Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “You bet. Because—psychologically—it’s a slam dunk. The complication comes from the principals.” He named a movie star and an A-list film director. “Seven years of so-called marriage, kids, splitsville, surprise!”

  Last year I’d dealt with multiple murders involving a pair of screen gods. Marv couldn’t be blamed for not knowing that. Like so much to do with Hollywood, the media had learned only what the powers-that-be dictated and the details remained under wraps.

  I said, “What makes it a slam dunk?”

  “He’s a decent dad, she’s a harridan with a serious drug-abuse history.”

  “What do you need me for?”

  “To say exactly that couched in nice psychological polysyllables. You know how it is, Alex. If I don’t call in an expert I’m vulnerable to accusations of shoddiness.”

  “I’m your psychological rubber stamp.”

  He chuckled. “At your highest hourly rate. But wait, kids, there’s more: He’s shooting a picture in Cambodia, has the tykes there. Creature comforts on the set are a little iffy so he’s willing to bring them to Singapore for you to evaluate.”

  “Iffy environment but okay for the kids?”

  “Hey, maybe he wants them to live like real people—that’s a plus, no? If not, consider that in your evaluation. Consider anything you want. So you’ll do it, okay? Singapore Air first class is the best, Jeannie and I treated ourselves a couple of years ago for our anniversary trip. For a hotel, demand the Fullerton Bay. They’ve got those toilets that warm your kiester then wash it with a delicate spray.”

  “Very enticing, Marv.”

  “Okay,” he said, “I’ll list you as the evaluator of record.”

  “It’s really not a good time for me to—”

  “Listen,” he said, “you don’t need to make a decision now. I got them to bifurcate money and custody, we’re talking a month at the soonest, could be later if the financial issues don’t get ironed out. I’m just trying to button down details early so I can take my own vacation before we start crunching numbers.”

  “Going back to Asia?”

  “I wish,” he said. “Napa Valley, Jeannie’s into wine, now. Why’re you so gun-shy all of a sudden?”

  “Just finished a case in probate and I think I got conned big-time.”

  “Probate,” he said. “You’re talking that guardianship thing with the crazy sisters.”

  “It’s public knowledge?”

  “One of my staff was talking about it, said one of the litigants got murdered, the other’s the prime suspect. I think it shook her up.”

  “Nervous staffer?”

  “Newbie, a clerk. Anyway, that was obviously an outlier, Alex, so don’t beat yourself up. And all the more reason to make haste returning to your roots here at family, where misery doesn’t love company. In terms of Singapore, they’ve got this botanical garden, hundreds of orchid varieties growing like weeds. Granted the weather sucks but it’s clean and safe, there are casinos, you can take a vacation at the studio’s expense.”

  “The studio’s paying the bills.”

  “You bet. They don’t want anything blocking his creativity.”

  “Will I be listed on the credits?”

  He laughed. “You know, I could probably swing that—maybe assistant producer? If you produce something I can use. If you say no, I’ll go down the list and we both lose out. Guess who’s up?” He named two psychologists on the panel. Mediocre hacks. “Either’s likely to screw up, meaning both sides will end up hiring private consultants and it’ll drag on for forever. That sound good for the kids, Alex?”

  “Give me a couple days, Marv.”

  “Fair enough. You know us wise men, we’re all about fair.”

  Nancy Maestro had asked me if the media had glommed into Connie’s murder and I’d said no. But the story was traveling the courthouse rumor mill even though it hadn’t reached the press.

  Logging onto the family court website, I key-worded applebaum and got Marv’s page, complete with his chubby avuncular headshot and smaller photos of his staff. His aides were an administrator named Mary Johnson, a bailiff named Lionel Wattlesburg, both long-time vets whom I knew, and a young, thin-faced, dark-haired woman named Kiara Fallows, identified as the clerk. Phoning the administrative number got me Wattlesburg on the line.

  He said, “Hey, Doctor. You doing that you-know-who case for us? Maybe win an Oscar for best supporting shrink?”

  “Maybe, Lionel.”

  He whistled. “Gonna be fun.”

  I said, “Is Kiara Fallows around?”

  “Nope, quit, she notified this morning. Been here maybe three months. Kids today, no staying power.”

  “Job stress?”

  “Didn’t ask her,” said Wattlesburg. “She’s coming in for her check today or tomorrow. Want me to give her your number?”

  “Not necessary.”

  “I agree, Doc. Screw quitters.”

  The following morning, I phoned Marv and told him I’d take the case if I could bring Robin to Singapore at the studio’s expense.

  He said, “Hmm. That could be tricky—maybe if you go business instead of first? But who knows, they could kick in the entire shaboom, let me inquire.”

  “How many kids are we talking about and how old are they?”

  “Two boys, four and six. I’ll make the call, try to score you two sleeping compartments in first, maybe even a suite at the Fullerton.”

  “Thanks, Marv.”

  “You’ll be thanking me even more once you’re there. Someone robs or steals they cane his ass, then they toss him in jail. You can’t chew gum, the sidewalks are clean enough to eat off.”

  “Orderly,” I said.

  “The things I see every day,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

  Twenty minutes later, he was back: “It’s all set, the works, but I can’t tell you when because a ton of new financial motions from both sides just landed on my desk. I’ll keep you posted.”

  I walked through the garden to Robin’s studio with two cups of coffee, stepped into relative quiet. She was hand-sanding a rosewood guitar back, power tools dormant. Blanche snored from her dog bed in the corner.

  Robin said, “I’m getting spoiled.” Wiping her hands, she took my face in her hands and kissed me. Blanche’s eyes fluttered open. Stretching and yawning, she toddled over. I fetched her a Milk-Bone and she did the coquette bit, cocking her head to one side and smiling.

  I put my arm around Robin’s small, tight waist. “You’ll be thanking me more once you’re in Singapore.”

  “Pardon?”

  I told her about the trip.

  She said, “You’re serious.”

  “You bet.”

  “Talk about perks. Wow. I have heard it’s an interesting place.”

  “Orchids grow like weeds and if you’re naughty they whup your butt before slamming you into a cell.”

  “I promise to be good. When exactly are we talking about?”

  “A month at the earliest, likely later.”

  “A month … I’ll check my project list. How long of a trip?”

  “Work will probably be a few days, we could stay longer if you want, take a side trip somewhere.”

  “They’re flying you there just to evaluate a kid?”

  “Two kids.”

  She laughed. “Well, that explains it.” She tousled my hair. “This is very cool. My baby is such a genius, people lay down big bucks for his wisdom.”

  I said, “Here’s some freebie wisdom: Buy low, sell high, look both ways before crossing the street, don’t talk to strangers, never eat anything larger than your head.”

  She said, “Gosh, what a lucky girl I am.”

  I scanned the news fruitlessly for anything on Connie and Ree. Maybe what went on at the court building stayed at the court building.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day since I’d heard from him, Milo dropped by looking preoccupied, didn’t bother with greetings as he continued toward the
kitchen. After the usual fridge-scrounge, he stood over the sink committing assault and battery on a loosely assembled, wet sandwich of leftover chicken, veal shoulder, Bibb lettuce, coleslaw, potato salad, and sliced tomatoes. All of that stuffed between three slices of rye bread past its prime. A beer rinsed it down. Washing and drying his plate, he sat down.

  I said, “Greetings.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve been incommunicado. ’Cause there’s been nothing to communicate.”

  “There is now? You found her?”

  “If only. For an amateur she’s done a damn good job of disappearing. No credit card or ATM or cell phone usage, no credible sightings anywhere along a whole bunch of Amtrak lines, no applications for welfare or any kind of assistance for herself or the kid. The marshals checked women’s shelters near the major train stops and nada. If she was in the obvious places, their street-sources would tell them. So now I’m wondering if the whole car-at-the-train-station was a ruse, she never left, is crashing with a friend, maybe an old hippie from back in the day. She ever mention anyone like that besides the Lonesome Moaners?”

  “No.”

  “I called her brother—Mr. Porn. He denies hearing from her but I didn’t take his word for it, had his local PD do a few drive-bys past his house, looking for diaper boxes, any sign she and the kid were holed up there. Nothing. And now I’ve got additional reason to believe she’s still in L.A.—Hollywood, in particular. Last night someone tried to shoot Boris Chamberlain.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Wish I was.”

  “Hollywood narco wasn’t watching his building?”

  “Hollywood narco had just stopped watching his building—funny thing ’bout that, huh? Shortly after eleven p.m., they raided and busted the charming Cat and Jeremy. Around an hour later, ol’ Boris must’ve been feeling confident because he went out for a jog, crossed Franklin, started trotting up toward the hills. He didn’t get far before a car drove by and boom boom boom. Three shots, three close calls, Chamberlain drops to the ground, rolls into some bushes, plays dead. If the shooter was planning to come back to check, they changed their mind when a bunch of residents turned on their lights.”

  I said, “Any shell casings?”

  “Three 9mms.”

  “Not a .25.”

  “So she’s got more than one gun, figured a bigger load would be better from a distance.”

  “North of Franklin at midnight isn’t exactly safe jogging territory.”

  “Granted, not the smartest choice but Chamberlain told me he ran there all the time, figured his quote unquote ‘build’ would discourage a mugger, it always had. With the tweakers being out of the picture, maybe he was starting to see the world as a kindly, loving place again.” Small smile. “Always a mistake.”

  “Anyone get a good look at the car?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Too dark, it all happened so fast, blah blah blah. Needless to say, Chamberlain’s freaked out, planning to visit his folks in Vermillion, South Dakota.”

  He rubbed his face. “This is some dragon-lady we’re dealing with, Alex. Maybe Connie was onto something when she sued her.”

  I said, “So the working theory is Ree stalked Chamberlain while his building was being monitored by Hollywood narco and struck as soon as they left.”

  “Why not? No better time for Hollywood narco not to notice,” he said. “When’s the best time to break the speed limit, kiddo? When the cops are busy giving someone else a ticket. Ree watched the tweakers being taken away, spotted Chamberlain come out for some late-night exercise? Sounds perfect to me.”

  “It depends on her driving a second vehicle.”

  He put his hands behind his head. “Gee, that would be tough.”

  I said, “Okay.”

  “You still can’t accept it, huh?”

  “I accept it. No point crossing from denial into stupidity.” Mouthing the words but even I could hear the rote-quality. And the resentment.

  He said, “Okay, I just ate your grub, so I’ll be temporarily open-minded. Is there something about this chick, psychologically speaking, that’ll make me think better of her? And I don’t mean all that love-beads bullshit. I never trusted the whole flower-child thing. I’m in Asia, they’re having love-ins.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing new to add.”

  “Then unfortunately I’m gonna stick with the basics as I see ’em, Alex. The Sykes family was a breeding ground for psychopathology. Connie was a thoroughly unpleasant person with homicidal tendencies and Ree is an outwardly pleasant person with homicidal tendencies. She’s also a helluva lot better at killing people than her sister because she observes Rule One: Want something done right, do it yourself. Unfortunately for me, she’s also good at staying under the radar, so hopefully she won’t consider anyone else an obstacle.”

  “Why would Chamberlain be an obstacle?”

  “Same reason as Winky: He could be Rambla’s daddy and Ree defines bliss as single motherhood.”

  “Can’t be him and Winky,” I said. “She’d know.”

  “Would she, Alex?” His smile was unsettling. If he wasn’t my friend I wouldn’t have liked him.

  I said, “Guess not.”

  “I mean I don’t want to be accused of a dirty mind, but let’s hope the kid wasn’t conceived during a Malibu gangbang. If that’s the case, there’s a whole slew of horndogs with targets on their foreheads.”

  CHAPTER

  32

  Two days after the attempted murder of Boris Chamberlain, the case hit the news.

  The L.A. Times devoted two paragraphs to “what LAPD sources describe as the emotional fallout from a heated guardianship battle.” Focus on the Sykes sisters, no mention of Chamberlain or Melandrano. TV offered similar content in the usual short-attention-span spurts, along with a DMV photo of Ree Sykes.

  The newspaper byline was Kelly LeMasters, once a Times staff reporter, now a freelancer and writing a book. That volume was based on the movie-star homicides Milo and I had worked on last year. After a rocky beginning, LeMasters and Milo had forged a working relationship; no mystery about the identity of her “sources.”

  Milo’s motivation was obvious: a woman that dangerous on the lam, going public was the logical step. No reason to feel sorry for Ree. Still …

  I’d been struggling to accept her as a multiple murderer but maybe the real issue was that she’d fooled me completely. I knew that mental health pros were no better than anyone predicting violence, emphasized that when teaching forensic psych to gung-ho grad students.

  In the case of Sykes v. Sykes, I’d manage to convince myself I was different.

  Delusions were everywhere.

  I took a punishing run up Mulholland and two miles beyond, staggered home drenched, aching, wheezing like a chain smoker.

  After showering and dressing, I checked my messages. Perfect time for there to be none.

  Three in ninety minutes, the joys of success.

  A judge I respected far less than Marv Applebaum wanted to discuss—big surprise—an “unpleasant” custody case. A “professional career consultant” offered to “grow your practice beyond your wildest dreams, Doctor!” A Clara Fellows had left a call-back number.

  I decoded the operator’s error: Kiara Fallows. The clerk who’d taken leave from Marv’s court. Wondering why she’d called, I tried her first.

  A soft, whispery voice said, “This is Kiara.”

  “Dr. Delaware returning your call.”

  “Who?” she said. “Oh. Yes. Deputy Wattlesburg said you needed to talk to me?”

  I’d told Lionel not to bother. The old courtroom vet being helpful?

  “Nothing urgent,” I said. “I was just curious how you knew about the Sykes case.”

  “The what?”

  “Deputy Wattlesburg said you’d mentioned a guardianship suit in probate court—”

  “Oh,” she said. “The two sisters. I guess I did—he’s annoyed with me. Lionel. For quitting. When he told me you ca
lled he also let me know I’d blown a big opportunity, working for the county, the benefits, the pension.”

  “Did the Sykes case have something to do with your leaving?”

  “It did kind of freak me out,” she said. “Someone getting killed over a child? But no, the main reason was it’s too far for me to drive. The gas mileage, I wanted something closer to home.”

  “Where’d you hear about the murder?”

  “People talking.”

  “At the courthouse?”

  “They’re always going on about something there.”

  “Okay, thanks for clarifying.”

  “That’s it?” she said. “You were just curious?”

  “I was involved in the case as an expert witness, am still trying to make sense of it.”

  “That’s scary,” she said. “Being a part of it, I mean. Someone going nuts and you could never tell they were dangerous. Like that workplace violence you hear about, no way to predict who’s going to go off the deep end. Hey, could I ask you a favor? Being a doctor, you wouldn’t happen to know of anyone who needs an office manager or something like that? I’m real good at planning and organizing.”

  “If I think of anyone I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks. And good luck to you. Figuring out the craziness, I mean.”

  I was tackling Joe Pass guitar solos, doing damage to “Satin Doll,” when Milo rang in.

  “Looks like we got her, Alex. Skid Row, walking distance from the damn courthouse. I was right about her never leaving town. She parked her car at Union, somehow got another set of wheels that she used to drive-by Chamberlain, maybe ditched that, too.”

  I said, “Criminal mastermind.”

  “You know as well as I do, amigo. It ain’t that hard to be bad.”

  “How’d you find her?”

  “The tipoff was the kid,” he said. “How many healthy-looking women with well-nourished toddlers you gonna see at an SRO flophouse? Minutes after her face hit the tube we got three separate sightings. I’m outside the building right now.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Listen, I know this isn’t the news you wanted so if you turn me down, I won’t blame you. But with the kid involved, the possibility of this turning into a hostage situation is bugging me. Your knowing what makes Mama tick—I could use you here.”