Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Was Karen the type of girl who’d get into that kind of thing?”

  “Who knows? She wasn’t wild, but she wasn’t any nuclear scientist either. Being at that party was the biggest thrill of her life. There were movie people all over the place.”

  “But you never saw her go off with anyone specific.”

  “Nope.”

  “Not with Lowell?”

  “No one. I wasn’t looking at who was with who. I was spooning out designer slop and trying to keep it off people’s cuffs.”

  “What about Tom?”

  “Working the bar. People were putting it away; he never even stopped for a break.”

  “Why’d you go to Aspen?”

  She frowned, as if thinking. “ ’Cause of Best. He was driving us crazy, showing up every day on our doorstep. And we were tired of seeing Marvin’s sour puss.”

  “Why Aspen?”

  “Tom had a buddy who spent the winters there, teaching skiing. He’d inherited a house just outside of Starwood. He got Tom a job tending bar at one of the lodges. I found a position at a fur shop. It was good to be away from food.”

  “I still don’t see how you got from there to here.”

  “Hard work and luck. Tom’s buddy needed some cash fast. The house was all he owned. It wasn’t much, just a little place—”

  “Why’d he need cash fast?”

  Tugging. “He got busted.”

  “For what?”

  “Drugs,” she said, reluctantly.

  “Are drugs what drew you to Aspen?”

  “No! He was busted, not us! Check the police records there: Greg Fowler. Gregory Duncan Fowler III. He got busted for selling cocaine and needed bail money, so he signed over the house to us.”

  “For how much?”

  “Thirteen thousand. He kicked in two of his own and put down bond on a hundred and fifty thousand bail.”

  “Lowell’s three and ten of your own?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not bad for a house in Aspen.”

  “The house wasn’t as big a deal as it sounds. It was a shack, really. A hunting shack. Tom and I didn’t even want it, the plumbing and electric was all shot. But Greg begged us. He said real estate was starting to take off and we’d be doing each other a favor. We lived in it while Tom fixed it up—he’s good with his hands. The real estate did go crazy, all these Hollywood types flying in, buying up land.

  “Our house was right next to this big parcel owned by a producer—Sy Palmer, he did Flying Angels, on TV? He really wanted our land so he could build riding stables, and he paid us seventy-five thousand. We couldn’t believe it. Then we found out we needed to buy another house or pay lots of taxes, so we used the seventy-five to make a down payment on a bigger place, lived in that, fixed it up, sold it for three hundred thousand. We couldn’t believe how well we were doing. Then I got pregnant.”

  Her glance at Travis was full of tenderness and torment. He continued to roll the can.

  “The doctors knew something was wrong even before he was born, but at first he didn’t seem that different. Then … I knew I had to be in a big city, near a hospital with rehab facilities. We thought for sure Best had gone back east. So we moved back, made a down payment on a land-side house on Rambla Pacifica, and opened the store. Tom figured all his old surfing buddies would give us business, and they did. So we sold the land-side house and bought the place in La Costa.”

  Talking about their financial climb had calmed her.

  “That’s it. Anyone can go over our tax records with a fine-tooth comb. We never sold dope or chased money. It came to us. When Lowell gave us that bag, we were shocked out of our minds. Kept it in a closet for months, just sitting there. Then I told Tom, What good is this doing, just sitting here? And Greg was already calling us, telling us about the opportunities in Aspen. After we moved there, things just happened.”

  “Have you maintained contact with Greg Fowler?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “What about Tom?”

  No answer.

  “He lives down in Mexico now, doesn’t he, Gwen?”

  Silence.

  “Near Mexico City?”

  Nothing.

  “Gwen?”

  “No, a small village near the coast. Far from Mexico City. I don’t even know the name.”

  “Still running dope, huh?”

  “No!” she said. “Charter fishing!”

  “Tom’s been down there, hasn’t he? Brings back a nice catch of corbina or albacore?”

  “So?”

  “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know, Greg only told Tom. He’s still officially a fugitive. Please don’t get him in trouble, he’s really a good guy.”

  “Tom didn’t give you the address?”

  “No, he was supposed—” Drumming the table.

  “He was supposed to what?”

  “Meet us. In Mexico City, with a van; then we were going to drive down together. The tickets were supposed to be at the gate. I bought them myself, made sure we had special boarding help, but they said it had all been canceled—that Tom canceled them. Why would he do that? Why?”

  CHAPTER

  40

  I used her desk phone to call Milo’s home number and was pleased when the answering machine picked up.

  “Detective Sturgis? It’s Dr. Delaware. I just had a long talk with Mrs. Shea—no, at her shop. Yes, I know about the airport, that’s where … I know, but I figured … she gave me what I think is useful information, maybe you’ll think so, too … no, I don’t think—do you want to speak to her? When? Okay … no, I don’t think so. No, he’s not … already in Mexico … some fishing village, she claims she doesn’t know where and I’m inclined to believe—what? No. No, I don’t think so. Okay, see you then.”

  Hanging up, I shrugged. “I feel a little stupid saying this, but you’re not planning to leave town, are you?”

  She hadn’t taken her eyes off me since I picked up the phone. “When are they coming to speak to me?”

  “Soon. There are other people they’re talking to. Your name’s on some kind of airport watch list. If you try to leave the country, they’ll confiscate your passport.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m staying here, what’s my choice.”

  I gave a last smile to Travis and headed up the coast, thinking about twenty-one years of pretending.

  Accepting a payoff and pretending it was a big tip. Feeding Doris Reingold’s green-felt habit and convincing themselves it was charity.

  Five thousand dollars in a paper bag.

  Once they’d been able to reduce it in their minds to a rich man’s trifle, the rest had been easy.

  Gwen was a mix of callousness and breakability. Waffling, resisting, struggling to paint herself out of any criminal conspiracy. Yet, my instinct was that, over all, she’d been truthful. If she and Tom were killers, they wouldn’t have tolerated Doris Reingold’s putting the touch on them all this time.

  I was driving faster than usual. Before I knew it I passed Latigo Shores and Escondido Beach and came to Paradise Cove, where Karen had been picked up on the highway by someone in a red Ferrari.

  Lowell asking for a pretty one to set up the tables and chairs.

  App—or a lackey—picking her up.

  Private party before the big one.

  Lowell and App and Trafficant? Had the producer worn a mustache, back then?

  Nothing nasty Friday night; she’d been in a good mood the next morning. But something had gone very bad the next day.

  Make it a good-looking one.

  Felix Barnard was no Sherlock, but he’d managed to put enough together to merit his own payoff. And a finale at the Adventure Inn.

  App, sitting there, talking to me about deals.

  Playing with me?

  He was Lowell’s patron. Powerful enough to be ordering Lowell around.… I recalled his explosive reaction to my intrusion, then the cold, cruel way he’d
fired his receptionist.

  Allowing me in when I told him what it was about.

  Sounding me out, assessing the threat.

  Talking about Mellors/Mullins’s violent nature. The script definitely a diversion. Which wasn’t to say Mellors hadn’t written it.

  App, with years of experience weaving and darting in Hollywood.

  Had he bought my biography story?

  Maybe. He hadn’t tried to restrain me or harm me. Hadn’t even kept my card.

  Waiting for me to get back to him on the deal.…

  I pressed down on the gas pedal, forging into rural Malibu. This far up, there were no lights on the road. The highway darkened and twisted. I kept picturing Karen, getting into the sleek red car with golden expectations.

  Playing with Lucy and Puck the next morning until Gwen had had Doris, the experienced mother, take over.

  Doris, putting the kids to bed, then sneaking out to frolic. Returning later to discover Lucy gone.

  She runs out to look for her. Finds her sleepwalking, babbling.

  Men hurting girl.

  Powerful men. Mopping up the evidence of murder … in a motel owned by some guys from Reno. The Advent Group. Now I knew why the name was familiar.

  The other outfit sharing the twentieth floor with App’s production company.

  Advent Ventures.

  App keeping Mellors on a financial leash in order to control him and use him. First, the “idiot job” at the production company, then moving him into the motel job.

  Literary critic to brothel manager. Lowell would have appreciated it.

  I could imagine App’s spiel.

  “Think about it, Denny. I know the job is below you, but it’s just short-time and all you have to do is look in on the dump once in a while—maybe even pick up some material—how about a series based on a motel? All these crazy characters drifting in and out? We can pitch it to the networks. Don’t feel pressure to make a decision right now. Think about it and let me know. Come up to the house, we’ll look at the ocean and break some bread.”

  Everything falling into place, but, still, Gwen had admitted to nothing more than seeing Karen step into the crowd with her hors d’oeuvres tray, and Lowell’s payoff could be construed as a generous tip.

  I heard Milo’s voice, superego by way of the LAPD:

  No evidence.

  CHAPTER

  41

  I tried to call him again that night, and the next morning. No answer at home, and the desk officer at Westside Division was unhelpful.

  All this information and nowhere to go. Lucy wasn’t focusing on Karen, so that bought some time. But I wasn’t sure last night’s intimidation would keep Gwen Shea in town and, without her, what did I really have?

  I’d keep trying to find Milo. In the meantime, I’d run off the tension.

  I was changing into shorts and a T-shirt when my service called with Dr. Wendy Embrey on the line.

  Trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, I said, “Hi, Wendy.”

  “Hi, how’s Lucretia doing?”

  Off the case, she had no privileges. “She’s fine.”

  “Well, that’s good. It was an odd case, I never really felt I had a handle on it.”

  “In what way?”

  “The suicide attempt. She was so adamant about not trying to kill herself, but she seemed so coherent. So, no subsequent psychosis or major depression?”

  “None.”

  “Good. Anyway, say hello to her for me. I still think about her.”

  “Will do, Wendy.”

  “Actually, I was calling you about something else. This is awkward and don’t feel obligated to answer, but have you had any trouble getting paid for treating her?”

  “I’m fine with that.”

  “Oh. Hmm. I know this is tacky, but I think I told you Woodbridge is in a major financial bind; the staff’s under a lot of pressure not to take on any nonpaying cases. I’m under special pressure since it’s my first year there—probationary status. Lucy had no insurance and no clear ability to pay. Strict hospital policy is to take care of the crisis, then transfer them over to County. I didn’t do that because I liked her and because her brother told me he’d handle it. But the hospital just notified me that a bill they sent to his company was returned unopened, and he hasn’t returned any of their calls. None of mine, either. Have you been in contact with him?”

  “He’s been tied up,” I said. “Their brother Peter OD’d a couple of days ago.”

  “Oh. God. I’m so … sorry for bringing it up. Good-bye.”

  I ran and had breakfast. On the news, one of the Bogettes, a sunken-cheeked, twentyish harpy named Stasha, was granting an interview to a breathlessly eager reporter. Her hair was cropped to the skin and she wore a goat-hair vest and a necklace of animal fangs. Jobe Is God tattoo just above her left eyebrow. Her mouth twisted constantly and her eyes pursued the camera.

  The reporter was a blond woman in her late twenties, with conspicuous hair. She said, “So you’re saying the police have bungled the investigation so badly that Jobe Shwandt deserves a new trial? But surely—”

  “Surely Jobe lives,” said Stasha. “Surely the truth will spawn its own certain becertitude.” The rest of her speech succumbed to bleeps.

  I turned off the set. The phone rang.

  “Hey.” Milo, finally.

  “Just saw one of your girls on the tube.”

  “Spent all night following those hags around town. El Monte, San Gabriel, South Pasadena, Glendale, Burbank. They drive slowly, use their turn signals, make full stops.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Nowhere, just cruising. Pulling over to the curb, waiting, then pulling out again—goddamn game. Final stop was for burgers and fries at an all-night grease palace in San Fernando. One of them comes up to me in the parking lot and offers me a Pepsi. After spitting on it and inviting me to mate with pigs. Then she told me where they’d be going next. ‘Want a fucking road map, clown?’ ”

  “Fun.”

  “Join the blue army, see the world. Anyway, that was some message you left me on Ms. Shea. What, you tailed her, then interrogated her?”

  “It just kind of happened.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said, grumbling. “Hopefully she won’t sue you. Think she was on the level?”

  I told him why I did.

  “If App and Lowell are so ready to bump people off,” he said, “why’d they let the Sheas live?”

  “Several possibilities,” I said. “If Gwen was being truthful, she and Tom don’t really know much. And each year the Sheas kept the secret and didn’t hit on Lowell for extra money would have reassured them. Also, by now the Sheas are as invested in the status quo as Lowell and App. Respectable business people. The fact that they took money to withhold information on a girl who ended up murdered wouldn’t do much for their civic image. And if Doris ever found out they held back money from her, she’d blow her stack and probably try to incriminate them. As it is, she resents their success.”

  “Lovely folks,” he said. “The type who pretends not to smell the gas chambers.… Okay, so now we know for sure Sanctum was the last place Karen was seen. But—”

  “No proof of any crime. I know.”

  “Not without a body.”

  “So far Lucy’s dream’s been panning out, Milo. So the body might very well be right there.”

  “After all these years? I can see them stashing her there short term, Alex. But why would they be stupid enough to leave her?”

  “Arrogance. I’m sure Lowell sees himself as above the law. And when you get down to it, it’s a pretty safe place. Who’d think to look for her there? Even if they did, with all that land, who’d know where to look?”

  A sick feeling hit me. “Oh, boy.”

  “What?”

  “My meeting with App, yesterday. If he goes checking and finds out my biography story is bogus, he’ll start to suspect something. If the body is still up at Lowell’s, it could get
moved pretty soon.”

  “Don’t scourge yourself, I don’t see that it makes any difference. Even if no one touches the body, we can’t. Not even close to grounds for a warrant. And after all these years, there’s probably no body to speak of. Animals get hold of bones, scatter them. If App’s smart, he’ll sit tight and not attract attention to the place.”

  “Maybe, but in the past he hasn’t sat things out. He and Lowell eliminate people who get in the way.”

  “So why haven’t they bumped off the Sheas and Doris? Answer: They’re discriminating. If Gwen’s story is even true. Don’t forget, all you’ve got to connect App is the Ferrari. Anyone could have been driving it.”

  “But Lucy remembers someone ordering Lowell around. App would have been in a position to do that.”

  “So would Trafficant. And now that you’ve tossed Mellors into the heap, we’ve got four bad guys. So let’s not start thinking of the dream as gospel.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But it’s maddening—getting so close and not being able to grab it.”

  “Join the club. Anyway, let me look into Mr. App.”

  I gave him the producer’s Century City office.

  “At the time of the party his home was in Malibu,” I said. “On the beach side, no doubt.”

  I called Lucy. No answer. I got in the Seville and headed south to Topanga Canyon.

  Just a quick look to see if any cars other than Lowell’s were parked in front of the lodge house, then I’d turn back.

  Or maybe, if it seemed right, another visit to the old man. Checking to see how he was coping with his loss. At worst, he’d curse me and kick me out. If he was taking one of his long naps, I’d try to cajole Nova into another walk.

  Into the forest.

  Lacy trees.

  When I came to the intersection at Old Topanga Road, I had to stop for an oncoming truck. As I waited to turn left, I noticed a car parked in the lot of the market across the road.

  Blue Colt. A young woman behind the wheel. When the truck passed, I U-turned and pulled over next to it.

  Lucy looked out the window, shocked. Then she smiled.

  We both got out of our cars. She had on a plaid shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. Her hair was pulled back in a bun.