Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

He shifted his weight from one cane to the other. “I can’t see tearing down a perfectly good — but you don’t care about that.” Corn niblet smile. “I’d shake your hand, but I need both of mine for balance. Charles McCorkle. How can I help you?”

“How long have you lived here, Mr. McCorkle?”

“Forty-two years, going on forty-three. Had only two neighbors before those people. The first was Sidney Lanscomb, the director. He sold it to Earl Muggeridge, the Cadillac dealer. Both were all-about-the-money types but they had decent enough families, I believe Lanscomb had a son who went to Yale... the children played with each other, we even had lemonade stands. Not that anyone but our households bought or sold the stuff. The point is, sir, this was a neighborhood. Furthermore, the house they destroyed was a classic Paul Williams Georgian Revival. Gorgeous thing, very well balanced, with a normal wrought-iron fence with quite acceptable finials, the air moved through freely, the environment was fresh. Then they came and sealed everything up. For what purpose, God only knows. Maybe Allah knows — am I allowed to say that? Or is there a new amendment to the Constitution that has eluded me since I retired from the practice of law?”

I slipped Imelda’s picture through a gate slat.

“Certainly I recognize her, one of their domestics. In the odd event our paths crossed, she’d always smile and say hello. I say odd because I don’t get out much. Give me my books and my Amati — that’s a violin — and I’m content. She’s the one missing? For how long?”

“Nine days. She left for work, didn’t show up here, never returned home.”

“Oh, dear,” said McCorkle. “That doesn’t sound promising does it? And you think they did something?”

“Not at all,” I said. “We’re just trying to retrace her steps.”

“Where was the home she never returned to?”

“Pico-Union.”

“Ooh,” said Charles McCorkle. “Did she drive a car?”

“She took the bus.”

“Exactly what I assumed. Now, think about it, young man: A bus from there to here would pass through slums, ghettos, whatever you choose to call them. Why would you think something happened here?”

“We’re being thorough, Mr. McCorkle.”

He passed the photo back. “Can’t help you, sorry. Darn shame, she seemed like a nice girl.”

“Did you ever notice her talking to anyone?”

“Never,” said McCorkle. “Except for other domestics.”

As if that didn’t count.

I said, “Any domestics in particular?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you aware who they worked for?”

“Why would I be? They’re all the same to me. Walking dogs, shooting the breeze with other domestics walking dogs... I don’t believe I ever saw this girl with a dog.” He glanced across the street. “Does that culture allow dogs?” He winked. “Or do they eat them?”

I said, “Any other problem neighbors?”

“Besides them ? I’ve had no personal run-ins, but one does hear more and more of beautiful classic homes destroyed only to be replaced by grotesqueries.”

His eyes sailed past me. “Look at that gate. Hermetic. Plastic. When you were inside, did you spot anything aesthetically redeemable?”

“I’m no expert, Mr. McCorkle. Thanks for your time.”

“ I should thank you. Now I can tell my meddling children that I got my daily exercise.”

As he began the tortured climb back to his house, I returned to the Seville. Just as I shifted into drive I realized what had been missing from the conversation.

He’d been eager to gossip, but had made no mention of Zelda’s death.

Too trivial an event to merit neighborhood murmurings? Not that this was really a neighborhood, because isolation is the ultimate luxury, and despite McCorkle’s reminiscence I doubted it had ever been much different.

But still, it felt sad.

A brief, tortured life. Its termination not even a blip.

Over the next few days, with no illusions of success, I continued running on St. Denis Lane.

With two women dead, what could it hurt to look around?

Of course, I knew the real reason: my chronic issues with unfinished business.

When helping patients assess their problems, I often use life-disruption as a yardstick. If symptoms don’t disrupt your life, don’t worry about them.

I convinced myself I was doing a fine job maintaining a healthy balance: making time for Robin, doting a bit more on Blanche because our morning walks had lost out to aerobic reconnaissance.

I organized my files, cleaned the garage, spent half a day on an overdue pond water change, picked up a new referral from family court.

No disruption but for the questions I kept to myself.

On the morning of my eighth consecutive run — eighteen days since the death of Zelda Chase — I noticed a white van paused at the front gate of the DePauw estate. A female arm reached out from the driver’s side and punched a code on the call box.

Nothing mysterious about the vehicle, its purpose proclaimed in metal-flake turquoise lettering topped by a cartoon of a pretty, smiling woman meant to evoke the fifties: blouse tucked tightly into pedal pushers, knotted bandanna atop coiffed blond hair, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other.

A toll-free number.

The gate clunked open and the van drove through, offering a view of the pathway I’d climbed the night I’d seen Zelda’s corpse. As it rattled shut, a mental burr lodged in my brain.

Worth telling Milo about? Or just another symptom of neurotic tenacity?

During the run back home I tossed the question back and forth. Showered and shaved and dressed and drank coffee and ate some toast, before heading back to Robin’s studio and making small talk with her and petting the dog, then settling in my office and going through email.

Taking plenty of time to see if the burr fell free.

I picked up the phone.

Milo said, “A cleaning service. That’s significant because...?”

“When we spoke to Enid DePauw she said she had a maid. A woman who’d been with her at the desert. Who she gave the night off to when they got back to L.A. Why would she need a service?”

“It’s a big place. She wants additional help.”

“That’s probably it.”

“Alex,” he said, “what the hell is this about? And why the hell are you still going back there?”

“Forget I called—”

“Whoa, whoa. What’s bugging you?”

“We know Imelda was sociable and that she left the Aziz property occasionally for lunch breaks. The only people I routinely see when I’m running are domestics talking to each other. The neighbor across the street from the Azizes — yes, I talked to him — confirmed it. He rarely saw Imelda because he’s housebound. But when she was talking to someone, it was another housekeeper. DePauw lives moments away so there’s a good chance—”

“The DePauw maid schmoozed with Imelda. So?”

“What if DePauw hired a service because now her maid has failed to show up? What if there really is a stalker picking off women in uniforms?”

He sighed. “Back to the lurking loony... are you saying his tastes extend to homeless psychotic women? Because I spoke to Bernstein and he says he’d need strong evidence to be convinced Zelda’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“Like I said, forget it, sorry for wasting your time.”

“You never waste my time,” he said. “That’s what bugs the hell out of me. You keep life interesting and I’m phobic about ignoring you.”