Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  A few girls in their late teens browsed the poster bin, giggling, and a middle-aged couple stood by the swimwear, fascinated by the neoprene bathing suits. No one worked the clothing counter, but a man in his forties sat behind the surfboard register, eating a fast-food breakfast from a Styrofoam box and looking down at something. Above him a pink banner screamed SEX WAX!

  Without glancing up, he said, “What can I do for you?”

  “Just browsing.”

  He forked something into his mouth, and I noticed the sports section in his other hand. His hair was longish, very thin, minnow-silver, combed across his forehead but unable to hide the sunburnt skin of his brow. He had well-proportioned features, except for light-brown eyes that were set too close. His skin had loosened its hold on the bones below. The eyes were bloodshot and bagged and, though he was lean, a second chin tugged at his first. He wore a lime-colored polo shirt with sleeves that reached his elbows. His shoulders were broad, his forearms chunky and furred with gray hair that nearly obscured an anchor tattoo.

  The music switched to the Beach Boys’ “In My Room.” One of the browsing girls brought a rolled poster over to the clothes counter and looked around as she fished money out of her jeans.

  The man said, “I’ll take that here.”

  He put down his paper. The girl came up and paid for her poster and left with her friends, laughing.

  The man swallowed a mouthful of egg-muffin and watched the girls wiggle the glass doors.

  “Having fun,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You see what she bought? Stud poster—centerfold from Pretty Boy. It’s meant for gays, but they put out a calendar and it sold so well to women, they decided to market the months separately.” He grinned. “In our day, girls weren’t like that, huh?”

  “Not the ones I knew.”

  “So what is it for you?” he said. “Reincarnation, or just passing through from Chicago?”

  “Reincarnation?”

  “Second childhood. Second chance at the big wave. That’s what it usually is when a guy your age comes in. Or a tourist wanting to bring home a little piece of California for Aunt Ethel.”

  I laughed. “I’m looking for bathing trunks.”

  He hit his forehead and gave another grin. “Wrong again. Good thing I don’t gamble. Suits are over there.”

  I went over to a rack marked DUDES and flipped through the merchandise. A pair of baggy black trunks caught my eye because of a square patch with a Saint Bernard over the pocket bearing the legend BIG DOG. The mutt’s tongue was out and he looked mischievous. Clearly a spiritual brother to Spike. I pulled the shorts off the rack and brought them up.

  The man said, “Cool baggies,” and rang up the sale.

  I said, “What do the guys having a second childhood usually buy?”

  “The works: board, board cover, leash, wet suit, wax, sport sandals, zinc, hair dye. We have the suits custom-cut for us; usually they’re freaked out to see what size they take now. Plus all the changes in board technology. A guy your age might have rode something as big as a tree trunk. Name of the game now is minimum weight.”

  Turning his hand into a blade, he sliced air.

  “The new stuff, once you get the feel, it’s like hydroplaning. You can drive out to Zuma or County Line and see kids that are basically Jesus walking on water.”

  “Sounds like you did a bit of water work yourself.”

  “Still do.” He grinned and handed me my receipt. “No second childhood for me, ’cause I never got out of my first.”

  The chimes sounded. A dark-haired woman had opened the door and stuck her foot in.

  “I need help, Tom.”

  She was tall and nice-looking with a narrow, graceful figure and long thin arms with some muscle definition. Her hair was wavy and very short, almost black, her eyes so light they seemed pupil-less. The sun had cured her face to tight bronze leather. She wore high-cut pink shorts that exposed long smooth legs. Her blouse was white and sleeveless and tucked in snugly.

  Tom said, “Just finishing up a sale, babe.”

  She didn’t smile or answer, just kept standing there in the door. I heard a powerful engine idling and looked out to see a white Ford van conversion, smoke puffing from its rear.

  The woman cleared her throat.

  Tom said, “Here you go, pal, enjoy ’em.”

  I left the store, taking as long as possible to get back to the Seville. Once in the car, I sat behind the wheel pretending to look for something. A few seconds later Tom Shea came out of the shop and followed his wife to the van. She got behind the wheel and closed the driver’s door and a metal ramp slid out from the rear of the vehicle. It touched the asphalt and I heard it scrape. Tom opened the rear door and reached in, back muscles bunching, as he pulled on something. A moment later an electric wheelchair appeared in the doorway, bearing a slumping, bronze-haired boy.

  Tom guided the chair down the ramp. I started the Seville and inched out, watching. The boy could have been anywhere from twelve to twenty. His head was large and it lolled, eyes wide, tongue extended. His shrunken body was belted into the chair. Despite the restraint, he slanted sharply to the right, the head almost touching his right shoulder. One arm was belted, too. The other clutched a joystick at the front of the chair.

  Tom wasn’t smiling. He said something, and the joystick hand moved. The chair rolled down the ramp, very slowly, and when it was on the asphalt Tom closed the van door. Then he got behind the chair and guided it up the cement slope toward the store. The van’s engine cut off and Gwen Shea came around, sprinted up ahead, and held the store door. As Tom eased the chair through, I caught a glimpse of the boy’s face. Sleepy, but grinning. Big grin, almost voracious.

  His hair a thick, straight mat, the kind that might turn silver-minnow when it aged.

  But he reminded me of more than his father.

  As I drove away, I realized what it was.

  The grin. Triumphant, cartoonish.

  He was an atrophied version of the surfer on the sign.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Years ago, the mother of a severely brain-damaged child sat in my hospital office and cried for half an hour without break. When she finally stopped, she said, “I love her, but God forgive me, sometimes I want her to die.” She never cried again in my presence, and whenever we passed in the hall she looked away from me with a face that was part despair, part rage.

  The same face Gwen Shea wore.

  The idea of approaching her about a twenty-one-year-old disappearance seemed ridiculous and cruel. What reason did I have to believe Best wasn’t just an old man deluded by hope?

  I caught a green light and sped out of Malibu into the Palisades, making my way to Rockingham Avenue and possibly more delusions.

  The house was a sizable two-story Tudor with pink roses and blue agapanthus along the front and a low hedge of waxy privet bordering the brick walkway. A white Ford Taurus with a rental sticker sat in the driveway. Ken Lowell answered the door wearing a blue suit and holding a Filofax. His shoes were shined and his hair was wet.

  “Morning, just on my way out.”

  He let me into a parqueted foyer. A statuary-marble center table held a black vase full of white silk flowers. Behind it, the stairway was a softly curving arc of polished oak.

  The front rooms on either side were dark and vaulted, shaded by heavy cream damask drapes and filled with gleaming furniture.

  “Nice repo,” I said.

  Ken nodded. “The owners cut out to Europe overnight. Food in the fridge and clothes in the closet. Some kind of shopping center deal that went bad. People are looking for them.”

  “Been seeing a lot of that lately?”

  “More than usual for the last couple of years. It’s what we specialize in. We pick them up from the bank, rehab them, and turn them around. I guess that makes us capitalist exploiters.” He smiled and picked out one of the silk flowers. “It’s not what I thought I’d be doing when I was in
Berkeley.”

  “What were you interested in then?”

  “My sister Jo was an archaeology major; she turned me on to old bones. After she graduated, she went to Nepal to climb around and explore. I flew there to be with her and we hung out together in Katmandu—place called Freak Street, Telegraph Avenue transplanted to the Himalayas.” He shook his head and looked at the flower. “I was with her when she died.”

  “What happened?” I said.

  “We were hiking. She was experienced, very athletic. This was just a stroll for her. But she put her foot down and something gave way and she fell over a hundred feet. I was way behind. She passed right by me as she went down, landed on a ledge full of sharp rocks.” He touched his eyes and pressed down on the lids. Then his hands flew to his lapels.

  A door opened on the upstairs landing, and Lucy came down the stairs.

  “Morning,” she said, looking at Ken. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s great.” He smiled and buttoned his jacket. “I should be back around six. Don’t worry about your car, I’ll have it brought over.” A wave, and he was gone.

  “Looks like you’re being well taken care of,” I said.

  “He’s a sweet guy.” She looked at the living room. “Not too shabby for a hideout, huh? Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Would you like to talk outside? It’s nice in here, but I find it a little gloomy.”

  The backyard was generous, with a pork-chop-shaped swimming pool and waterfall spa. A brick patio running along the rear of the house contained a table and chairs and potted plants that needed watering. The neighboring properties were blocked from view by tall honeysuckle hedges and billowing mounds of plumbago.

  We sat. Lucy crossed her legs and looked up at the sky. Her eyes were tired, and she seemed to be fighting tears.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “I can’t stop thinking about Puck.”

  After a second’s debate, I said, “He called your—called Lowell two days ago to tell him you were in the hospital. He obviously cares about you, but something’s keeping him out of town.”

  Her legs uncrossed and her head shot forward. “Why would he call him—how do you know this?”

  “Lowell phoned me, wanting to talk about you. I told him I couldn’t without your permission.”

  “That’s crazy. Why would Puck call him?”

  “He knew you were at Woodbridge.”

  “He must have found out some—absurd. I don’t understand any of this.”

  “I got the impression Puck had been in contact with him.”

  She stared at me, then lowered her head, as if ashamed.

  “He told me Puck had a drug problem,” I said. “I didn’t assume it was true, but Milo checked it out.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed. Her fingernails scraped the glass top of the table, and my short hairs rose.

  “Damn him. He had no right—why did Milo have to do that?”

  “For your sake. And Puck’s. We couldn’t understand why he couldn’t come back to see you, figured he might be in some kind of trouble. How long’s he been addicted?”

  “He—I don’t know, exactly. He started smoking grass in prep school. By the time he started Tufts he was already into … the bad stuff. He had to drop out in his junior year because a campus policeman caught him shooting up in a dorm room. After that he didn’t care and just hit the streets. The police kept picking him up for vagrancy, and the system kept spitting him back. He tried to get help—student health, free clinics, private doctors. Nothing worked. It’s a disease.”

  Her fingers ran down the glass again, but silently.

  “Even with all his problems,” she said softly, “he was good to me—he cares about me. That’s what scares me. He must be in trouble. It would have to be something serious for him not to be here.”

  “He’s been telling everyone it was business.”

  She gave a miserable look. Covered her face. Exposed it. “Yes, he sold. Once in a while. Only to get his own stash. I know it’s wrong, and I’m sure in some part of his brain he does too. But he felt he had no choice. He was broke, and he wouldn’t give him more than pennies. I tried to help him, but most of the time he wouldn’t take anything from me—not unless he was hurting really bad. He’s the one who suffers … the way he lives—a hole over a hairdresser’s.”

  She looked out at the landscaped yard.

  “It’s not like he sold to little kids or anything like that. Just to junkies, and they’d have to get it one way or the other.… It’s the heroin. All this talk about crack, and heroin goes on eating people up.”

  She began to cry.

  I patted her shoulder.

  “So many times I offered to have him come live with me. To try another program. He said he was beyond hope and didn’t want to drag me down. Didn’t want treatment—he liked junk, it was his lover, he’d never give it up. But still he was always there for me. If I called him to talk about something, he’d always listen. Even if he was stoned, he’d try. Sitting there, pretending to be normal—he’d be here now if he wasn’t in some kind of major trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  She squeezed her hands together. “The people he hung out with.”

  “Who are they?”

  “That’s the thing, I don’t know. He made a point about shielding me. Whenever I came over, he rushed around, cleaning up, putting his kit away. Lately, he didn’t even want me over at his place—too depressing, he said. So we had coffee in restaurants. He’d come in looking half dead, trying so hard to act okay. I know he sounds like just another stupid junkie, but he really is a wonderful brother.”

  I nodded, thinking of Puck’s dinner date with Ken, how an addict might have viewed the sudden appearance of a wealthy half brother. Yet he hadn’t shown up.

  “Milo’s not going to call the police in Taos or anything like that, is he? I don’t want to put him in any more danger.”

  “No,” I said. “Milo’s main concern is you.”

  “Yes, I can’t believe all he’s done. You, too. And now Ken.”

  She wiped her eyes.

  “I must bring it out in people, like a wounded bird. Puck told me that, once. That he’d always seen me as wounded. I didn’t like that. I wanted him to perceive me as strong.”

  “You are strong.”

  She spread her fingers on the glass. Looked through the tabletop, studying the pattern of the bricks. “Milo told me, you know. About being gay. It shocked me.… Now I understand the position you were in. I really put you in the middle. I’m sorry.”

  “It was one of those things that couldn’t be helped.”

  She shook her head. “I’d never have suspected it. A big, burly guy like that—that’s stupid, of course, but still, it was the last thing I’d have guessed. It must be so hard for him. The job.”

  “How did finding out affect you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How do you feel about his being gay?”

  “How do I feel about it? Well … I’m certainly glad I know the truth now.”

  She looked away.

  “Anything else?” I said.

  “I guess—on a selfish level—I guess I’m disappointed.”

  She shook her head.

  “Maybe it was just a stupid crush, but it sure—I mean, the feelings are still there. How can you kill feelings, right?”

  I nodded.

  She stood and walked up and down the patio.

  “He and I both do this,” she said. “Pace when we’re nervous. We found out when we were at the hotel. All of a sudden, we started doing it simultaneously; it was a riot.”

  She looked at me. “You know how I feel? Cheated. But I’ll get over it. And I’m still grateful to have him as a friend. Don’t worry about me, I may look wounded but it’s an illusion. All done with mirrors.” Smile.

  She sat down. “Now let’s talk about the Great Man. What does
he want, all of a sudden? What’s his game?”

  “I don’t know, Lucy. Maybe to connect with you, somehow.”

  “No,” she said angrily. “No way. He’s up to something, believe me. He’s a master manipulator, you have no idea. He loved hitting Puck when he was down.”

  “Puck went to him for money?”

  “After he cut off the trust fund.”

  “He has that power?”

  “Not officially, but the lawyers work for the family trust, and they do. One call from him.” Snapping her fingers. “They invoked some sort of spendthrift clause. After that, Puck had to go to him. Only a few times, as a last resort. And of course he demeaned Puck and made him beg for every penny. Lectured him about financial responsibility, as if he’s some expert. He lives off a trust fund, too. His mother’s father owned textile mills all over New York and New Jersey, made a fortune before income taxes. He’s never had to work a day in his life. If he did, he’d be sunk. He hasn’t published or sold a painting in years.”

  She slammed a fist into a palm. “Forget him. Forget whoever played around with my undies and hung up on me and wrote that stupid note. No more fear, no more bullshit. I’m evicting it all from my mind. I don’t care what it looks like, I never tried to kill myself. I love life. And I want a real life—a regular, boring, ordinary life. This is a nice place, but in a few days I’m out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere on my own. I’m not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder.”

  She got up again. “Had the dream again last night. Ken came in, said he’d heard me crying out. I was sweating. It’s as if that damned incubus is sitting back there, just waiting to torment me. As if there’s a big pile of garbage stuck in my memory banks. I want to evict that, too. Get my head clear. How do I do that?”

  I considered my answer. The delay brought panic to her eyes.

  “What is it? Is there something wrong with me—did they find something on those tests in the hospital?”

  “No,” I said. “You’re perfectly healthy.”

  “Then what?”

  Timing: the art of therapy.

  Mine was off. I felt out of balance.