Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

We ordered more tea. The still-happy waiter brought a pitcher and a plate of cookies.

Milo said, “Lawyer and client extending the relationship. That remind you of anything?”

Last year we’d worked on the murder of Ursula Corey, a wealthy importer of Asian goods, gunned down in the parking lot of her divorce lawyer’s office building. The attorney, Grant Fellinger, was also her sometimes lover and became the prime suspect.

I said, “These two are both alive.”

“But people around them are trending dead. Let’s chat with Antoine from the mailroom. Black guy with a French accent, can’t be too many employees who fit that bill.”

Keywording the name and that of the firm, he googled. Held up a Facebook page, said, “Thank God for the social network,” and began scrolling.

“Antoine Philippe Bonhomme. Xeroxes but bills himself as an administrative legal assistant... originally from Port Au Prince, Haiti... came to Florida as a kid in a boat... bunch of sad pictures... likes Mexican food and, get this — light opera... graduated four years ago from Columbia U., majoring in anthropology, did research on... some biological thing on alleles.”

“Genetics,” I said. “Welcome to the age of lowered expectations.”

“Him and Britnee, both. Tough being a kid, nowadays. Old age, on the other hand, seems to present erotic opportunities. Enid being naughty in Chanel. Who’da thunk?”

“The pleasure principle is an equal-opportunity employer.”

“Nothing surprises you?” he said. “That could get boring.”

“It’s the reason I take your calls.”

“Let’s hope Monsieur Bonhomme is just as amiable.”

It took a while to connect to someone in the law firm’s mailroom. “Tony” Bonhomme was out sick. A DMV search produced an address on Fuller Avenue in Hollywood and a photo. The reverse directory supplied a landline that went unanswered.

Milo said, “Let’s chance a drive-by, I can leave him my card.”

The house was a hulking, dark-green Craftsman. Tony Bonhomme was visible from the curb, sitting in a lounge chair at the rear of the driveway, reading. As we got closer, I saw the charge cord from a laptop on the ground snaking through the open doorway of a smaller, rear structure. Inside was a kitchenette, dishes stacked neatly on a counter. Work space or guesthouse.

The book Bonhomme grasped with both hands was a large-format paperback with a bright yellow cover. Riveting; he didn’t notice our approach.

Slight and bespectacled with thinning hair, he wore a white T-shirt and jeans. Earbuds trailing to an iPod in his lap made me reassess the book’s page-turning qualities. So did the title: Prep for the LSAT Exam. As Bonhomme underlined in yellow, he chewed his lip.

It took the shadow cast by Milo’s looming form to make him look up. He removed the buds, took in Milo’s badge, and relaxed. Not the usual reaction.

“The form was sent in. I faxed it myself. They’re not here to verify.”

Milo said, “Where are they?”

“Venice,” said Bonhomme. “Italy, not California. Don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Oh, man — the request. Fine, I’ll send another.”

“Who’s in Venice?”

“You’re kidding — who? The owners. Chad and Darren. They go every year, buying trip. C’mon, gentlemen, let’s not start from scratch. Every time a new one of you comes on, it’s inventing the wheel.”

Milo said, “Mr. Bonhomme—”

“Fine, I’ll go over it. Again. The burglary you know about. What you obviously haven’t been informed about is that the insurance company keeps being obstructionist by insisting on a detailed list of stolen items with an official police sign-off before Chad and Darren can ask for an outside appraisal. Even though they’re certified antiques appraisers. I keep sending you guys an official request, it keeps getting lost, no one admits anything.”

Milo said, “The burglary was here?”

“No, the shop—” He sat up. “Hold on, who are you?”

“LAPD. It’s you we’re here to see.”

“About what?” Bonhomme held up his book. “Studying without a license?”

“You’re not in trouble—”

“Well, I should hope not! What now?”

“Sorry for the intrusion,” said Milo. “We called but no one—”

“I turn off my phone when I’m studying. You have any idea what this is?”

“For law school.”

“I take it next week, that’s why I need to concentrate.”

“This won’t take long, Mr. Bonhomme—”

“ Bone-ome. It means ‘good man.’ I’d like to think that’s accurate. So you’ve probably confused me with some random black male who—”

Milo said, “We’re here about a death at Revelle, Winters, Loach, and Russo.”

“And I’m supposed to know about that because...”

“You told someone about it.”

“What? No way.”

“You made a joke about a hex at the firm.”

Bonhomme removed his glasses, squinted up at us, grimaced. “Oh, shit, Blondie. You’re kidding. She took that seriously?”

“She took the fact that someone died seriously. She took your comment as tasteless levity.”

“Levity... well, that’s exactly what it was. Tasteless? Ear of the beholder.”

“So it never happened? No one died?”

“It happened,” said Bonhomme. “But the hex thing was... just silly stuff. It was an accident, anyway. Least that’s what I heard. I was just giving her a hard time because she invited it.”

“What kind of accident?”

“That’s all I know, an accident.” He shifted higher. “Are you telling me that’s not true?”

“What’s the name of this accident victim?”

Tony Bonhomme shot us a knowing smile. “You’re just poking around because Blondie freaked out. That was like months ago. A joke, gentlemen. Which, as I said, her manner invited.”

“What manner was that?”

“Being so uptight and superior about everything. As if she was too good to be there. As if anyone’s too good for anything. She made sure I knew she was going to be an actress. You can always tell the dramatis personae. They’re utterly incapable of regulating their emotions. So I messed with her. A hex? That’s kid stuff, she should’ve known better.”

Milo pointed to the book. “Looks like you’re planning on leaving the firm.”

“Soon as I can,” said Bonhomme. “But not because I think it’s below me. I moved to L.A. to get a Ph.D. in physical anthropology and found anthropology’s been taken over by politically correct nitwits. I also realized I hadn’t evolved to the point where I no longer need to eat or drink and so far, I’m not happy with my practice test results. So may I study in peace and try to aim for the affluent class?”

Milo laughed.

Bonhomme said, “See, Officer? Levity. It’s my thing. Now, please. Allow me to resume Fifty Shades of Dull.”

“One more thing, sir. How’d you find out about the accident?”

“Talk around the dungeon — that’s what we call the mailroom and everything else on the lower floor. I can’t remember who said what, it was more ‘poor guy, stuff happens.’ ”

“Poor guy,” said Milo. “The person was male.”

“Hmm,” said Bonhomme. “I believe I did hear the word ‘guy,’ so probably. But don’t hold me to it. It was months ago.”

“How many months?”

“You’re really taking it seriously.”

“Pays to be careful,” said Milo. “We were working your burglary, stuff wouldn’t get lost.”

“Touché,” said Bonhomme. “How long ago... two months, give or take.”

Perfect sync with the onset of Britnee Fauve’s probation.

“Again, don’t hold me to it,” said Bonhomme. Already thinking like a lawyer.