Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

He put his sandwich down. “That so? Her and the guy from Cleveland being named Humperdinck would be more impressive, but let’s go with that, say your Zelda was my Zina’s daughter. You still end up with two women decades apart. Even if I could connect you with the family and I can’t, you’d be unlikely to learn anything. We’re not talking a close-knit bunch — only that brother ever bothered to call me and he did it once. And when he talked about Zina, it was kind of... clinical. That’s the reason I felt she’d been an outcast.”

He smiled. “This brings back memories. Guess that’s what you get, talking to a psychologist.”

Despite framing lunch as my treat, Ott tried to pay. “Forget it, Doctor, what I gave you wasn’t worth the water.”

I had Elizabeth wrap my sandwich and threw down enough cash to make her beam. Ott said, “Fine, you win,” and I walked him to a little blue Mazda RX.

We shook hands again, a bit less energetically.

“Good luck, Doctor.”

“Thanks. Do you recall Zina’s address?”

“Man, you don’t let go. Wetherly Drive between Beverly and Third, round the corner from the Four Seasons, but you won’t find it. Couple of years ago, someone put up a huge condo development.”

Couple of years ago.

He’d taken the time to drive by.

Back in my office, I phoned Sherry Andover and told her about the colchicine.

She said, “Herbals? Okay, thanks for the tip. Only thing we ever find around here is dope, not yuppie stuff, but I’ll check. Did Judy reach you?”

“Judy who?”

“Judy Meers, at the men’s place. She told me she had something to pass along.”

“Any idea what?”

“Not a clue,” said Andover. “I’m not one for prying.”

Judith Meers said, “Sorry, I lost your number, Sherry gave it to me, I was just about to call.”

“Appreciate it. What’s up?”

“After you were here I asked around. No one remembered Zelda until this morning when one of our alumni stopped by to donate clothing and said they’d done some drinking together. More important for you, he claims to have met her son.”

“When did that happen?”

“I tried to pin him down time-wise but the best he could say was when he lived here, which was around three years ago.”

Shortly after the show’s cancellation. Shortly before the Central cop had seen her living on the street.

She slid down fast.

“What’s this man’s name and how can I reach him?”

“We know him as Chet Brett but I doubt that’s genuine. He claims he’s Norwegian and he does speak with a little bit of accent. Reaching him is going to be tricky because he lives out of his car. I asked him how I could get in touch but he ignored me and left.”

“Donating clothing,” I said.

“He does it once in a while, I suspect he dives Goodwill bins. But, still, altruism’s a good sign, right?”

“It’s a step,” I said. “What kind of car does he drive?”

“An old green one. Sorry, I’m not into makes.”

“Any idea where he parks?”

“I saw him once, not far from us, east on Sunset. A few blocks west of downtown. There’s a couple of vacant lots near a building supply place. I was driving from campus and he was sitting on the hood of his car and drinking.”

“Thanks, Judith.”

“There is one thing that might help you find him. He’s not exactly... typical.”

How many five-foot-tall, homeless Norwegian immigrants claiming to be ex-merchant-marines could there be out there?

When I called Milo and gave him the details, he said, “Chet Brett. About as Nordic as tostadas.”

“You’re not into lutefisk with a side of refried?”

“Yum... let’s see.” Click click click. “Got a Chester Ernest Brett in Saugus, six one, two sixty, Caucasian... a Chetley Armando Brett, Compton, eighteen years old, black, five nine, one forty... Chester NMI Brett-Lopez, Malibu, Hispanic, six foot, one seventy, twenty-five. Your guy into clever disguises? Maybe walks on his knees?”

I said, “The way things are going, I’m ready to join the circus to find out.”

“That bad, huh? You hear from Dub Ott?”

“Just talked to him.” I summarized the meeting.

He said, “Pastrami? You could gain weight on this one — no, scratch that, you probably sat there exercising iron control and took the damn thing to go, right?”

“Blanche digs nitrites as much as you do.”

“I find that doubtful... so, no obvious link between Zelda and Zina except for the Smith thing.”

“It’s thin but it’s something.”

“I do find myself intrigued.”

“Really?”

“Call it empathy, Alex. Known otherwise as when you’re up a creek at least be nice to your pals. I’ll do some checking, maybe Dub missed something.”

I hung up thinking: dead mother, dead daughter.

The worst kind of family tradition.

Doing nothing chews at me and can lead me to bad places. I sat in my office, flooded with ugly outcomes. When that grew unbearable, I left Robin a note and drove to Echo Park, looking for a five-foot Norwegian living in a pea-green jalopy.

The vacant lot Judith Meers had described was fenced, with a construction notice hanging from the chain link. No sign of man or car up and down Sunset.

I didn’t make another try but for the next three days I switched futility channels, shifting my daily run to lower Bel Air. Ending up on St. Denis Lane and passing Enid DePauw’s spread before circling back.

Tree-cooled streets and gentle slopes provided a nice workout and allowed me to rationalize. I met up with squirrels, rabbits, feral cats grown chubby on gourmet trash. On the third day, I locked eyes with a stray dog that turned out to be a runty coyote hybrid. Mangy and feisty, he stood his ground for a few seconds before slipping into a thicket of pines, the only remnant of his presence a faint thrum of foliage.

Easy to disappear, here. I wondered if Zelda had hidden herself before scaling Enid DePauw’s wall.

Living rough, with only a candy bar for sustenance, had she grown hungry and reached for an onion-like bulb sprouting in the greenery?

The pain would’ve blossomed slowly but steadily. How long had it taken her muddled mind to figure out something had gone terribly wrong? To lead her to seek refuge in a stranger’s backyard.

How long had it taken her to die?

For all that zoology, the only humans I came across were motorists at the wheels of German and British cars and uniformed maids walking fluffy dogs and chatting with one another.

On the fourth day, I stayed home, stretched, and tried to recall some long-unused karate moves. Watch out, Chuck Norris.

After feeding the fish, showering and changing, I got in the Seville and drove back to St. Denis Lane.

This time I continued past the DePauw estate. A hundred yards up, the road slimmed and picked up grade. As I continued north, homesites shifted from flat acreage to wildly optimistic hillside perches. Less than three miles later, I was within walking distance from the ranch house on Bel Azura Drive.

The two properties Zelda had trespassed were closer to each other than I’d have expected. Had she focused on this area, specifically?

Given her mental state, no reason to think intent was a relevant concept.

I made the turn, anyway.

Bel Azura radiated the same treeless sterility and eye-bleaching glare. I retraced Milo’s cruise up the street, reached the cul-de-sac and turned around just as he had, glided past the trespass house just as a young woman stepped out the front door.

She was ready for her own run, in leopard-spot leggings, a black jersey top, a pink sun visor, and pink-trimmed Nikes. Long dark hair was tied in a ponytail. A pedometer was strapped to one ankle.