Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

He clicked off. Color faded, but more fatigue than relaxation. “Apparently she said something about it having to do with work. Even if we had passed that along to Enow, what’s the chance he’d have done anything about it?”

“Zero,” said Milo.

“Less than zero,” said Bernstein.

“One good thing about Enow not giving a shit is no toes to step on when I contact the wife myself.”

Bernstein stooped, unclasped his black bag, sifted through paper. “Here’s her number.”

Milo and I remained in the interview room.

He said, “Bill makes me look light and airy. But even for him, that was intense.”

I said, “Rigid personality coming up against new possibilities.”

“Not a good trait for a coroner.”

“Usually it’s no problem, you know the typical homicide.”

“Shot to the head, knife to the gut, write the report.”

“Zelda he pegged as accidental, Salton as undetermined, even though he thought the body had been moved. Now he’s got to consider both as possible murders and wonder if he missed something. He didn’t, but he has high standards for everyone, including himself.”

“Zelda, Salton, the maids,” he said. “You really think this could be a fun thing? God, I hope not.” His eyes lowered to the phone number Bernstein had given him. “Let’s see if the widow has any suggestions.”

Rod e rick and Andrea-Leah Salton’s listed address was an apartment in North Hollywood. At this hour, a trip to the Valley would be a hydrocarbon crawl.

Milo switched his phone to speaker and called. A woman answered. He hadn’t gotten far explaining when she said, “Something came up about Roddy?”

“We’d like to go over the case in person, Mrs. Salton.”

“You’ve still got nothing.”

“We’re taking a fresh look. If you could spare some time—”

“Fresh,” she said. “ He was certainly stale — your predecessor. Why not, come over.”

“Traffic’s gonna slow us down, ma’am. If we set out later, say seven, seven-thirty, will you still be around?”

“I’m around. I don’t go anywhere.”

Before setting out for North Hollywood, Milo did a surface background check on Andrea-Leah Salton. Full-faced like her husband, sandy hair cut in a Dutch boy that ended at earlobe level. At forty, six years older than her husband. Safe driver, no criminal record. Solid citizens abounded but four people were dead.

Next step, the mandatory call to Southwest Division. D II Roger Enow was gone for the day but Milo cadged his private cell from the desk sergeant.

A low, languid voice drawled, “Ye-llow.” Music in the background. Something overwrought from the eighties.

“Hey, Rog, it’s Milo. I need to talk to you about a case.”

“Workday’s over.”

“Gimme a sec, Rog. Roderick Salton, legal assistant, found near the court—”

“That one,” said Enow. “Suicide. Why the hell would West L.A. be pawing it up?”

“It might be related to one of mine.”

“Another suicide?” Enow laughed. “There’s an epidemic, call Public Health.”

“Mine’s not a suicide, Rog.”

“Yeah, well, mine was. But, hey, you want to carry the ball in a game that’s over, be my friggin’ guest.”

“What can you tell me about Salton—”

“It was suicide, the guy was Mormon.”

“Mormons are likely to commit suicide?”

“All religious types,” said Enow. “They expect life to be good, all of a sudden it sucks and they fall apart like a sack of moist shit.”

“What sucked in Salton’s life—”

“It was suicide, Milo. I got a feeling right away and it stuck. I trust my feelings.”

Dial tone.

Milo put the phone down. “Poor woman dealing with that. She’s gonna love us.”

I thought, Poisoning the well. Something Bill Bernstein would say. Better left unsaid.

Andrea-Leah Salton lived in the best part of North Hollywood, near Toluca Lake where Bob Hope, William Holden, and other Hollywood types had homesteaded in order to avoid their colleagues on the Westside.

Her building was a three-story traditional on a block of high-rent multiple dwellings. External cameras were mounted in the right places. Warning signs made sure you knew that. The front door was double-locked, accessed courtesy occupants’ consent. Milo’s button-push was answered by an immediate buzz.

He said, “Safe and sound.”

I said, “Good reason to pick him off at work.”

We climbed plush-muted stairs to the second floor. A and B units, one door on each side. Andrea-Leah Salton was waiting on the left side, her wide-open door casting a rhombus of light onto the carpet.

Five six, buxom, softly sculpted, she wore white jeans, a black linen top, and black moccasins. A wedding band frosted with pavé diamonds circled her ring finger.

She said, “Good start. You’re not him. ”

Her apartment was spacious, set up with fifties furniture that looked expensive and original, including a black leather Eames chair. A pitcher of ice water garnished with lemon sat atop a glass-and-brass table, along with matching goblets, linen napkins, and a plate of chocolate cookies that looked home-baked.

She stood in front of the Eames and waited for us to sit before settling and crossing her ankles. Directly behind her hung western art: cowboys, horses, buttes, and mesas. Off to the left were three framed photographs: a wedding picture with the happy couple gazing into each other’s eyes, two others crowded with faces, white, black, brown, Asian.

Andrea-Leah Salton said, “That’s all family, both Rod’s and mine, we could barely fit everyone in. And yes we’re LDS — Mormons — and no, that has nothing to do with Rod’s death. We are not weird people, despite what he thinks.”

Milo said, “Detective Enow—”

“A prejudiced nincompoop.”

“He suggested your religion had something to do with it?”

“He didn’t have to. Every time he said ‘Mormon,’ he rolled his eyes. Then he smiled, to let me know he was a good guy. We’re used to that. A Broadway show ridiculing us made a fortune. Try that with Muslims.” She recrossed her ankles. “Are you reopening Rod’s case?”

“It was never really closed, ma’am.”

“Cause undetermined and no serious detection? It was functionally closed. Has that changed, Lieutenant Sturgis? Has a similar murder come up to get you in gear?”

Milo sat back and studied her.

She said, “Good guess, huh? I’m used to figuring things out. Worked as a stock analyst and then in investment banking until I quit to get a Ph.D. in philosophy at the U. Next year, I defend my dissertation. Qualitative and quantitative analyses of uncertainty. So how about some details?”

“I wish I could get into details, ma’am.”

“But you did find a similar case — don’t bother to deny. Just let me know how I can help you.”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “Tell us about your husband — what kind of person he was—”

“He was an honest, dependable, devoted, hardworking person. If he had a flaw, and I don’t think he did, it was that he could be stubborn. But even that sprang from a strong moral core. He was bright, an honor student, planned to be an attorney but chose to work as an assistant for a couple of years to save up money, so he wouldn’t have to borrow.”

I said, “Avoiding student loans.”

Andrea-Leah Salton looked to the side, then back to me. “You’ll note, I said ‘ he wouldn’t have to borrow’ not ‘ we wouldn’t.’ ” My family has money, his doesn’t. Some men would’ve jumped at the opportunity to take advantage. To Rod, my family’s affluence was an obstacle to overcome. I respected that, though I wasn’t going to live like a pauper. That’s why we got this place and not some student dive. That’s why I got a new BMW even though he insisted on buying a junky used Dodge Neon rather than have my brother give him his BMW when he bought a new Jaguar. Speaking of which, what do you think of the way the Neon was found? To me it makes no sense.”