Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “You looked in Barnard’s room. Does that mean it was supposed to be empty?”

  “Supposed to be. He only paid for a short time—couple of hours, I think. He shoulda been out.”

  “You didn’t check the room before?”

  “Man,” he said, “I didn’t do more than I had to, it was a nasty place. Someone else didn’t want to use the room, what did I care if some stupid idiot stayed twenty minutes longer? People that owned it didn’t give a damn.”

  “A two-hour rental,” I said. “So Barnard wasn’t there to sleep.”

  He laughed. “Right. You must be a college boy.”

  “What’d you do when you found him?”

  “Called the po-lice, what else? You think I’m stupid?”

  “What about the manager? Mullins. Darnel Mullins.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, Darnel.”

  “You call him, too?”

  “Nah, Darnel wasn’t there. He was never around except to kick me out of the office.”

  “Why’d he do that??”

  “Thought he was some kind of writer. Showed up every once in a while, looking down his nose at me and kicking me out so he could use the typewriter. Fine with me. I’d go get something to eat—no drinking, don’t put in that I drank, ’cause I didn’t. Only ale, once in a while. In the privacy of my own home, not on the job.”

  “Sure,” I said. “So Darnel considered himself a writer?”

  “Yeah, like you—only he was writing a book.” He laughed at the absurdity of that. “Stupid.”

  “He wasn’t a good writer?” I said.

  “How would I know? He never showed me nothing.”

  “Did he ever get anything published?”

  “Not that I heard, and he sure woulda told me; he liked to toot his own trombone.”

  “Well,” I said. “I could ask him if I could find him. Been trying to reach him but haven’t been able to. Any idea where he is?”

  “Nope. And don’t waste your time. Even if you find him, he won’t help you.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was an uptight dude.”

  “Uptight how?”

  “Uptight and uppity. And mad. Always mad about something, like he was too good for everyone and everything. Looking down his nose. And telling stories. Like he’d went to college, too good for this damned job; he was gonna write his book and get the hell outa here.”

  He looked at me.

  “Like he had somewhere to go and the rest of us didn’t.”

  “Do you remember where he said he went to college?”

  “Some place in New York. I never paid attention to any of his stupid stories, all the man did was bitch and brag. His daddy was a doctor; he worked for some movie hotshot, met all these movie stars at parties.” He laughed. “Writing a book. Like I’m stupid. Why would a brother who could do all those things be working at a hole like the Adventure? Not that he admitted he was a brother.”

  “He didn’t like being black?”

  “He didn’t admit it. Talking all white. And tell the truth, he was light as a white man.” Laughing again, he pinched the skin of his forearm. “Too much pale in it. And his hair was yellow—nappy, but real yellow. Like he’d been dipped in eggs—Mr. French Toast.”

  “Did he have a mustache?”

  “Don’t remember, why?”

  “Just trying to get a picture.”

  His eyes brightened. “You gonna put my picture in the paper?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Gonna pay me for it?”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Then forget it—aw, okay, if you want—lot better than Darnel’s picture. He was an ugly dude. Big and strong—said he played football in college, too. Wouldn’t admit he was black, but his nose was flatter than Fatboy’s back there. Yellow hair and these wishy blue eyes—like yours, but even wishier. Yeah, come to think of it, I think he had a mustache. Little one. Fuzz. Weak, yellow fuzz. Stupid.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  I paid him the rest of the money, and he began walking away from me.

  “One more thing,” I said. “In the article, you said you didn’t hear the shots ’cause of traffic. Was traffic that strong at 4 A.M.?”

  He kept walking.

  I caught up. “Mr. Sylvester?”

  The same dry, angry look he’d shown his friend.

  I repeated the question.

  “I hear you, I’m not stupid.”

  “Is there a problem with answering it?” I said.

  “No problem. I didn’t hear any shots, okay?”

  “Okay. Did Barnard check in alone?”

  “If that’s what it says in your paper.”

  “It doesn’t say. Just that his name was the only one on the register. Was he with anyone?”

  “How the hell would I know?” He stopped. “Our business is finished, man. You used up your money a long time ago.”

  “Were you really there, or was it one of the nights Darnel Mullins asked you to leave?”

  He stepped back and touched a trousers pocket. Implying a weapon, but nothing sagged the pocket.

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “No, just trying to get details.”

  “You got ’em, now get.” Flicking a hand. “And don’t send no white boy around a camera to take my picture. White boys with cameras don’t do well around here.”

  My stomach grumbled. I had lunch at a deli near Robertson. Rabbis, cops, and stockbrokers were eating pastrami and discussing their respective philosophies. I asked for matzo-ball soup, and while I waited I tried Milo’s home, ready to leave another message. Rick answered with his on-call voice. “Dr. Silverman.”

  “Hi, it’s Alex.”

  “Alex, how’s the new house coming along?”

  “Slowly.”

  “Big hassle, huh?”

  “Better since Robin took over.”

  “Good for her. Looking for El Sleutho? He left early this morning, some kind of surveillance.”

  “Must be the Bogettes,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Those girls who worship Jobe Shwandt.”

  “Probably. He’s not pleased having to deal with that again. Not that he’s talked about it much. We have a new arrangement: I don’t discuss the finer points of cutting and suturing, and he doesn’t remind me how rotten the world is.”

  Back home, I tried Columbia University again. Darnel Mullins had, indeed, graduated from the university and done one year of graduate school before dropping out—shortly after reviewing Command: Shed the Light. The alumni office had a home address in Teaneck, New Jersey, and a phone number to go with it, but when I called I got a dress shop called Millie’s Couture.

  Remembering what Eddy Sylvester had said about Mullins claiming a doctor father, I called New Jersey information and asked for any Mullinses with M.D.’s in Teaneck.

  “The only one I have,” said the operator, “is a Dr. Winston Mullins, but that’s in Englewood.”

  At that number, a man with an elderly, cultured voice said, “Hello?”

  “Dr. Mullins?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  I gave him the biography story.

  No reply.

  “Dr. Mullins?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Darnel’s been dead for a long time.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes,” he said. “A little over twenty years. I guess I never called Columbia to notify them.”

  “Was he ill?”

  “No, he was murdered.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Out where you are, matter of fact. He had an apartment in Hollywood. Surprised a burglar, and the burglar shot him. They never caught the man. I’m sure Darnel would have liked to talk to you. He always wanted to be a writer.”

  “Yes, I know, I’ve got one of his articles here with me.”

  “Really?”

  “Something from the Manhattan Book Review. He used a pen name. Denton�
�”

  “Mellors,” he said. “After a character in a dirty book. He did that because I didn’t approve of that paper—too left-wing. After that, he kept using it, maybe to prove something to me, though I don’t know what.”

  He sounded very sad.

  “It says here he was working on a novel,” I said.

  “The Bride. He never finished it, I’ve got the manuscript. I tried to read it. Not my type of thing but not bad at all. Maybe he could have gotten it published … sorry I couldn’t help you.”

  “What kind of a book is it?”

  “Well,” he said, “that’s hard to say. There’s some romance in it—a young man’s book, I guess. Learning the ropes, falling in love. A coming-of-age novel, I suppose you’d call it.”

  Feeling like dirt, I said, “Would it be possible to send me a copy? Maybe I can quote from it in my book.”

  “Don’t see why not. It’s just sitting in a drawer here.”

  I gave him my address.

  “Malibu,” he said. “You must be a successful writer. Darnel said that’s where the successful people live.”

  Literary critic to aspiring novelist to motel manager.

  Working for some guys from Reno.

  The Advent Group. Why was that name familiar?

  Even while managing the motel, he’d held on to his ambition.

  Kicking Sylvester out of the office to use the typewriter from time to time.

  From the way Sylvester had reacted to my questions, I was sure one of those times had been the night of the Barnard hit.

  Mullins setting up the hit, maybe even pulling the trigger.

  Finished off, himself, a few months later.

  A light-skinned black man. Blond, blue eyes.

  Light, fuzzy mustache, not the dark scimitar Lucy remembered, but as I’d told Lucy, dreams play fast and loose with reality.

  Something else didn’t fit. Dr. Mullins’s description of The Bride bore no similarity to the trash App had given me. Had Mullins used the same title for two disparate works?

  Or had App given me the script summary as a diversion? Directing my attention to Mullins because he had something to hide?

  I remembered my initial scenario of Karen’s disappearance: a man in a fancy car picking her up on the road to Topanga. It didn’t get much fancier than a red Ferrari.

  Still, there was nothing connecting App to Karen, and Mullins wasn’t coming across like some innocent shill.

  I thought of the way his career had dived after Karen’s disappearance.

  Lowell distancing himself from co-conspirators?

  Eliminating the undependable ones?

  Karen, Felix Barnard, Mullins. And where was Trafficant?

  But the Sheas still lived on the beach.

  I left a note for Robin and hit the highway once more. Gwen’s van was parked in front of her house. Cars were lined up all along the beach side. No space for the Seville, but the land side was nearly empty. I pulled over and was about to chance a run across the highway as soon as northbound traffic thinned when I saw the van’s headlights go on. It sat there idling, then pulled out.

  It took a minute or so to get into the center turn lane, another few to pull off a three-point and head south. I put on as much speed as the traffic could bear and finally saw the van, eight or nine lengths up. It stopped at the light at the bottom of the ramp up to Ocean Front Avenue. By the time it was heading east on Colorado, I was three lengths behind and maintaining that distance.

  I followed it to Lincoln Boulevard, where it headed south again, through Santa Monica and Venice, then over to Sepulveda, where it continued at a steady pace, making more lights than it missed.

  We crossed into Inglewood, a mixture of Eisenhower-era suburbs and new Asian businesses. Fifteen minutes later, we were approaching Century Boulevard.

  The airport.

  The van entered the Departure lanes and continued to the parking lot opposite the Bradley International Terminal. It rode around a while, trying to find a ground-floor space, though the upper levels were less crowded. I parked on the third level, took the stairs down, and was waiting behind a hedge when Gwen emerged, ten minutes later, pushing Travis in his wheelchair, her purse over her shoulder.

  No baggage.

  Jets thundered overhead. Cars sped along the road, which snaked through the airport like a freeway.

  Gwen walked to an intersection. A red light stopped her before she could cross the street to the terminal. Travis twisted his head, moved his mouth, and rolled his eyes. Gwen looked around nervously. I hung back and kept my head down.

  She wore an expensive-looking white linen dress and white flats. A string of pearls glimmered around her neck. Her short dark hair shone, but even at this distance her eyes were old.

  Short hair. Somber look. The grumpy baby-sitter Ken remembered?

  Abandoning her post, then returning to discover Lucy gone?

  Going to look for her and finding her sleepwalking?

  Seeing and hearing what Lucy had would have been grounds for a payoff.

  The light turned green and she entered the terminal’s big, bright, green-glassed atrium. A dozen airlines flew out of here. She headed for the Aeromexico desk. Waiting in the First Class line, she moved up quickly to the clerk. He smiled at her, then listened to what she had to say. Travis was twisting and turning in the chair. People stared. The terminal was crowded. Phony nuns panhandled. I picked up an abandoned newspaper and pretended to read it, looking, instead, at a TV screen filled with flight information.

  Aeromexico 546, leaving in one hour for Mexico City.

  The clerk was shaking his head.

  Gwen looked at her watch, then turned and pointed at Travis.

  The clerk got on the phone, spoke, got off, shook his head again.

  Gwen leaned toward him, standing taller, her calf muscles swelling.

  The clerk kept shaking his head. Then he called another man over. The second man listened to Gwen, got on the phone. Shook his head. Half a dozen people had lined up behind her. The second clerk pointed to them. Gwen turned around. Her face blazed with anger and her hands were clenched.

  No one in the queue said anything or moved, but some of the travelers were staring at Travis.

  Gwen took hold of the chair’s handlebars and wheeled him away.

  I followed as she pushed her way through the crowd to a row of phone booths. All were occupied and she waited, twisting her hair and tapping a handlebar. When a booth opened, she dashed in and stayed on the phone for fifteen minutes, feeding coins and punching numbers. When she emerged, she looked crushed and even jumpier, rubbing her fingers together very fast, biting her lip, eyes darting up and down the terminal.

  I stuck with her, back to the parking lot. Running up the three flights and timing my exit from the lot to hers was tricky, but I managed to get two vehicles behind her as she paid at the kiosk. I stayed with her out of the airport and onto the 405 North. She took it to the 10 West, got off at Route 1.

  Back to Malibu.

  But instead of pulling over at La Costa, she continued on another few miles.

  Shopping center across from the pier.

  The parking lot was nearly empty. The only business still open was a submarine sandwich store, bright and yellow. I put the Seville in a dark corner and stayed in the car as Gwen got Travis out of the van.

  She pushed him up the ramp to the surf shop, then stopped. Opening her purse, she took out her wallet and pulled out a gold credit card. Staring at it blankly, she replaced it and knitted her fingers some more. Travis moved constantly. Gwen took out a key. She was opening the shop’s front door when I stepped up and said, “Hi.”

  She threw up her hands defensively, letting go of the chair. It started to slide back and I held it in place. The boy had to weigh a hundred and twenty pounds.

  Gwen’s eyes were huge and the hand that held the keys was drawn back, ready to strike.

  “Get the hell out of here or I’ll scream!”

/>   “Scream away.”

  Travis had positioned his head at an impossible angle, trying to get a look at me. His smile was innocent and empty.

  “I mean it,” she said.

  “So do I. What was the problem at the airport? Tickets not there as planned?”

  Her mouth opened and her arm dropped slowly, the hand settling on her left breast, as if pledging allegiance.

  “You’re as crazy as your father,” she said.

  “My father?”

  “Don’t fool with me, Mr. Best.” Putting weight on the last word, as if her knowledge would throw me off.

  “You think I’m his son?”

  “I know you are. I saw you with him when he tried to break in. Now you’re asking questions all around town, pretending to be someone else.”

  “Pretending?”

  “Pretending to be a customer, buying those Big Dogs. We don’t want your business, mister. You get the hell out of here and tell your father he’s going to get both of you in big trouble. People know us in Malibu. You get lost, or I’m calling the police.”

  “Please do,” I said, pulling out my wallet. I had an out-of-date card that said I’d once consulted to the police, along with one of Milo’s. I hoped the word Homicide would impress her. Hoped her panic would stop her from remembering that LAPD had no jurisdiction here.

  Confusion clogged her face.

  Travis said something incoherent. He was still smiling at me.

  “I don’t …” She inspected the cards again. “You’re a psychologist?”

  “It’s complicated, Mrs. Shea. But go ahead and call the police, they’ll clear it up for you. Karen Best’s death is back under investigation because of new facts, a new witness. I’m involved in helping the police question that witness. They know, now, that something happened to Karen at the Sanctum party and that you and your husband and Doris Reingold got paid off to keep quiet about it.”

  Throwing out wild cards. The way she fought to stay still told me I had a winning hand.