Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “Connie threatened someone else?”

  “It didn’t rise to the level of—”

  “Who?” My voice had turned hard.

  She said, “Judge Maestro. Whom I promptly informed, okay? So if Connie had told me anything about you, I’d have informed you as well.”

  Milo said, “You told the judge but not the police.”

  Wright’s hands were fists again. “Now you listen: I was under no obligation to tell anyone because the level of threat was ambiguous. But I did so anyway. At the risk of putting my standing at the bar in jeopardy. Why? Because I’m a moral person. Now, who killed my client?”

  Milo said, “What was ambiguous about the threat to Judge Maestro?”

  Sharp intake of breath. “Dr. Sykes never came out and said she was planning to harm the judge or anyone else. After the case closed, she phoned me to vent, it’s a common after-reaction. And understandable, she was outraged about what she considered a miscarriage of justice. A conclusion with which I concurred. She felt the system had failed her and that the child would suffer. I allowed her to express herself. For closure. The more she talked the more worked up she got and then in the course of her discourse she said she felt like killing someone. Immediately after that, she went on a rant about Judge Maestro, specifically. How biased she’d been from the onset, how unwilling she’d been to have an open mind. It was the association that concerned me.”

  Milo said, “Wanting to kill someone, then seguing to the judge.”

  “There you go, Lieutenant. You’re getting it. Quite obviously, there was no actionable threat. But I warned the judge anyway and if that’s not proof of—”

  “How did the judge respond?”

  Beautiful teeth chewed Wright’s upper lip. “I left a telephonic message.”

  “You assumed she’d receive it.”

  “I never heard she didn’t receive it.” She gave another dismissive wave. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

  “Actually,” said Milo, “it was Mr. Ballister we’re here to see, not you.”

  Not being the focus made Wright frown.

  “So if you’d give us some time with Mr. Ballist—”

  “You want me to leave? Fine! I’m gone.” Milo stepped away and she slid out of the booth, stamped off.

  Myron Ballister said, “Oh, man.”

  Milo said, “Sorry to ruin your hot date.”

  “She’s like a Ferrari, zero to a hundred in … whatever. What do you guys need from me?”

  “How long you been practicing law?”

  “Me? Just this year.”

  “Helluva case to start with.”

  “I had others before,” said Ballister. “A couple.”

  “Also child custody?”

  “No, just … coupla traffics … one DUI.”

  “So you don’t specialize in family law.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out what I’m into.”

  Milo slid into the spot vacated by Medea Wright. I took up the remaining space in the booth. Ballister, hemmed in, eyed the bowl of chips.

  Milo nudged it just out of reach. “Who referred Cherie Sykes to you?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Really? Something silly like that?” Milo inched closer to him.

  “Whatever, Craigslist. I have an ad there.” Ballister fidgeted. “Starting out’s tough.”

  “Hey, whatever works, Myron.”

  “Go to Yale like Medea, it’s easier.”

  I said, “You won the case.”

  “Yeah,” he said, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “The day after, Medea calls, I’m thinking, It’s finished, you lost, now what? But she was different. Friendly. She asked for a meeting. Dinner, near her office. I didn’t get it, but, okay, why not?” Baleful smile. “I was hoping she was impressed with my winning, her firm wanted to interview me or something.”

  “So you guys had dinner.”

  “Not for long.” Ballister’s Nordic complexion made blushing a quick process. Sweat beaded his nose. “I’m thinking this can’t be happening, she went to friggin’ Yale.”

  Milo said, “A girl who knows what she wants, Myron. Lucky you.”

  “Yeah.” Ballister’s shoulders relaxed. He grinned. Now we were just a bunch of guys talking about women. “She says it—the attraction—is because I’m easygoing. Both of her exes were total assholes.”

  “Sometimes nice guys finish first.”

  “I like to go to sleep feeling okay about what I did that day. Before I went to law school I worked at a nonprofit for a couple years. Social work assistant, helping farm people get benefits. I ever pay back my student loans I’ll go back to that but as an attorney.”

  “Public interest law.”

  “Medea calls it public nuisance. She can get a little … outspoken.”

  I said, “You like helping people, so when Cherie Sykes came to you …”

  “I was surprised. That she’d just do it with Craigslist. I mean traffic is one thing, even a DUI if it’s a first offense. But your kid? I told her I’d never done anything like that, maybe she wanted someone with more experience. She said nope, she liked the vibe I gave off.”

  His smile was gentle. “I figured maybe she also liked the price.”

  I said, “You actually charged her?”

  “A little.” Another shrug. “She’s not exactly rich, right? Not like her sister, that’s what bothered me, her sister having someone like Medea. It wasn’t balanced.”

  I said, “Luckily the law was on your side.”

  “After I read up on guardianship I realized that. But still, you never know. I figured we needed for Ree to not look like a serious criminal or an outright psycho. Which she isn’t—she’s a really nice person, am I right, Doctor? But with the system, you never know. When I worked at the agency I saw all sorts of crazy stuff go down, shit that didn’t make sense but there was nothing you could do, judges are in charge. When I found out we were getting Judge Maestro I tried to research her, couldn’t find any pattern. She wasn’t doing much guardianship, period, it was mostly inheritance disputes, conservatorships, whatever. So I just didn’t know. Anyway thanks for your report, Dr. Delaware. It really helped.”

  Milo said, “Obviously Connie sure thought so.”

  Ballister’s brow furrowed. “That must’ve been scary as hell. I could tell Connie was weird. But like that?”

  “Weird, how?”

  “She just didn’t react normally—like she was part person part robot.”

  “A cyborg.”

  Unfamiliar term to Ballister. “Whatever.”

  Milo said, “A weird woman, Myron. Now someone’s gone and killed her.”

  “Wow. That’s totally crazy.”

  Louella the waitress cruised past, trying hard not to notice us. Milo said, “Pardon?”

  She stopped, half swiveled. “Yes, sir?”

  He produced his wallet, peeled off money. “Sorry for taking up space, and sorry for my daughter’s outburst. Hope this covers it.”

  She took the cash, counted silently. “This is way too much.”

  “It includes what they had and what we didn’t order.”

  Ballister said, “You don’t need to do that.”

  Louella said, “You’re sure? This is way too much.”

  Milo patted her hand. “Sure as I can be.”

  “You’re an angel,” she said, and left retabulating her bounty.

  Ballister said, “That was cool of you, man, but really it’s not necessary to comp my—”

  “Paid off my student loans a long time ago, Myron. Let’s talk about Ree Sykes.”

  Ballister’s fingertips tapped his glass. “Don’t take offense at this, sir, but if you think paying for—”

  “No tit for tat, Myron. Just tell me what you feel comfortable talking about.”

  “I know you’re doing your job, sir, but since she was an actual client, I can’t divulge—”

  “I’m not concerned with a
nything related to the lawsuit, Myron. Only Ree’s feelings about her sister.”

  “Feelings? Oh, no, no way, man, you can’t be thinking that.”

  Milo was silent.

  “Not a chance,” said Ballister. “She’s just about the most nonviolent person I ever met.”

  “Maybe, but I still need to talk to her. Unfortunately, she’s left town.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Good question, Myron.”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “She never mentioned travel to you?”

  “No, never. She take the baby?”

  “Sure did.”

  “So maybe it’s a vacation. After all the stress.”

  “After her sister gets murdered.”

  “No way,” said Ballister. “She doesn’t have a violent bone in her body.”

  “I’m sure she seemed that way but I’ve been doing this job a long time and I still get surprised.”

  “That would be a huge surprise, man. No way, I can’t see that.”

  “What if she thought Connie would take her back to court?”

  “She figured that would hap—shit, forget I said that.”

  “She expected to be sued again.”

  “She figured there was a good chance. I told her I’d represent her, we’d win again. And Medea—oh, shit—”

  “Medea wouldn’t be representing Connie?”

  Ballister groaned. “You can’t repeat this, man. I’d be toast.”

  “Deal, Myron.”

  “Yeah, Medea said she was through, if Connie asked her she’d refer her to someone else. Because the case was a loser. So you see, Ree had nothing to worry about.”

  “Except a whole lot of emotional stress.”

  “Even so. She’s like a … lamb. When I was at her apartment interviewing her she found a spider and picked it up gently and put it outside.”

  Milo said, “Flower child.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Kinda like the Manson Family?”

  “Oh, man … listen, you have to do your job but trust me, Ree did not kill her sister. I’d bet on it.”

  Delivering his argument in a new voice: determined, deeper, as if a sudden hormonal surge had annealed him. Maybe he’d master that over time, end up an effective courtroom warrior.

  Milo said, “I’m not into betting, Myron, I build up facts. What would help Ree out is having her talk to me so I can eliminate her. You have no idea where she is?”

  “None.”

  “If you did, would you tell us?”

  “Probably not,” said Ballister. “I’m being honest.”

  “Best policy, Myron.”

  “Not really, sir. Not in the actual world. But it’s hard to change.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  Milo thanked Ballister for his time and he smiled and said, “Sure, guys. Good luck.”

  But we made no effort to leave the booth and Ballister’s smile crumpled and a knot of muscle below his left ear began twitching. He glanced at his uneaten food, toyed with his Margarita glass. Took hold of it and watched ice swirl before forcing another smile and blurting, “What now?”

  I said, “In her deposition, Connie mentioned two musicians she suspected might be Rambla’s father.”

  He’d read the deposition, probably a dozen times. But no comment.

  I pressed: “What did Ree have to say about that?”

  “We never discussed it.”

  “Really,” I said.

  “It wasn’t relevant,” said Ballister. “I guess you didn’t think so, either, or you would’ve mentioned it in your custody report.”

  “Good point.”

  He smiled. “Once in a while, I come up with ’em.”

  I shifted closer. He tried to move back, couldn’t, took hold of the glass again.

  I said, “Did Ree ever tell you who the baby’s father is?”

  Head shake. “I asked once, figured maybe it could help her. She wouldn’t tell me so I dropped it.”

  “How’d you figure it would help her?”

  “Having a support system,” he said. “If the father was a decent guy. And if she could cooperate with him it would show stability and also make it two against one.”

  “Ree didn’t care about any of that.”

  “She said it wasn’t important.”

  “Or maybe the father’s not a decent guy.”

  “I don’t know one way or the other. Anyway, we won, so who cares?”

  “But now Ree’s gone.”

  “Her prerogative,” said Ballister. “It’s a free country.”

  Milo said, “Sure is, Myron, but if you do hear from her …”

  “If I did I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Even if telling us was best for your client?”

  “Even,” said Ballister. “It’s all up to her.”

  “Spoken like a true attorney, Myron. Best of luck to you.”

  Ballister raised his glass. “Luck to you, too.”

  Once again, we didn’t budge. This time Ballister was resigned. He sucked up ice, chewed slowly.

  Milo said, “We’re gonna need luck, Myron—oh yeah one more thing. I need to ask where you were last Thursday, from seven thirty p.m. on.”

  “Me?” said Ballister. “Oh … you’ve got to be kidding.”

  Milo sat there.

  The young lawyer shook his head. “Crazy … okay, sure, no prob, where was I … what time?”

  Milo repeated the parameters.

  Ballister fidgeted. “I guess I was with Medea.”

  “You guess.”

  “I was with her, okay? Definitely.”

  “All night?”

  Return of the blush. “Yup.”

  “She’ll back you up on that?”

  “I think so,” said Ballister.

  “She might not?” said Milo.

  “It could be a problem for her.”

  “How so, Myron?”

  Ballister nudged his glass an inch away. “Here’s the thing, she’s still married to her second ex, he’s a loser, pushing for more money in the settlement, looking for anything he can use against her.”

  “So her infidelity might help him.”

  “You never know. Anyway, it’s the truth. We were together that whole time. I left her place around six a.m. She’s got a concierge in her building, dude in a red jacket, he can verify.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Century City.” Ballister recited the address. One of the better gated developments. A burst of noise made the three of us turn toward the entry. Six new diners entered the restaurant. Beefy men carrying yellow plastic hard hats.

  Ballister muttered, “This place does great.”

  Milo said, “You were with Medea all night and into the morning but she might not want to back you up.”

  “Her concierge will.”

  “That’s a start, Myron. Puts you in the building in the morning. But better to hear it from Medea—you actually being in her apartment all night.”

  Ballister’s eyes got hard. “Okay, you know what? Medea will verify or I’ll get annoyed. And that could really create problems for her.” His entire face was different. As if he’d grown suddenly tougher, older, a force to be reckoned with.

  “Listen to you, amigo.” Milo laughed. “Thinking like a lawyer.”

  Outside the restaurant, he said, “His and hers alibis. How romantic.”

  I said, “You have doubts?”

  “Concierges live on Christmas tips but no, not really. There’d be no reason for either of them to off dear ol’ Connie.”

  We headed toward the car. He checked his messages. Only one but important: the crime scene crew at Ree Sykes’s apartment. “You’re kidding. Any idea whose?… okay, yeah, do that. Sooner the better. Thanks.”

  Click.

  “Techies found a single suspicious red stain on the carpet near the foldout couch. Small, maybe an eighth of an inch in diameter, but confirmed as blood, hum
an, O-positive. Which is a lot of people but maybe Connie was one of them. Hold on.”

  He phoned the coroner, talked to the assistant of the pathologist who’d conducted the autopsy. Moments later, he was giving the thumbs-up. “O-positive.”

  I said, “Don’t want to ruin the party but Ree was Connie’s sister, they could very well have the same blood type. And people bleed in their own homes all the time.”

  “What a therapist you are … yeah, sure, but DNA on Connie will tell me one way or the other so I asked for a fast-track, might get results in a week. It comes back a perfect match to Connie, Ree’s chemistry doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Your patient being a murderer?” he said.

  “I’ve lived long enough to experience the joy of being conned.”

  He half smiled. “Does it happen often or just frequently?”

  “Don’t push it,” I said.

  As we drove away, he said, “Okay, time to check out potential baby da-das. Let’s do Melandrano first because he’s got no criminal record, might be more willing to, as they say, cooperate with the authorities. What’s his job in the band?”

  “Rhythm guitar and vocals.”

  “Front man. Sneaking out back with Ree?”

  I said, “More important, he babysat Rambla when Ree came to see me.”

  “Mommy enlists Daddy’s help … a singer, huh? Maybe he’ll warble for us.”

  William “Winky” Melandrano lived in an apartment on the eastern edge of North Hollywood, midway up a treeless block of pleasant, bland structures not far from the upper-crust streets of Toluca Lake.

  During the drive, Milo had obtained stats on Melandrano’s sole registered vehicle, a thirteen-year-old Ford Explorer, gray at the time of purchase. The SUV was parked in a space at the rear of the building. Still gray, in need of washing, littered with empty cups and Styrofoam take-out cartons and old newspapers and rolled-up clothing.

  “No OCD, here,” he said. “Okay, let’s meet the Winkster. Should we need to build rapport, you can trade gee-tar licks with him.”

  Humming the first seven bars of “Smoke on the Water,” he circled back to the front.