Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I told him.

  Zebe Younger said, “Oh, man, jogging at night in Hollyweird, yeah, that would be Boris.”

  I said, “Confident because of his muscles?”

  “Ten years ago, he was totally out of shape. One day he changed. Told me he was tired of getting turned down by chicks and made a resolution to get buffed and boy oh boy, did he. He was always strong, played football in high school. But still. The transformation.”

  Massaging his wasted left leg.

  Blatt said, “Guy’s a monster, hundred-pound curls with each hand.”

  Younger said, “We should go see him, Marv. Give him support.”

  I said, “He’s left town.”

  Chuck-o placed his hands against his temples and lowered his head. “What the hell’s going on?”

  His shoulders shook.

  Zebe Younger said, “Marv?”

  When Blatt looked up his cheeks were tearstained. When he spoke, his voice was constricted. “Stupid Boris. Muscles up the wazoo matters? Bullet’s gonna laugh all the way in.”

  “Aw, man,” said Younger. He eyed the few remaining bottles.

  Chuck-o said, “Sure, man, name your poison.”

  “Love to, Marv, but the doc says there’s interactions with the new meds.”

  “They got you on new meds? Awesome, man, you’re gonna be jogging before you know it.”

  Younger smiled. “Sure, training for a 10K.” To me: “Got what they call a rare degenerative neuromuscular condition, basically I’m melting. Hereditary, one of my uncles had it, he lasted eight months. But now they’ve got better meds, I’m four years in and the fingers are still working.”

  Chuck-o Blatt said, “Winky, now Boris. That’s why you’re here, Doc? You’re thinking someone wants to genocide the band? What for? That’s nuts.”

  Spenser Younger said, “I’ve heard of bad reviews, but c’mon.” He laughed. Turned serious. “Yeah, that is ridiculous, Doc.”

  “Crazy ridiculous,” said Blatt. “Who the hell’s doing this?” He stared at me. “Cops have no idea?”

  I said, “Sorry, no.”

  Younger said, “Winky was the nicest guy, it makes no sense. If it wasn’t just a street shooting, which is what I assumed.”

  I said, “I’m wondering if it had something to do with Ree’s court case.”

  “How so?”

  “Winky and Boris were both named as possible fathers in Connie’s legal papers.”

  “Connie,” Blatt broke in, “was a stone psycho cunt so anything she said was either psycho or total bullshit. I mean there’s no way. Like I told you the first time you were here, any partying Winky or Boris did was a long time ago.”

  I looked at Younger. Impassive.

  Finally, he said, “We’re all past the partying stage.”

  I said, “Obviously, Ree wasn’t—”

  “Because she had a kid?” said Blatt. “That’s not partying, that’s what chicks do, they have kids. It’s a hormonal thing, you’re a doctor, you know that. If it was partying, all she had to do was terminate like … the ball was in her court.”

  I said, “Like she did before?”

  “Like nothing,” said Blatt. “Her business isn’t yours or mine or anyone’s.”

  Spenser Younger said, “I’m still not getting what being a father has to do with getting killed.”

  “Exactly,” said Blatt.

  Both of them waited.

  I said, “A theory has come up. Someone wants Rambla to themselves and is trying to eliminate the competition.”

  Both men looked puzzled. Tears pooled in Chuck-o Blatt’s eyes. He wiped them away violently, pulled out a bottle of gin, twisted the cap off, swigged and grimaced.

  Spenser Younger said, “I guess I could see that kind of nasty with someone like Connie, but—oh, man, I wasn’t even thinking about Connie, she’s another victim, isn’t she? This is crazy.”

  Blatt said, “Like I keep reminding everyone, Connie was a psycho bitch, anyone could hate her. Winky? Just the opposite, he was fucking Sara Lee, you couldn’t not like him.”

  Spenser Younger nodded. “And he always wanted kids.” His eyes saucered. “Oh, man, I never told anyone because he swore me not to, but now …”

  He reached for the bottle in Blatt’s hand, said, “Screw side effects,” and took a swallow.

  “Winky couldn’t have kids,” he said. “Low sperm count. Even a long time ago, he had a chick—remember Donna, Marvie?”

  “The redhead,” said Blatt, outlining a female hourglass.

  Younger said, “She loved Winky, would’ve done anything for him. Kept begging him to knock her up, this was I don’t know—twenty years ago. When we took the bus through Ohio?”

  “Rock on, Cleveland,” said Blatt, without joy.

  “Winky finally agreed but it never happened,” said Younger. “One day he asks me to drive him to some place—the Cleveland Clinic, bigtime medical situation. I’m doing the driving because his license wasn’t renewed, he couldn’t get an out-of-state rental. I drive him to the clinic, he goes in, comes out, real quiet. I’m thinking he’s got some bad disease, he says nope, don’t worry, just routine. Then he clams up. Couple weeks later he’s looking real down and we’re all pretty … remember that sensimilla we used to take with us on the road?”

  “Hundred-proof,” said Blatt.

  Younger smiled. “So Winky and I are both getting high as an asteroid and he goes on one of those weed-speeches, tells me the test was for his sperm count and guess what, it’s lower than low, he’ll never be a daddy. Then he cries, then like he’s forcing himself to get happy, he gets happy, and the topic never comes up again.”

  Blatt had stared at him throughout the monologue. “No shit. Poor Wink.”

  Younger turned to me. “Anyway, he’s not the dad, Doc, and if Connie thought so she was off by miles.”

  “Connie was always full of shit,” said Blatt.

  I said, “If Connie made a mistake, someone else could’ve.”

  “Like who?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “Well you won’t figure it out here,” said Younger. “Hell, why not just ask Ree?”

  “Shortly after Winky was shot, Ree left town.”

  “Shortly after? You’re making it sound suspicious.”

  I said, “Whenever someone splits without notice the police take it seriously.”

  “They think she’s behind all this shit?”

  “You guys don’t watch the news?”

  “What for?” said Blatt. “News is all bullshit.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Younger, raising the gin bottle.

  I said, “Ree’s face was all over the nightly broadcast. The police consider her a person of interest in Connie’s and Winky’s murders.”

  “Person of interest?” said Younger. “That mean suspect?”

  “A rung lower,” I said. “Suspect minus hard evidence.”

  “That’s totally absurd.” His laughter was unforced.

  Same for Chuck-o Blatt, though his “Ha!” was tinged with anger. “Yeah, sure, two of the coolest, gentlest people on the planet, one’s dead, the other takes a trip which is her God-given unalienated right, so the stupid cops think she did bad stuff? Give me a break.”

  I said, “That’s why I’m trying to come up with an alternative explanation.”

  “Yeah, well, whatever.” Blatt curled his finger at Younger. Younger passed him the bottle, said, “I wish I could help you, Doc, but one thing for sure: It wasn’t Ree. She’s too good a person.”

  Blatt downed two swigs, put the bottle down on the counter hard.

  I said, “Thanks, guys.”

  “An alternative explanation,” said Blatt. “Maybe it’s just some fucking maniac shooting people.”

  Younger said, “Who just happen to be Winky and Connie?”

  Blatt said, “Yeah, that is lame … okay, maybe he’s right.” Turning to me. “Maybe you’re right, it has something t
o do with the kid. But what? Fuck if I know. I mean she’s a cute kid but what’s the big deal? It’s not like she’s an heiress or something.”

  “Hey,” said Younger. “Wouldn’t that be something, Ree partied with a rich guy and now he’s worried about getting soaked, so he takes care of business.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Blatt. “On Lifetime network, tonight.”

  Younger said, “It could happen, Marv. Ree named the kid Rambla, said because the conception was in Malibu. What’s Malibu? Rich folk.”

  “If that ain’t the truth,” said Blatt. “Million bucks for an ounce of sand.”

  I said, “You guys remember anyone specific from Malibu?”

  “Hell, no,” said Blatt. “It’s not like we’re in that world.”

  I turned to Younger.

  He said, “Can’t remember the last time I was even at the beach.” Blinking. “Now that I lost my taste for surfing.”

  “You surfed for shit, anyway,” said Blatt.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “I was even more for shit. Couldn’t stay on the fucking board.” Slurred words. Third swig.

  Younger took the bottle. “You were beyond for shit, man. You were the fourteenth level of hell filled with elephant shit.” Burp.

  “Yeah but gimme skins, I’m fucking Krupa incarnated.” Blatt laughed. “Put me on a fucking board and I’m super-spazz—oh, man, sorry.”

  “Cut it out, man,” said Younger.

  “Cut what out?”

  “Being sensitive, I like you just the way you are, as an asshole. Me and Mr. Rogers.”

  “Mr. Rogers liked jazz.”

  “Mr. Rogers was cool.”

  “Miss him,” said Blatt.

  “Miss everyone,” said Younger. “ ’Member we were in that motel in Harrisburg, watched Mr. Rogers when we were loaded, he had this guy playing a D’Angelico Excel? Handyman whoever, he’s supposed to be a janitor and he’s got this twenty-grand guitar and he’s bopping off notes like Tal Farlow?”

  “Handyman Negrino,” said Blatt.

  “No, no … Negri.” Younger beamed. “Handyman Negri, cool dude.”

  “Mr. Rogers,” said Blatt. “Go know.”

  I slipped out of the bar just as the topic segued to Captain Kangaroo.

  CHAPTER

  35

  Musicians are performers but unless Blatt and Younger were trained actors it was hard to see them as suspects.

  I supposed Younger’s disability wouldn’t have stopped him from shooting a gun, maybe even stalking Boris Chamberlain in a handicapped-fitted car. But his shocked reaction to the attempt on Boris had come across genuine. Same for Chuck-o Blatt.

  I drove back home, checked my messages. The judge I’d ignored wondered if his message had slipped through the cracks. I phoned his court, told his clerk I was unavailable to take the custody case.

  The only other call was another from Kiara Fallows. Probably following up on her job search. I made coffee, sifted through mail, as I phoned her.

  She said, “Thought I’d let you know I remembered.”

  “Remembered what?”

  “Who was talking about that case. It was a lawyer. Suit and tie, not a uniform. A bunch of them were walking up the hall, discussing it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think he was Hispanic,” she said. “Or maybe Middle Eastern. Hope that helps.”

  “I’ll pass it along, thanks. Any luck with your job search?”

  A beat. “Uh, no, still looking. Did you find someone who wants someone?”

  “Not yet, I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Sure,” she said. “That would be great.”

  Curious call. Reviewing it only made it feel stranger.

  Why had she phoned a second time to offer me useless information? Why did the question about her job search seem to throw her?

  I did a little background on Ms. Kiara Fallows.

  The Internet gave up four people with that name: a sixty-two-year-old woman in Queensland, Australia, a fifteen-year-old girl in Scarsdale, New York, a college junior at Barnard studying abroad in Sri Lanka, a toddler who appeared in kiddie beauty contests in Tyler, Texas.

  More scrolling brought up articles on allowing fields to go fallow and other biblical wisdom for the modern age. The raising, butchering, and marketing of fallow deer for the gourmet meat trade. I was about to log off when I found it.

  Two words, conveniently yellow-accented, embedded in a seven-year-old article in the Ventura Star.

  Teen Charged with Framing Teacher

  By Harris Rosen

  A Ventura high school junior has been accused of planting narcotics in the backyard of a high school teacher with whom she’d had conflict. Desiree Kiara Fallows, 17, was charged with falsely reporting a crime and released to the custody of her aunt and uncle, both L.A. County Sheriff’s deputies.

  The alleged plot involved placing a bag of marijuana under rosebushes on the property of a tenth-grade science teacher who’d threatened to fail Fallows in biology. Shortly after, Fallows phoned in a tip to Ventura narcotics detectives, directing them to the stash and claiming the teacher was a drug addict who behaved inappropriately in the classroom.

  Police contacted the teacher who allowed them access to his yard and expressed surprise when the drugs showed up. A subsequent search of his house failed to produce any additional narcotics and he passed a polygraph test. The teacher informed detectives of suspicions that the caller was Fallows, a ward of the state housed in a group home and bussed to Ventura High as part of a state-funded re-integration program. The teacher further stated that the girl had threatened to “ruin him.” Further investigation of Fallows’s story uncovered physical evidence supporting her involvement in the hoax, leading her to confess.

  Although Fallows will legally be an adult by the time she goes to trial, sentencing is expected to involve psychological treatment rather than incarceration. The teacher has no plans to pursue the matter further.

  Seven years ago made Desiree K. Fallows twenty-four now, consistent with the face on Judge Applebaum’s page.

  I searched for more on the story. No follow-up. No matching Facebook or MySpace pages under Desiree or Kiara.

  That made Fallows the only twenty-four-year-old woman in the developed world forgoing the social network.

  No surprise if you had something to hide. Were sitting in prison.

  The plotting teen had been a ward of the state. Nearly eighteen as a sophomore suggested learning problems. Not exactly the scholarship of someone who’d qualify for a plum job in Superior Court, when budgets were strained and hiring was sparse.

  Still, seven years was ample time for change and if Desiree K. and Kiara the Clerk were the same person, scoring the position could mean she accrued no adult criminal record.

  Could because people slip through the cracks. Last year three cadets at the police academy had been expelled due to gang associations and unreported felony convictions.

  If a troubled girl had matured to the point of finding employment in the court system, why had she quit soon after? Blaming it on fuel consumption seemed flimsy in retrospect. But maybe I was making too much of two brief conversations.

  Still, the story of Kiara Fallows’s attempted setup of her teacher was creepy and neither of her calls seemed purposeful.

  There was also the matter of Fallows’s hem when I asked about her job search. As if reminding herself of a story she’d told the first time.

  Back to the con? But she and I had never met, so what was the goal?

  Perhaps all of it boiled down to nothing and I was just distracting myself from the Sykes mess.

  I went over both conversations, searching for something to decode, came up with nothing more than a hinky feeling.

  A girl devious enough to plant dope and call in a false lead. Not your garden-variety rebellious adolescent.

  By the fourth go-round my head was pounding.

  One more try. Search for something out of context, som
e tell.

  Then it came to me:

  Dressed like a lawyer. Suit and tie, not a uniform.

  Way too much detail.

  A misdirect, diverting me from someone who wasn’t a lawyer? Who didn’t look Hispanic or Middle Eastern?

  Subtle at first glance, but clumsy when you examined it closely. What psychologists call over-inclusiveness. It’s a pattern found in some schizophrenics and in many compulsive liars. The inability to leave things as they are, the smidge of self-destructive overreach.

  That was perfectly consistent with an adolescent able and willing to set up an elaborate frame.

  I reviewed the call, looking for other diversions. Found the biggie.

  Not a uniform.

  So look for someone in uniform.

  And that led me straight to a throwaway line from the Ventura Star article.

  Aunt and uncle, both L.A. County Sheriff’s deputies.

  The type of connection that could help score a plum job in Superior Court.

  I’d just witnessed a husband and wife in matching tan uniforms. Eating Japanese food.

  One of whom had daily access to the court record on the Sykes case.

  I began typing like a demon. This time Facebook yielded a prize.

  The personal page of Willa Nebe, smiling and upbeat, eager to share her taste in music with her eleven friends. Ditto, a snapshot from her road trip last summer to Arizona.

  Along with husband Hank.

  And niece Desiree.

  The three of them, posing in sweatshirts and jeans, backed by red rock.

  Willa, wearing a Dodgers cap and her usual grin, holding a super-sized soda. Hank in a ten-gallon hat, eyes shielded by bronze lenses, hulking and saturnine.

  Niece Desiree (“who I think of as my daughter”) positioned between them physically and emotionally: daring a smile, but the twisting of her lips was tentative. More than that: wary. A crooked, uncomfortable smile. Stiff shoulders. Eyes drifting to the side.

  Expecting deception at any moment because she lied as easily as she breathed and figured so did everyone else?

  That could make the world a threatening place. Lead you to make pointless phone calls just in case.

  I studied Fallows’s face. Thin, clear, pretty, but for the tension.

  Young woman with a more-than-casual interest in a guardianship case that had nothing to do with her.