Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

She saw me and tensed and looked back at her front door, as if considering escape.

Edgy. Understandable.

I lowered my driver’s window and smiled and showed her my long-expired, utterly irrelevant LAPD consultant badge. Doing that probably doesn’t rise to the level of impersonating an officer but it’s sketchy at best. Especially when I position my hand so it covers my name and title and leads the viewer’s eye to the official-looking departmental seal.

The woman looked where she was supposed to but didn’t comment. Early thirties, delicately built, pretty in a waifish way. She glanced back, again.

I said, “Sorry to alarm you but we’re here to follow up on your trespass case.” Nothing like the plural to beef up one’s status.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “She’s out again? You think she might come back?”

Tight, hoarse voice. I said, “Absolutely not, you have nothing to worry about.” I got out of the car, pocketed the badge.

She folded her arms across her chest. “How can you be sure?”

“She’s deceased.”

“Oh. How?”

“Accident.”

“That’s terrible. She freaked me out but I’d never wish that upon anyone. You came to let me know, Officer?”

“Actually, I’m not a detective, I’m a psychologist.”

Her nose wrinkled. Her arms remained in place. “I don’t understand.”

“In certain cases, we do psychological autopsies. Trying to gather as much information about a death, so we can compile a database and hopefully help other people with similar problems.”

Technically true; I’d advised the crypt on several postmortems. But never at Bill Bernstein’s behest; he had the psychological sensitivity of a bull-moose during rutting season.

“Oh,” she said. “Okay, sure, that’s a good thing. When I was in college I volunteered at a mental health center. I felt so bad for those people, it was really a downer.”

One arm dropped.

I said, “Severe mental illness can be really tough but that doesn’t make what happened to you any easier, Ms.” I smiled again. “Sorry, the file’s in the car.”

“Tina Anastasio.” Down went the second arm. “She’s dead. Sad but predictable I guess. Someone that... I’ve been thinking of her as a threat but I guess she was pretty pathetic. Still, you’re right, it was scary. We just moved here from New York, I still don’t know what I’m — anyway, sorry to hear it turned out so bad for her. What happened?”

“She was committed for a couple of days then released to an outpatient residential facility. Unfortunately, she left there.”

“Figures,” she said. “I saw people in the Bronx, helpless, coming and going and never getting help.” She adjusted her pedometer. “I’d better get moving. If I wait too long the will to exercise will pass.”

“Tina, is there anything you want to add to what you told the police?”

“Like what?”

“Anything that would shed light on Ms. Chase’s mental status — for example, you described her as screaming and digging up dirt. Did she say anything?”

“That’s not in the report?” she said. “What she said?”

“No.”

“Wow. I gave the information to the cops. Figures, I never felt they were really listening to me. You bet, she said something. One word, louder and louder until she was shrieking it. ‘Mother.’  ”

Another guess confirmed. Another so-what.

This time I really did put it to rest, but for occasional gnawing thoughts about Ovid Chase. A few days later — ten days after the death of Zelda Chase — Milo phoned and said, “Got something, not earthshaking but if you’re not busy, how about lunch?”

It was just past ten a.m. I’d finished breakfast at eight-thirty.

Not earthshaking but he wanted a face-to-face.

I said, “Sure, name the place.”

“Yours.”

He walked in toting his battered green not-even-close-to-leather attaché case and dressed for a day off in a gray golf shirt, brown poly slacks worn low to give his gut breathing room, and the eternal desert boots, this pair tan eroded to gray. A loose bit of sole flapped at one toe-end.

He saw me looking at it. “Hey, Rick says they’re a fashion statement, now.”

“Sole-ful, huh?”

He grumbled and loped to the kitchen and began the mandatory fridge-grope.

I said, “Off duty?”

“On duty but a slow day, no need to meet the public. Too damn many slow days recently.”

“Bored?”

“Near-comatose. The citizens of West L.A. are failing to fulfill their homicidal obligations.” He straightened, brushed hair off his forehead, turned toward me. “Rumors are circulating. Not enough crime, too many detectives, time to streamline.”

“You’re protected.”

“Only up to a point. They can’t dump me outright but they can bug me about early retirement. Or try to break down my already fragile psyche by shoving trivial stuff at me.”

“Assaults, robberies, burglaries.”

“If I wanted to fill out reports all day, I’d be working for the government.”

“As opposed to...”

“Continuing to serve a paramilitary organization that makes use of my exceptional people skills, heroic nature, and inductive talents to bring bad guys to justice.”

He bent and searched a lower shelf. “You guys are kinda sparse in the nourishment department... okay, here’s a start.”

Scrambling five eggs with slices of leftover steak and hastily shredded fried chicken, he tossed in onions, mushrooms, bell pepper, celery, and zucchini, topped it all off with spirited dashes of cayenne, garlic salt, and whipping cream.

Moments later he’d plated a shimmering yellow mound the size of a cat, tucked a paper towel under his chin, and sat down. “Where’s the pooch? I’m Pavlov’d to where I need to feed her first.”

“On an errand with Robin.”

“So I caught you at a lonely-guy time.”

“What’s not earthshaking?”

“I owe a favor to a Rampart D.” He shoveled in omelet, chewed, swallowed, repeated. “Damn, forgot fluids.”

I poured him a glass of water and brewed a pot of coffee.

He said, “Sterling service. And you’re not even an actor.” He looked up. “Did that evoke Zelda? Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. We live in L.A., everything’s about performance. And I’m resolved about Zelda.”

“Choosing to be optimistic about the kid? Good.” His eyes drifted leftward as he took another forkful.

Hiding something?

I said, “Earth-not-shaking?”

“Okay, the favor is looking into a Rampart missing. Fifty-eight-year-old woman named Imelda Soriano, lives with her son’s family in Pico-Union. She’s always worked as a housekeeper, has been freelancing for agencies in order to spend more time with her grandkids. Eight days ago she headed to her current job, didn’t return home, hasn’t been heard from since. D II Lorrie Mendez took it as a favor to the family, there’s some sort of connection. Lorrie and I have worked together, she’s a peach of a gal — pardon the gender specificity. She hasn’t made any headway past Imelda maybe being on the first bus of two she takes to work, driver thought so but couldn’t be sure. Driver of the second bus had no idea.”

He wiped his mouth. “Why am I telling you all this? Because Imelda’s job is on my turf, Lorrie hadn’t been able to make contact with the estate manager, and the agency’s attitude was ‘our labor pool is transient, she’s already been replaced.’ ”

I said, “Living with her son’s family is transient?”

“It’s a euphemism, Alex.”

“Immigration issues.”

He nodded. “Lorrie thought maybe I could pull some Westside clout.”