Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The view from the dash-mounted cameras in the van was narrowly focused on the front of the beige house but managed to capture a sliver of the vehicle.

  No movement by eight thirty. The donuts were gone. The two I’d eaten felt like cement in my gut.

  At eight forty-five a.m., Milo made a call and Millie Rivera, hair tied in a bun, wearing green leggings and a baggy white blouse that concealed her Glock, wheeled a stroller east on Haynes Street.

  Belted comfortably into the pram was Rivera’s five-month-old son, Jorge. The picture she’d passed around at last night’s planning meeting showed a smiley baby with sharp black eyes and chubby mocha cheeks. Rivera’s estranged husband, the Van Nuys arson detective, was also a major in the National Guard, currently working as an MP in Basra.

  When Millie was on duty, her mother took care of the baby. “She loves it and Jorge’s fine with it but I’m always feeling guilty, that’s why I took a couple of unpaid days.”

  Milo said, “Appreciate the flexibility, kiddo.”

  “Hey,” said Rivera, “spend time with my angel and get a paycheck? I love to multi-task.”

  Fifteen minutes into Millie’s slow-stroll surveillance up Haynes, Jorge’s whimpering filtered through the mike in the van. Millie braked the stroller, unbelted him, peeled off a blue blanket, and took him out.

  Hugging and kissing him, she spoke into the tiny clip-on mike affixed to the inner seam of the baggy blouse’s front yoke.

  “Hey you cutie, yeah yeah, mijo. What a good boy.” Soft laughter. “Best assignment I ever got, El Tee.”

  By nine forty-five, still no movement from the beige house. Rivera had covered half a mile of working-class Van Nuys streets, stopping to give Jorge a bottle. “Rather do it the old-fashioned way, El Tee, but this blouse would mean a striptease and my gun would show.”

  Milo said, “There’s a mixed metaphor for you, kid.”

  She laughed again. “Superwoman on duty. When do you want me to circle back?”

  “Go another half block, then turn around.”

  “You got it—oops, I’m smelling something. Oh, Jor-ge, you did a big one—yeah, El Tee, definitely, got to find a spot—okay, okay, calm down mijo—El Tee, there’s a little park up ahead. Don’t see any junkies so I’m gonna use the bench to take care of this toxic waste situation.”

  Milo said, “Nothing happening here, anyway.”

  He yawned. Ninety seconds later, the front door opened and Kiara Fallows stepped out wearing a black blouse over blue jeans, dark hair tied back in a pony.

  Better looking than her photos would lead one to believe. A seriously pretty young woman, swinging a purse, walking with a jaunty step, the trace of a smirk curling glossed lips.

  Alone.

  We watched her get in the Nissan. Gunning the engine, she shot out to the street in reverse, oblivious to cross-traffic. Speeding west, she neared the stop sign Hank Nebe respected.

  She didn’t.

  Moe Reed, stationed near the 101 on-ramp, called in. “She just got on, east, same as the other two, maybe she’s also heading to court.”

  Milo said, “Follow her, Moses. And keep me posted.”

  Ten minutes later, Reed made contact again. “She got off in Burbank, riding stable near Griffith, looks like … yup, she’s pulling in … paying.”

  “Girls and horses,” said Milo. “You in the mood to play cowboy?”

  “Tried it last year with Liz, made me sore and bowlegged for a week. How about I watch from a distance, El Tee? There’s a good spot.”

  “Sure.” Humming “Home on the Range,” Milo phoned Rivera.

  She said, “One sec, got my hands full … stop squirming, mijo … sorry, El Tee, he got a little … productive, take me a sec to finish up here … hold still … sorry. Time for another pass?”

  “Don’t bother, your gig’s over.”

  “You’re … kidding … ecch, mijo—El Tee, it’s a little intense here … I hear you right, I’m done?”

  Milo explained.

  She said, “I could still do another pass, maybe she’ll come back and we will get a glimpse of the kid. That happens, I could try to make contact, be friendly, everyone loves Jorge, he’s a good icebreaker.”

  “She went horseback riding, Millie.”

  “Oh. Can’t remember the last time I did that. Oh, yeah I do. Never. So, that’s it?”

  “Thanks, kid. Far as I’m concerned you put in the full two days.”

  “Aw, El Tee, not necessary.”

  “Sure it is,” he said. “The gig began with last night’s meeting. And don’t tell me you weren’t planning into the wee hours last night instead of getting your beauty sleep. I’m putting in for your overtime.”

  “Ha … thanks, I really mean it. Anything I can do from home—some sort of research?”

  “We’re fine, Millie.”

  “So I should just book?”

  “You and Junior. Enjoy.”

  “All that talk, no action,” she said, regretfully. “Ecch, mijo. Again?”

  Milo reached for another donut, had second thoughts.

  CHAPTER

  38

  I drank cold coffee in the van as Milo made a show of sealing the donut box and tossing it to the back of the vehicle, well out of reach.

  “Cognitive behavior therapy.” Lightness in his voice, considering the situation. Then it was gone and he was glaring at the beige house.

  “Way I see it,” he said, “there are two possibilities, both bad: One, there’s never been any baby in there and I’m back to zero. Or there once was a baby in there but we’re not seeing anyone take care of it because it no longer requires care.”

  I said, “How about a third option: Rambla’s alive and healthy and Kiara left her alone because she’s a flake and a sociopath and doesn’t think about long-term consequences.”

  “Taking a break from babysitting for an encounter with Mr. Ed?” Another long look at the house. He phoned Reed.

  “What’s the situation, Moses?”

  “She paid for an hour, rode up into the park.”

  “Let me know when she heads back home.”

  “You bet.”

  Milo turned to me. “An hour ride, maybe you’re right, she’s just taking a breather. God, I hope you are and the worst that happens is the kid gets hungry or scared or needs a diaper change.”

  Worst case for Rambla. Her mother was another story.

  I said, “Likely neglect would give you justification for entry.”

  “Maybe to look around but not to break down the door.”

  “Fair enough.” I got out of the van.

  Kiara Fallows hadn’t bothered to lock the gate behind her. Before we stepped onto the property, Milo checked out the street. No one around but that didn’t exclude neighbors watching from inside their homes. If so, they’d see a couple of guys in sweatshirts and jeans. Milo had added a black baseball cap with a warped brim that made his face look crooked. I’d taken an empty toolbox that had come with the van.

  Milo said, “Ready to set some tile?”

  “Actually I tried my hand at it years ago.”

  “Summer job?”

  “My first house.”

  “Fun?”

  “Not as much as this.”

  We walked up the empty driveway and ducked into the backyard. Small and basic: a square of grass mowed to gray, a rusted barbecue tilting in a far corner. No greenery other than a thirty-foot ficus hedge climbing along all three borders. That afforded complete blockage of the adjacent lots.

  The house needed painting. The composite roof could’ve used patching. Every window was shielded by old-fashioned venetian blinds but the back door leading to the kitchen featured a small, four-light window that afforded a clear view inside.

  Milo climbed the three-step porch and peered in.

  “Milk carton and bowl on the counter … guess Kiara didn’t clean up her breakfast dishes … nothing scary that I can see … and no evidence of anything kiddie-related
.”

  Stepping down, he said, “You look and tell me if I missed something.”

  I obliged. “You didn’t.”

  We circled the house again, looking for spy-space between the blinds. I found a tilting slat on the eastern wall that offered a slice of master bedroom: queen-sized, knotty-pine four-poster, matching night-stands and dresser, cheap overhead fake-Tiffany lamp, wall-to-wall carpeting.

  Returning to the yard, we searched for signs of disturbance. No hint of excavation, no recent break in the turf, and the hedges hadn’t been monkeyed with.

  Milo circled the house a third time, pausing every few yards to press his ear to the wall.

  He returned frowning and forming a zero with thumb and forefinger, leaned against the garage, began kicking the bottom of the wall absently with the heel of one desert boot.

  Each thrust of his foot released dust from the grass that spurted and settled. “I’ll get Binchy to watch the place tonight but don’t get your hopes up high.”

  “No chance of that.”

  “My pessimism’s finally rubbing off?” he asked.

  “Reality’s rubbing off.”

  His shoe impacted stucco a couple more times and then he realized what he was doing and looked down and saw the smudge he’d left. Kneeling, he used his handkerchief to wipe the stain.

  Lightening the gray smear but unable to erase it. Frowning, he straightened.

  As he stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, faint sound emerged.

  From inside the garage.

  Bump.

  Muted, barely audible.

  Long pause.

  Bump bump.

  Both of us turned and faced the garage. Milo kicked again, harder.

  Immediate response: bumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbump.

  Then a new sound, terrible, muffled, high-pitched.

  Milo shouted at the wall: “Hold on!”

  More percussion. Droning—a wail.

  We hurried to the side door that opened from the garage to the yard. White-painted wood, simple brass knob.

  Second glance said not simple at all: no external hinges, no visible lock, and when Milo tried to turn the knob it didn’t give. He pulled, pushed. Immobile.

  The bumps from inside the garage sped up. Still muted but insistent, a terrible drumbeat.

  Milo kicked the door hard.

  Not a hint of shudder. None of the vibration you’d get with wood, alone.

  Braced from behind by something substantial.

  Positioning his mouth close to the seam of the door, he shouted: “Ree Sykes? Police.”

  Storm of bumps.

  “Just hold on!”

  We ran to the driveway, tried the aluminum garage door. Like its smaller wooden cousin, no outward security apparatus but at least these hinges were in sight. Still, no budge when Milo tried to pull the panel up. Operated electrically? Or something else holding it in place?

  He said, “Need tools,” and ran to the unmarked. I stayed behind, studying the door. Corrugated aluminum. Hanging an inch or so higher on the left side. I got down on the driveway, used the gap to peer up. Saw the inner wall of gray behind the metal. Grout at the base. Vertical seams. Cement block. Fresh enough to give off the yeasty odor of wet sand.

  Newly constructed prison.

  Milo returned with a crowbar. I showed him the barrier and he cursed and we hurried back to the wooden side door and searched for a fissure. The door was set tight into the jamb and when he tried to insert the bar it slipped. After several failed attempts and a narrowly avoided encounter between the point of the bar and his knee, he pulled out his Glock.

  Something else strange about the doorknob: no surrounding plate, just brass sprouting from wood like a weird, shiny fruit. Dummy knob, a handhold with no function. But the convex surface posed a serious risk of ricochet and so did the door if it was backed by metal.

  Muttering, “Whatever,” Milo stepped back, aimed at the wood around the knob, and squeezed off a shot. The bullet entered the wood with a dull chunk.

  No bounce-back, minimal splintering.

  None of the ping or rattle you’d get with metal. With any surface harder than the bullet.

  As if he’d shot a block of cheddar.

  He fired at the opposite side of the knob, then above the brass and below. Creating a ring of perforation in the wood.

  The sound from within the garage had ceased as the crack of the gun repeated. Conspicuous noise on a quiet day in a quiet neighborhood. Someone might call the cops. Dandy.

  He jiggled the knob. Some give, but not enough.

  Bang bang bang.

  A new sound seeped from inside the garage, keening and rhythmic like a fire alarm.

  A child, gasping, crying.

  Milo yanked the knob, putting his weight into it and bracing himself with a foot on the wall. The dummy knob shot loose and he tumbled backward, landed on his butt. I would have helped him but he was on his feet quickly and I had better things to do. Picking up the crowbar, I inserted it into the hole the knob’s exit had created.

  I hooked, pulled hard. Still no give to the door. On the other end of the hole was a panel of medium brown. Grained. Plywood. But plywood didn’t explain the chunk. Sticking my finger into the hole, I poked around. Touched something worm-like.

  “There are wires in here. It’s probably activated by a remote.”

  “Careful, it could be a booby trap.” Placing his mouth near the hole, he shouted, “Ree, this is the police, we’re going to get you out of here so bear with us but we found wires behind the door. If it’s a booby trap, tap once. If not, tap twice.”

  Bump. Bump.

  “Okay, good. If it’s safe to mess with the door, tap once. If not, tap twice.”

  Bump.

  “Good. If the door is operated by a remote, tap once.”

  Bump.

  “If the remote’s in the hou—”

  Hard bump.

  Milo ran to the kitchen door.

  That one was easy to pry and he was back in a couple of minutes, brandishing a black plastic module sporting a single square white button.

  Standard cheapie, adaptable to anything running on a circuit.

  One finger-push and we were in.

  CHAPTER

  39

  The bullet-burying barrier behind the door was a sandwich of two foam mattresses divided by one sheet of plywood and backed by another, the entire contraption framed with two-by-fours.

  One side of the frame was hinged to the inner surface of the doorway. Operated by a solenoid wired to a high rafter. Crude but effective. Sound-resistant.

  Sound damping didn’t end there.

  The walls of unfinished garages that accompany houses like the beige structure are usually wood beam and tar paper. These walls had been surfaced with carelessly grouted block. The result was a dingy cruel space, barely illuminated by the single bulb dangling from the peak of the rafters.

  A room that should’ve been clammy but was warmed well past stuffy by a space heater glowing in a corner. A porta-crib sat in the opposite corner. Eyebolts driven into the block hosted sampler-type homilies dangling from piano wire.

  Children Are For Loving

  THE GREEN TREE OF LIFE IS NURTURED BY THE FOUNTAIN OF CARING

  Families Are the Glue; Love Is the Craft

  Ree Sykes, hunched, gaunt, limp-haired, wild-eyed, at least ten pounds thinner than the last time I’d seen her, stood well away from all that wisdom, as close to the center of the garage as she could manage. Clutching Rambla tight to her bosom. Her rusty hair had been chopped short and ragged. Rambla’s dark tresses had also been clipped. No obvious wounds or outward signs of abuse but the little girl’s cheekbones were too pronounced for those of a toddler.

  The room stank of baby poop and applesauce. A steel garbage can overflowed with soiled paper. Next to the crib was a portable latrine. Three rolls of toilet paper sat on the floor next to a package of disposable diapers. Same brand Hank Nebe had purchased last
night.

  The crib was within Ree’s reach but the space heater wasn’t due to the stainless-steel ankle band and matching chain that formed her umbilicus to the garage’s eastern wall.

  Six feet of chain; a two-step universe. Links running out a maddening foot and a half from the padded door.

  The ankle encased by the band was swollen and thatched with scratch marks, testimony to a vain struggle to free herself. Scabs on the scratches said she’d given up days ago. Soon after being taken captive.

  The setup was Predator 101 but her captors had made a tactical error by shackling her close to the wall adjoining the yard.

  Allowing bumpbump to filter through.

  Despite the heat, Ree Sykes trembled, naked under a pale blue cotton nightgown. The kind you get in the hospital.

  Rambla wore pink fuzzy pajamas with feet. Snot mustached her upper lip.

  I said, “We’re here for you.”

  Both of them screamed.

  CHAPTER

  40

  I approached slowly.

  Rambla brightened with recognition. Then her little face clouded and constricted. Shuddering, she jerked away from me, clutched her mother.

  Cody in the fleabag, now this.

  Both kids reverting to primal survival impulse, genetically encoded eons ago: Make yourself small.

  As Rambla fought to burrow into her mother, Ree capped the child’s head with a protective hand.

  I backed away.

  Ree’s eyes bounced around. “They’re crazy!” Her voice quaked like that of an old woman.

  “I know—”

  “We need to go now.” Lifting her shackled leg. Rambla trembled and mewled.

  I glanced back at Milo. On the phone. “Soon.”

  I stood there, making sure to pose no threat to anyone.

  Rambla hazarded a peek at me. I smiled. Her lips vibrated and tears streamed out of her eyes and tiny fingers began clawing her mother’s nightgown.

  “C’mon, now,” said Ree. “Baby-dolly’s okay baby-dolly okay, ’sokay …”

  Rambla mumbled, “Nuhnuhnuh,” and broke into sobs.

  Ree looked at me. “I can’t help her.”

  I said, “You’re doing fine.”

  “We need to go.”