Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She gave a doubtful look but said nothing.

  “There’ll be plenty of people around,” I said.

  She nodded and looked over at the car. The dog was pawing the front bumper. It made her smile.

  “Someone’s in a traveling mood. Why don’t you take him along?”

  “Sure, but pond drainage isn’t his thing—the water phobia.”

  “Why don’t you try some therapy with him?”

  “Why not?” I said. “This could be the start of a whole new career.”

  The four-man crew had arrived early, and when I got there the pond was half empty, the waterfall switched off, and the fish transferred to aerated, blue vats that sat in the bed of a pickup truck. Workers uprooted plants and bagged them, shoveled gravel, and checked the air lines to the vats.

  I checked in with the crew boss, a skinny brown kid with blond Rasta locks and a dyed white chin beard. The dog kept his distance, but followed me as I went up to the terrace to pick up two days’ worth of mail.

  Lots of stuff, most of it routine. The exception was a long white envelope.

  Cheap paper that I’d seen before.

  SHERMAN BUCKLEAR, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW above a return address in Simi Valley.

  Inside was a letter informing me that Petitioner Donald Dell Wallace had good reason to believe that I had knowledge of the whereabouts of said petitioner’s legal offspring, Chondra Nicolette Wallace and Tiffani Starr Wallace and was demanding that I pass along said information to said petitioner’s attorney, without delay, so that said petitioner’s legal rights would not be abridged.

  The rest consisted of threats in legalese. I put the letter back in the envelope and pocketed it. The dog was scratching at the front door.

  “Nostalgic already?” I unlocked the door and he ran ahead of me, straight into the kitchen. Straight to the refrigerator.

  Milo’s spiritual son.

  Scratch, scratch, pant, pant.

  I realized that, in all the haste of moving, I’d forgotten to remove the perishables from the fridge.

  I did a quick visual survey of the shelves, spilled out milk and dumped cheese that had turned and fruit that was beginning to brown. Putting the unspoiled food in a bag, I thought of the people under the freeway.

  Some meatloaf remained in a plastic container. It smelled okay and the dog looked as if he’d seen the messiah.

  “Okay, okay.” I put it in a bowl and set it down before him, bagged the good fruits and vegetables and brought them down to the car.

  The pond crew was finishing up. The koi in the truck all seemed to be swimming fine.

  The crew boss said, “Okay, we’ve got the sump running, it’ll take another hour or so to drain off. You want us to wait, we can, but you’re paying us by the hour, so you can stick around and turn it off yourself.”

  “No problem,” I said, glancing at the truck. “Take care of them.”

  “Sure. When do you think you’ll be wanting ’em back?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Some kind of long vacation?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Cool.” He handed me a bill and got behind the wheel of the truck. A moment later, they were gone and all I heard was the slow gurgle of draining water.

  I sat down on the bank of what was now a muddy hole, waiting and watching the level drop. The heat and the quiet combined to lull me, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d been there when someone said, “Hey.”

  I jerked up, groggily.

  A man stood in the gateway, holding a tire iron.

  Late twenties or early thirties, heavy growth of dark stubble, thick black Fu Manchu that drooped to his chin.

  He had on greasy jeans and Wellington boots with chains, a black T-shirt under a heavy black leather vest. Black, thinning hair, gold hoop earring, steel chains around his neck. Big tattooed arms. Big, hard belly, bowlegs. Maybe six one, two hundred.

  Red-rimmed eyes.

  At Sunny’s Sun Valley, next door to Rodriguez’s masonry yard, he’d been wearing a black cap that said CAT.

  The muscular guy at the bar who hadn’t said much.

  He whistled once and came closer. Let one hand drop from the iron. Lowered the metal, swung it parallel to his leg in a slow, small arc and came a few steps closer. Looked at my face. His wore a slow, lazy smile of recognition.

  “Retaining wall, huh?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Donald’s kids, man.” Deep slurry voice. He sounded as if he’d come straight from the bar.

  “They’re not here.”

  “Where, man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The iron arc widened.

  I said, “Why would I know?”

  “You were lookin’ for the little brown brother, man. Maybe you found him.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Maybe you did, man.” Stepping forward. Just a few feet away, now. Lots of missing teeth. Mustache clogged with dandruff. An angry pus pimple had erupted under his left eye. The tattoos were badly done, a green-blue riot of female torsos, bloody blades, and Gothic lettering.

  I said, “I already got a letter from Wallace’s lawyer—”

  “Fuck that.” He came within swinging range, smelling like the bottom of a clothes hamper that needed emptying.

  I backed up. Not much room to maneuver. Behind me was shrubbery—hedges and the maple tree whose branch had been used to skewer the koi.

  “You’re not helping Donald Dell,” I said. “This won’t look good for him.”

  “Who gives a fuck, man? You’re off the case.”

  He swung the iron listlessly, pointing downward and hitting the dirt. Looking at the pond just for a second, then back at me. I searched the area for possible weapons.

  Slim pickings: oversized polyethylene bags left behind by the pond crew. Lengths of rubber hosing. A couple of sheets of scummy filter screen. Maybe the koi net. Six feet of stout oak handle below a steel-mesh cup—but it was out of reach.

  “Since when?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Since when am I off the case?”

  “Since we said so, man.”

  “The Iron Priests?”

  “Where’re the kids, man?”

  “I told you. I don’t know.”

  He shook his head and advanced. “Don’t get hurt over it, man. It’s just a job, what the fuck.”

  “You like fish?” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Fish. Finny creatures. Seafood. Piscinoids.”

  “Hey, ma—”

  “You like to sneak around, spearing ’em? Breaking branches off trees and doing the old rotisserie bit?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? Sportfishing carp, you sick fuck.”

  Confusion tugged at his face, zipping it up into something peevish and tight and offering a hint of what he’d look like on the off-chance he made it to old age. Then anger took its place—a brattish resentment—and he lifted the iron and took a poke at my middle.

  I danced away.

  “Hey,” he said, annoyed. He jabbed again, missed. Sloshed, but not enough to stagger, and there was force in his movements. “Here, chickie chick.” He laughed.

  I kept moving away from his blows, managed to get up on the rock rim of the pond. The stones were slick with algae and I used my arms for balance. That made him laugh some more. He shouted, came after me, clumsy and slow. Caught up in the game as if it were what he’d come for.

  He began making barnyard clucks.

  I split my focus between the iron and his eyes. Readying myself for the chance to use surprise and his own weight against him. If I missed, my hand would get shattered.

  “Boom, boom, boom,” he said. “Chickie-chick.”

  “C’mon, stupid,” I said.

  His face puffed up and reddened. Two-handing the iron, he made a sudden swing for my knees.

  I jumped back, stumbled, pitched forward onto the pond rim, bre
aking my fall with my palms.

  The iron landed on rock and clanged. He raised it high over his head.

  The next sounds came from behind him.

  Deep bark.

  Angry snorts.

  He wheeled toward them, holding the iron in front of his own chest in instinctive defense. Just in time to see the bulldog racing toward him, a little black bullet, its teeth bared in a pearly grimace.

  Just in time for me to spring to my feet and throw my arms around his front.

  Not enough force to knock him over, but I got my hands on the ends of the iron and slammed it hard into his rib cage. Something cracked.

  He said, “Ohh,” sounding curiously girlish. Buckled. Bent.

  The dog was on him now, fixing his teeth on denim leg, shaking his head from side to side, growling and spraying spit.

  The man’s back was pushing against me. I pressed up on the iron, sharply, forcing it under his chin. Got it against his Adam’s apple and pulled in steadily until he made gagging noises and started to loosen his grip.

  I held on. Finally, he dropped his arms and let his full weight fall against me. Struggling to remain on my feet, I let him sink to the ground, hoping I hadn’t destroyed his larynx but not torturing myself over it.

  The dog stayed on him, grunting and eating denim.

  The man sank to the dirt. I felt for a pulse. Nice and steady, and he was already starting to move and groan.

  I looked for something to bind him. The polyethylene bags. Telling the dog, “Stay,” I ran to get them. I tied them together, managed to fashion two thick, plastic ropes and used one to secure his hands behind his back, the other his legs.

  The dog had stepped back to watch me, head cocked. I said, “You did great, Spike, but you don’t get to eat this one. How about sirloin instead—it’s higher grade.”

  The man opened his eyes. Tried to speak but produced only a retching cough. The front of his neck was swollen, and a deep blue bruise that matched his tattooes was starting to blossom.

  The dog padded over to him.

  The man’s eyes sparked. He turned his head away and grimaced in pain.

  I said, “Stay, Spike. No blood.”

  The dog looked up at me with soft eyes that I hoped wouldn’t betray him.

  The man coughed and choked.

  The dog’s nostrils opened and shut. Saliva dripped from his maw and he growled.

  “Good boy, Spike,” I said. “Watch him for a sec, and if he gives you any problems, you’re allowed to rip out his throat for an appetizer.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  “What an idiot,” said Milo, putting his notepad away. “His name’s Hurley Keffler and he’s got a sheet, but not much of one. More of a bad guy wannabee. We found his bike parked down the road. He claims he wasn’t stalking you, got here just as the pond people drove away and decided to have a talk.”

  “Just one of those impulsive weekend jaunts, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  We were up on the landing, watching the police cars drive away. The dog watched, too, sticking his flat face through the slats of the railing, ears pricked.

  “I found a letter from the Wallaces’ lawyer in my mailbox,” I said. “He wanted to know where the girls were and threatened me with legal action if I didn’t tell him. Looks like the Priests decided not to wait.”

  “It might not be an official Priest mission,” he said. “Just Keffler having a few too many and deciding to improvise. His dinky record, he’s probably low man in the gang, trying to impress the hairy brothers.”

  “What are you booking him on?”

  “ADW, trespassing, DUI if his blood alcohol’s high enough to prove he drove over here soused. If the Priests go his bail, he’ll probably be out within a few days. I’ll have a talk with them, tell them to lock him in the house. What a clown.”

  He chuckled. “Bet your little chokehold didn’t do much for his powers of comprehension, either. What’d you use, one of those karate things I’m always ribbing you about?”

  “Actually,” I said, bending and patting the dog’s muscular neck, “he gets the credit. Pulled a sneak attack from the back that allowed me to jump Keffler. Plus he overcame his water phobia—ran right up to the pond.”

  “No kidding?” Smile. “Okay, I’ll put him up for sainthood.” He bent, too, and rubbed the dog behind the ears. “Congrats, St. Doggus, you’re a K-9 hero.”

  The driver of one of the black-and-whites looked up at us and Milo waved him on.

  “Good boy,” I said to the dog.

  “Seeing as he’s saved your kneecaps, Alex, don’t you think he deserves a real name? My vote’s still for Rover.”

  “When I was trying to intimidate Keffler, I called him Spike.”

  “Very manly.”

  “Only problem is,” I said, “he’s already got a name—someone’s bound to come get him. What a drag. I’m getting kind of attached to him.”

  “What?” He elbowed my ribs, gently. “We’re afraid of getting hurt, so we don’t reach out for intimacy? Give him a goddamn name, Alex. Empower him so he can fulfill his dogly potential.”

  I laughed and rubbed the dog some more. He panted and put his head against my leg.

  “Keffler’s not the one who killed the koi,” I said. “When I mentioned it, he fuzzed over completely.”

  “Probably,” he said. “That tree branch was too subtle for the Priests. They would have taken out all the fish and mashed ’em up, maybe eaten them and left the bones.”

  “Back to our ‘bad love’ fiend,” I said. “Anything new on Lyle Gritz?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I was over at the library this morning, checking out the professional directories. No current listings on Rosenblatt or Katarina de Bosch. Harrison moved to Ojai and has no phone number, which sounds like retirement—and the social worker, Lerner, was suspended from the social work organization for an ethics violation.”

  “What kind of violation?”

  “The directory didn’t say.”

  “What’s it usually mean? Sleeping with a patient?”

  “That’s the most common, but it could also be financial shenanigans, betrayal of confidentiality, or a personal problem, like drug or alcohol addiction.”

  He rested his arms on the top of the railing. The squad cars were gone now. My pond was a dry hole and the sump pump was sucking air. I went down to the garden, dog at my heels, and turned it off.

  When I got back, Milo said, “If Lerner was a bad boy, he could have done something that pissed off a patient.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I looked up de Bosch’s writings on ‘bad love.’ Specifically, it refers to abuse of parental authority leading to alienation, cynicism, and, in extreme cases, violence. De Bosch actually used the term ‘retribution.’ But, pardon the whining, I still don’t know what the hell I could have done.”

  “Why don’t you try to get in touch with Harrison in Ojai, see if he has any idea what’s going on? If his number’s unlisted, I can get it for you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And Harrison may be a good source for another reason. When therapists are suspended, they’re usually required to get therapy. One of Harrison’s specialties was treating impaired therapists. Wouldn’t it be interesting if he treated Lerner? It’s not that farfetched—Lerner turning to someone he knew. Get me that number right now and I’ll call.”

  He went to his car and got on the radio. Returned ten minutes later and said, “No listing at all, even though the address is still on the tax roles. Can you spare the time for a little drive? Ojai’s nice this time of year. Cute little shops, antiques, whatever. Take the lovely Miss C for a cruise up the coast, combine business with pleasure.”

  “Get out of town for a while?”

  He shrugged.

  “Okay,” I said. “And Ojai’s close to Santa Barbara—I can extend my trip. De Bosch’s school is defunct, but it might be interesting to see if any of the neighbors remember it. Maybe there was some
kind of scandal, something that closed it down and left someone with a long-term grudge.”

  “Sure, snoop around. If Robin can stand it, who am I to try and stop you?”

  He slapped my back. “I’m off.”

  “Where to?”

  “A little more research on Paprock and Shipler.”

  “Anything new?”

  “Nope. I’m planning to drop in on Paprock’s husband tomorrow. He’s still a car salesman at the Cadillac place, and Sunday’s a good day for those guys.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Thought you were cruising to Ojai.”

  “Monday,” I said. “Monday’s a good day for psychologists.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Blue day for everyone else. We get to concentrate on other people’s problems and forget our own.”

  I went back into the house and looked through the freezer. In our haste to move, we hadn’t emptied it, and there were several steaks in the top compartment. I took out a choice-cut rib eye and put it in the oven to broil. The dog’s eyes were glued to my every move. As the aroma of broiling meat filled the kitchen, his nose started to go crazy and he got down on the floor in a supplicatory posture.

  “Restrain the caballos,” I said. “All good things come to those who salivate.”

  I petted him and called my service for messages. Only one, from Jean Jeffers. The clinic director had called at eleven a.m. leaving an 818 return number.

  “Did she say what it was about?” I asked the operator.

  “No, just to call her, doctor.”

  I did and got an answering tape with a friendly-sounding male voice backgrounded by Neil Diamond. I was starting to leave a message when Jean’s voice broke in.

  “Hi, thanks for calling back.”

  “Hi, what’s up?”

  I thought I heard her sigh. “I’ve got some … I think it would be best if we met personally.”

  “Something about Hewitt?”

  “Somethi—I’m sorry, I’d rather just talk about it in person, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. Where and when would you like to meet?”

  “Tomorrow would be okay for me.”

  “Tomorrow’s fine.”

  “Great,” she said. “Where do you live?”