The Wedding Guest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The facing walls housed unoccupied wire kennels. The wall perpendicular to the cages was a white metal floor-to-ceiling cabinet with side-by-side doors each sporting a Red Cross decal.

  Another pair of locks. Medecos; serious hardware. Will Burdette rotated his key ring and opened them.

  Inside were metal shelves holding bottles and boxes neatly stacked and arranged. Rubber gloves, IV setups, disposable surgical tools, syringes of varying size, pills, powders, liquids.

  He drew out a box at the top of the pile and another sitting next to it.

  “This one’s fentanyl patches and this is the liquid we use for infusions. There are also inhalers available—that’s what screws up a lot of human addicts, too easy to get high. But I’ve found them tough to use on horses and cows.”

  Replacing the boxes, he brought out two others. “These are my other narcotics. Hydromorphone and good old morphine. Fentanyl’s a whole bunch stronger and if it gets into your skin you can get sick or even worse. But it works fast, so if you’re careful it can be a wonder drug for an acutely ill animal. Not that I use a lot. If euthanasia’s called for, I over-tranquilize them. It’s safer, easier, more humane. All these agents are for serious pain. Don’t imagine you’ve ever seen a two-ton bull brought to its knees by agony.”

  Milo said, “Fortunately not, Doctor.”

  “The bigger they are, the more pathetic it is. Gets you right here.” Will Burdette grabbed a handful of shirt above his belt buckle. “Your clients are already out of their misery. I see more than my share of suffering and I do what I can to eliminate or alleviate it. In terms of who has access to this cabinet, you’re looking at him. Now you’re going to ask me is there a spare set of keys and the answer is yes. In the house. So theoretically Sandra could get hold of it and steal dope. You know those dope-fiend wives.”

  He slapped his thigh and laughed.

  Milo said, “Sorry—”

  “Forget it. Like you said, you need to ask.”

  Keeping his voice low and smiling. Both lent him an air of menace.

  Milo said, “No offense, Doctor.”

  “None taken, Lieutenant. You’re doing your job. If everyone did theirs, we’d have a better country. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  * * *

  —

  Back outside, he stopped to play some more with the goats and sheep. “They’re as human-friendly as dogs. The goats especially. These are dwarf Nubians. My grandsons love ’em.”

  I said, “Nice setup.”

  “To me it’s Eden. I came here from Nebraska because a group in Canoga Park offered me a job. But it didn’t work out, so I tried to go it alone and started with a fair share of small-animal work. Then the city folk moved in with their dogs and cats so there was too much competition. Top of that, I like the big critters and don’t mind making house calls. So I concentrated on building that up. I still occasionally get a small patient. Mostly calls from neighbors and shelters. Had a seventy-pound pit bull couple of weeks ago, rose thorn in its paw, terrific animal.”

  For all his wanting to get rid of us, another long response to a brief question. People get like that when they’re nervous.

  We said our goodbyes and got into the unmarked. Morning was departing, some cloud cover was drifting in, cooling the air.

  But as we drove away, the sweat on Will Burdette’s forehead beaded like glycerine.

  * * *

  —

  Once we were off the property, Milo said, “You feel like I do?”

  I said, “The Poland thing got to both of them.”

  “Both of them gabbing—see that flop sweat on him? The way she cued him in before we had a chance to speak? They’re hiding something.”

  “And trying to direct us to the Rapfogels.”

  “No love lost. Sounds like the start of a great marriage.”

  My cell beeped. Robin. I switched to speaker.

  She said, “Hi, sweetie. Sharon’s touring but took the time to call back, how’s that for a gracious virtuosa? She didn’t think giving out the information would be a problem seeing as we’re talking about a murder victim so she texted the head of dance and just got back to me. Your Ms. DaCosta has never attended Juilliard under that name or anything close to it. They did have a ballet teacher, pretty famous, Madame Beatrice Da Costa. The dance head wondered if someone was using her name—like a wannabe composer claiming to be a Mozart.”

  “How long ago was Madame at the school?”

  “She arrived in 1952, a year after the dance division was established. She was already old and died five years later. So if she’s some kind of a relative, there are multiple generations in between. My bet is Suzanne was just pretending, poor thing.”

  “Okay, thanks for taking the time, hon.”

  “If not for you, who?”

  I told her I loved her and clicked off.

  Milo said, “Hmph,” and headed back toward the freeway. Speeding up the way he often does when his head knots up with question marks.

  As we neared the on-ramp, he said, “So I’ve got a phantom who reinvented herself aka just plain lied. Which explains why I haven’t been able to trace her before she got the driver’s license. Meaning the goddamn I.D. could be useless along with everything she told her roommates, the Valkyrie, and the bouncers.”

  The heel of his hand pounded the steering wheel hard enough to make it hum. His other hand ran over his face, like washing without water.

  “One step forward,” he said. “A hundred thousand backward.”

  I waited awhile before saying, “Maybe we should concentrate on what we do know—rework it.”

  “What, she liked to read?”

  “She liked to read academic material. Hunkered down in a corner of the library by herself. In that regard, we’re not talking pretension, she had serious intellectual aspirations. If she wasn’t enrolled at some sort of college, she may have planned to be. And that brings us right back to the brainy lover.”

  “Going to school to impress him.”

  “Not the kind of thing you make up randomly. My bet is he’s real. Another thing that’s stuck with me: that body shaper. Again, why would a woman with an ideal build bother with that?”

  “This is L.A., Alex. Twenty-year-olds get Botox.”

  “Maybe so. But it could also be something she did for him.”

  “The Brain has a thing for tight undergarments?”

  “The Brain has a thing for control. If he played up her flaws, he’d gain more upper hand. Or it’s just a bondage fetish. Which is also about control.”

  “Keeping her tight and unavailable.”

  “Easier if you’re dealing with someone socially and intellectually beneath you. Her wearing the shaper to the wedding says she expected him to be there.”

  “Which brings me back to Garrett, who sure was there. It’s starting to add up, Alex: Guy cuts out right after we talk to him about the Land of Pierogi and his parents get squirrelly about the same topic. Baby probably thinks she’s turned him into a spontaneous, lovey-dovey swain. Talk about ‘that’s amore.’ ”

  “True love,” I said. “Of himself.”

  * * *

  —

  He phoned Moe Reed. Nothing on his end about the newlyweds’ hotel accommodations; same for Sean and Alicia.

  Milo said, “Keep trying,” and clicked off. He put his weight on the accelerator.

  At Reseda, I said, “I’m thinking to call Basia again.”

  “About what?”

  I told him.

  He said, “You really see a connection?”

  “Depends on what she tells me.”

  * * *

  —

  Lopatinski was at her desk. “Hello, I was just about to call you—Milo, actually.”

  “He’s right here,
driving.”

  “Hi, Milo.”

  “Basia.”

  “There will be an autopsy on Mr. Lotz within the next few days but I don’t expect it to reveal much. His bloods likely tell the story: heroin plus fentanyl plus diazepam. A lot of diazepam.”

  I said, “A Valium appetizer followed by an opioid entrée? Or everything mixed together?”

  “No way to tell, Alex.”

  “Was there enough Valium to put him under before the hot-shot?”

  “You’re wondering if it’s the same process as DaCosta: Immobilize then strike.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Unfortunately, with a long-term addict it’s hard to say what does what. They build up tolerances, the brain changes, they can handle dosages that would kill you and me. All I can tell you is the three drugs combined were far more than needed to stop his heart.”

  Milo said, “Ever see a mixture like that before?”

  “I have seen accidental overdoses in polydrug users but not a premixed cocktail. None of the other pathologists around here have seen it, either. I believe it makes homicide likely. For an addict, adding a tranq to a fix would be a needless expense and distraction. One more thing: Mr. Lotz’s insides haven’t been explored yet but his outsides do tell a story. Eight tattoos, six of them conforming to samples in our prison-gang photo file. Two are typical of the Scottish Clansters, they’re active in southern Ohio and Kentucky. Four are your basic neo-Nazi garbage.”

  “Nasty stuff.”

  “A good candidate for someone looking to hire out for a nasty job.”

  I thought: living beneath all those students.

  Milo said, “What about the other two tattoos?”

  “Mother in a heart with an arrow through it and a cartoon wolf.”

  “The world of fine art.”

  “I prefer Monet. Anything that I should know from you?”

  Milo said, “Not yet.”

  I said, “Did you have time to check Cassandra Booker’s file?”

  “Not yet but it’s unlikely anything in the autopsy’s going to add clarity.”

  “I’m not interested in her organs, just what she was wearing when she came in.”

  I told her why.

  She said, “Something a psychologist would think of…I’ll take a look and text you.”

  * * *

  —

  Five minutes later, I was reading her message aloud to Milo.

  “Pale-blue cotton dress, size six, Miss Bluebell label; blue-and-green-checked sneakers, size seven and a half, Vans; white cotton panties, size S, Young and Free label.”

  The best saved for last. Basia’s sense of drama:

  “White mid-thigh tights, size S, Tone-Upp label.”

  I looked up the company. One product: “invisible body shapers.”

  Milo didn’t respond.

  I said, “Not impressed?”

  “Unpleasantly impressed, life just got more complicated. If my damn head explodes, duck.”

  * * *

  —

  Dealing with my best friend can be like doing therapy. What you don’t say matters more than what you do so I kept my mouth shut.

  We’d just merged onto the 405 South before he spoke again, droning at a low volume.

  “The kid’s from Iowa. So what, I talk to the parents? It’s telephonic, talk about hampering my charm. Even if I could fly out there and meet them face-to-face, what the hell would I say? The daughter who destroyed your lives by ending hers—accidentally—was maybe spurred on to shoot herself up, or better yet murdered by some power-hungry psychopath who’d already had his way with her and convinced her to wear Lycra? Not that I know this for a fact or have anything resembling evidence in that regard, Mr. and Mrs Booker. It’s just one of those detective feelings. So I thought I’d share.”

  I said nothing.

  He said, “You’re the shrink. Can it be done with greater sensitivity?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “So I just stash this morsel away.”

  I said, “I’d look for a link between Suzanne and Cassy.”

  “A habitually lying stripper and a nineteen-year-old Iowa girl? Only link I can see is The Brain somehow knew both of them and right now, he’s arm in arm with his honey sucking on a cone of gelato.”

  “I’ll keep trying with Maxine, see if she can learn more about the DIY program, even confirm a relationship between Cassy and Amanda. You were talking about surveilling Amanda. Maybe now would be a good time.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Definitely.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  He stopped in front of my house, keeping the engine running. “Gonna set up the watch schedule for tonight, maybe I’ll get lucky and catch Mandy doing something bad. Have a nice rest-of-the-day.”

  Before I could answer, he’d sped away.

  * * *

  —

  Robin’s Post-it was stuck to the inside of the front door. Out delivering a Baroque lute to a rock musician in Pacific Palisades who didn’t play Baroque music or the lute. (“Took Blanchie. I need intelligent conversation.”)

  I went to my office and tried Maxine Driver again.

  She said, “You are persistent. I was just about to text you, good, this saves my fingernails. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to report. I made all the calls I could think of without arousing suspicion. Got a general sense that no one wants to talk about the program.”

  “The suicide?”

  “I was told it just didn’t work, kids dropped out. What I did manage to pry out is that it wasn’t a touchie-feelie group thing. No meetings of all the kids, just individual mentoring when requested.”

  I said, “When requested. Sounds like a loose setup.”

  “That was the point, another do-your-own-thing. That’s the way it is nowadays, Alex. Too much structure’s a no-no because if you offend the little bastards they slime you on Yelp, you might as well be a sushi bar or a shoe store. You’d expect administration to back up the faculty. You’d be wrong. They read the ratings and get all antsy about fewer applications leading to a lower rating in U.S. News leading to Academic Armageddon.”

  I said, “Toddlers running the nursery.”

  “Except toddlers are cute. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “Who mentored these tots?”

  “Outside advisors.”

  “Not regular faculty?”

  “Nope.”

  “Academics from other colleges?”

  “No idea, Alex. For all I know they used volunteer alumni. The program only lasted two quarters, which in postmodern, ADHD college terms means it never happened.”

  I said, “Poor you, Maxine. Short attention spans must be tough for a historian.”

  “It’s death on wheels. I mention Darfur I get blank looks. I talk about socialism and the little darlings think it means a lot of likes on Facebook and Instagram.”

  “Thanks, Maxine.”

  “Wish there was something to thank me for. Any progress at your end?”

  “We got a victim I.D. but it could be false. Suzanne DaCosta. Please tell me she sat in your class next to Amanda.”

  She laughed. “Want me to see if she was ever enrolled here?”

  “If you could.”

  “Easy-peasy,” she said. “Compared with all that CIA attitude I get when I ask about that stupid program.”

  * * *

  —

  I phoned Robin.

  She said, “On the way home, sitting on Sunset near the Archer School. Two blocked lanes, guys in orange vests and hard hats standing around near big machines looking way too mellow.”

  A couple of miles west of the Glen. “ETA?”

  “At least half an hour.”

  I groaned.

 
She said, “Exactly. I thought I’d cook but now I don’t feel like it. Let’s go out.”

  “You bet. Where?”

  “Anywhere away from idlers in orange vests.”

  * * *

  —

  I checked my notes for direction.

  One source I hadn’t gotten close to: Peter Kramer, assistant manager of the apartment complex when Cassy Booker had died.

  I searched some more, came up empty. Lots of reasons for that. Given the building on Strathmore, one stuck in my head. Unlikely, but…

  I looked at my watch. Unfair to Basia?

  Then again, if she was still in the office, she was working.

  * * *

  —

  She answered, sounded tired. “I’m on my way out, Alex.”

  “Sorry. Forget it.”

  “Very clever, making me curious. What?”

  “I was wondering if you could look up one more name to see if he ever checked into your hotel.”

  “Hotel,” she said, laughing. “Morbid. I like that. Who’s the potential guest?”

  “Peter Kramer. To be relevant, his death would have to occur no later than two years ago, February.”

  “After the Booker girl died. You think he’s connected to her?”

  “Probably not but he worked at her building and disappeared shortly after she died.”

  “Hold on.”

  Click click click.

  Her breath caught.

  “Oh, Alex. The body of a man by that name came to us on March seventh. He was found in an alley off East Fourth Street.”

  “Skid Row.”

  “Right in the center of Skid Row. Would you care to guess COD?”

  “Heroin with a fentanyl chaser.”

  “No, just heroin,” she said. “We termed it accidental…well-nourished Caucasian male, thirty-four years of age…et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…this is interesting: one fresh puncture mark in the right cubital fossa but no sign externally or internally of addiction.”