Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

Plopping down on a living room sofa, he switched to hands-off and punched a preset number.

Dry croak: “Hello-o.”

“Irene? Finally got you. Milo.”

“You’re calling me at home?”

“Tried the office.”

“Hnh.” She coughed. Cleared her throat.

“Sick?”

“You must be a detective. Yeah, some kind of shitty flu. All last week I was in the arrival hall. Customs had word on maggots trying to smuggle in snakes and birds but it futzed out. Meanwhile, there’s hordes of who-knows-who from who-knows-where bringing in who-knows-what diseases. Should’ve worn a mask but I can’t stand the way they feel.”

“Sorry, Irene. When you do have time—”

“You already interrupted my soup. What?”

He told her.

She said, “Any reason these two would set off our alarms?”

“On the contrary,” said Milo. “Older, affluent, respectable. No problem from your end at all, Irene.”

“So this is a one-way street.” She sniffled. “You don’t like them, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want them on my buddy list.”

“Old and rich,” she said. “That gives me an idea. Give me some time to get the soup down and I’ll see what I can do.”

She coughed again. “That one was to make you feel guilty.”

Ten minutes later, she was back. “Like I thought, they both registered with Global Entry, our Trusted Traveler Program.”

“Paying to avoid long lines.”

“People without jihad affections like it, sir. Sometimes we let them keep their shoes on. Anyway, it makes it easier to pinpoint their comings and goings. Three days ago, Ms. DePauw and Mr. Loach booked adjoining first-class seats on an Alitalia flight to Rome. Round-trip, they’re due back in six days.”

“Thanks a ton, Irene.”

“That’s grazie to you.”

Milo put down the phone. “I’m gonna sort all this out in my mind and see if John Nguyen has any time to chat. He does, I’ll beg and scrape for a warrant to search Enid’s estate.”

“Homeowner out of the country?” I said. “Going to be tough.”

“I’m not after the house at this point, just the grounds and nothing intrusive, a look-see. John’s been known to be creative.”

“You could moonlight with White Glove Cleaning and get in.”

“There you go, me with a dust-mop, whistling while I work.” Gathering his materials, he headed for the door.

I said, “By look-see you mean searching for vegetable and animal matter. As in deceased human animals?”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t see minerals being a problem.”

Alone in my office, I thought about Zina Rutherford, born to rejection and hostility, rendered helpless soon after. I could only imagine her childhood. But somehow, she’d survived.

Coming to L.A. to reinvent herself, floundering, failing. As her big sister made the scene in Malibu, Beverly Hills, Bel Air.

A sister who despised her enough to ruin her?

Now Zelda, dead at the same woman’s hands.

Broken-down mother, broken-down daughter?

The next generation, a son I couldn’t locate.

Knowing what had happened to Ovid felt far out of reach, one of those moving targets you chase endlessly in dreams that don’t end up well.

Then I thought of something. The Ursula Corey case, again. Her husband’s divorce lawyer was a Beverly Hills octogenarian named Earl Cohen who’d broken confidentiality and helped break the case. Explaining the ethical lapse as a terminally ill old man doing what was right.

Skeletal, frail. They give me months, not years.

A year had passed. Scratch that.

I sat there awhile longer, found Cohen’s number in my book and was ready to call when my service rang with an urgent message from Judith Meers.

I phoned BrightMornings, Hollywood. She said, “Hi, Dr. Delaware. Chet Brett is here right now, and he says he’ll talk to you about Zelda Chase. But you know how it is, that could change any second. Are you close?”

“Forty minutes away. I’m leaving now.”

“Ooh,” she said. “I’ll try to keep him here — he’s always hungry, maybe snacks will help.”

I made it in thirty-four. Judy was behind the desk, working on her laptop. A couple of empty-eyed men sat in armchairs at the rear of the lobby, neither of them five-foot-tall Norwegians.

She said, “Sorry, he wouldn’t stay inside, went back to his car. Five minutes ago, he was still there, parked up that way.” Pointing east. “Approach him slowly and try not to alarm him. He may not remember your name.”

I hurried outside. The car had been in full sight but I’d walked right by. Pea-green Plymouth Valiant as old as my Seville but far less pampered. The rear compartment was piled to the roof with folded clothing and slices of cardboard. A man sat in the driver’s seat. I edged forward slowly. He was holding half of an Oreo in each hand and licking crème from the good side.

Warm day, but the windows were shut. I walked up to the front passenger window, waited to see if he’d turn. When he didn’t, I rapped softly. He curled his tongue back in his mouth and gave another lick. I waved to get his attention. Rapped again before he turned and studied me.

Homeless-ageless, anywhere from fifties to eighties, with a tiny, withered face under hair that looked like cotton wool. Yellow perforated Lakers jersey far too large for him. Magenta sweatpants.

I’d been told he was a small man but he sat in the driver’s seat as high as I did.

He kept staring at me while tonguing the cookie. I said, “Alex Delaware,” just loud enough for him to hear.

He pointed to the passenger door and mouthed a word. Open.

The car was hot, humid, ripe as a dumpster full of old produce. As I settled, another wave of aromas hit me. Vintage laundry basket, Lysol, a touch of fermenting cantaloupe. His legs proportional to the rest of his body, everything in miniature. Two cushions under his butt propped him. The pedals near his sneakers had been mechanically extended, a surprising touch of high-tech.

In his lap were packets of cheese crackers, licorice sticks, another set of Oreos.

“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Brett.”

“The full name is Carlsson Mathiass Brekken, two pairs of S’s, one pair of K’s. Double letters are good luck to the Chinese.” High-pitched voice, suggesting prepubescence.

“Thanks, Mr. Brek—”

“Eh eh eh eh eh eh, don’t get formal. To the world I’m the esteemed Chetley Bretley, aka Chet Brett aka me.” Deeply puckered lips spread, revealing a toothless maw. “I’m telling you to educate you. Don’t want to be Brekken anyone’s heart.”

My laugh was genuine.

He said, “That’s me, still crazy after all these years. You’re a doctor. You know Zelda.”

No sense complicating things with past tense. “I do.”

He began singing softly, in a surprisingly good alto. “If you knew Zelda, like I knew Zelda, oh, oh, oh, what a gal... so what’s going on with her?”

I hesitated for an instant but that was enough.

“Something bad,” he said. “No one comes to me with good news. Even the Chinese.”

“The worst, I’m afraid.”

“Really?” he said. “Really? That’s not good. When?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

“Really? How?”

“She ate something poisonous.”

“That makes no sense,” said Brett. “She was a slim girl, had no appetite for food, let alone poison.”

He nibbled the frosted Oreo half, chipping off bits with his gums until it was gone.

“Actresses,” he said. “Always watching their weight. I was a film director back in Oslo, made art movies. Made Citizen Kane but that didn’t work out so I switched to documentary movies on symptoms of depression among the palace royalty. I needed serious money so I resoled shoes in Gottenborg, that’s Sweden. After that, I worked in Copenhagen — you know that Little Mermaid sculpture by the harbor? I made it.”