”

“Put that down now. ”

“You’re a gangster, fuck you !”

“Put it down—”

“Fuck you—”

“Put it down and don’t move — no don’t come closer.”

“Gangster! Liar! Motherfucker!”

“Put that down! Freeze!”

A new sound intruded. Wall of noise that clarified as multiple voices. No words ascertainable, just a sawmill buzz of speech, growing louder.

Night of the locusts.

Reed’s voice louder: “Drop that now!”

“Fuck y—”

The roar separated into shouting. Reed, Milo, Deandra Demarest.

Reed, the loudest: “Drop it! Drop it! Drop it now!”

“I’ll fucking cut—”

Clap of gunshot.

Five more.

Milo: “Shit.”

Silence. Scratchy noise.

Reed: “She’s gone?”

Milo: “Yeah.”

Marlin Moroni’s basso: “For a box cutter. Stupid bitch.”

Binchy: “That’s what the 9/11 terrorists used. Main thing is you’re okay, Moe.”

A long stretch of audible breathing.

Milo said, “Who shot?”

Silence.

Then, a new voice. Girlish, tremulous.

Ashley Burgoyne said, “Did I do the wrong thing?”

I got out of the van.

Eric Monchen said, “Hey, hold on,” but he followed me.

We passed Tyrell Lincoln standing over Phil Duke’s prone form.

Duke whined. “My arms hurt like a bastard.”

No concern about Baby.

Lincoln said, “Just hold it together, man.”

Monchen said, “Need me to watch him, Sergeant?”

“I’m fine.”

Monchen and I continued toward the front door. He said, “I don’t get how you’re authorized to do all this.”

I said, “Luck and interpersonal skills.”

Moe Reed stood in front of the doorway, big arms dangling, impassive.

He said, “Sorry, Doc, no entry, they’re still clearing room by room.”

Monchen stepped in front of me. “I’ll help clear.”

Reed didn’t move. “Not necessary, everyone’s got a gun out, we don’t want surprises.”

“Oh,” said Monchen. “So what should I do?”

“No one’s called it in, yet. You know the code, right?”

“Sure,” said Monchen. Far from certain. “Should I call from the van?”

Reed said, “Good idea.”

“Ashley actually shot her?”

“She did.”

“Damn,” said Monchen. “That’s heavy.”

Reed looked at the van.

“Roger,” said Monchen. Saluting, he ran off.

Reed said, “Tomorrow it’s going to hit him. Not to mention her.”

The obvious question: What about you?

The obvious thing to say: nothing.

Maybe Reed was being considerate, maybe he shifted his weight to the left unconsciously. Either way, the space he created allowed me a view of Deandra Demarest’s body.

Mercilessly lit by an overhead fixture, she lay facedown on a brown carpet stained with red. Wearing what Binchy had described earlier: a black top that could’ve come from a bikini but might’ve been a bra, and cut-off denim shorts revealing crescents of butt-cheek. Bare feet. Clean feet. Blond hair fanning. Black polish on her fingernails. Not even a chip.

When I leaned in a bit closer, Reed didn’t stop me. Details seeped in.

Red sump at the base of the skull.

Five additional blood blossoms grouped near the center of her spine.

Rookie or not, Ashley Burgoyne was a crack shot.

Everything on tape, justification for the shooting seemed obvious. Though the damage situated on the back might prove problematic if someone complained.

I heard footsteps from the rear of the house, shouts of “Police, show yourself.” Then: “Clear here.”

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

A black-and-white had pulled behind the UPS van. Tyrell Lincoln led Phil Duke away.

Reed shook his head. “I was trying to keep her alive, Doc. Even with the cutter, I could’ve handled her.”

I said, “Tough decision on Ashley’s part.”

“If she actually made a decision.”

“Reflex move?”

“Happens. She’ll have to deal.” He looked over his shoulder. “L.T. let her clear. Maybe therapy, huh?”

Burgoyne stepped from the rear of the house, looking far too young and dispirited.

Reed said, “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Shaky voice. “Um... totally all clear. I’m supposed to wait in the van, now.”

“Then that’s what you do.”

She looked at Reed, lower lip trembling.