Crime Scene

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I suppose he was confident in his own ability to manage the situation.”

  “Ms. Delavigne, did your ex-husband ever express the belief that Julian Triplett was innocent?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “But?”

  “Well, actions speak louder, don’t they.”

  “Which actions do you mean?”

  For the first time her bravado seemed to falter. She pursed her lips. “More tea?”

  We’d hardly touched the mugs, but before I could answer she had snatched them up and carried them to the kitchen, dumping them out in the sink. She poured refills. To her own mug she added a slug of caramel-colored liquid from a bottle kept in a drawer. She did not offer to do the same for me.

  I waited for her to return to the couch. “I spoke to Nicholas Linstad’s ex-wife, Olivia,” I said. “She told me Walter regarded Linstad as a surrogate son.”

  Lydia said, “Well, he would have. You’ve never met his sons from his first marriage.”

  I shook my head.

  “They have more in common with their mother than with Walter.”

  “How’s that.”

  “Materialistic.”

  I bit my tongue.

  “Not to mention that they moved away,” she said. “Far, far away, making it clear that they had no intention to return. Walter took their life choices as personal insults.”

  “And Nicholas?”

  “He didn’t need to be grasping,” she said. “He’d married up. With Walter he could afford to play the intellectual.”

  “Meaning, he wasn’t, really.”

  “I don’t know if Nicholas was really anything, at his core,” Lydia said. “He was magnetic. Let’s give him that. Handsome, intelligent, capable of making conversation with anyone—for a short while. He had the most intense gaze. It made you feel as if you were the only person in the world that mattered. That Scandinavian sangfroid. You could interpret it as interest, if you wanted to see it as such. Personally, I was impervious. But Walter was rather swept off his feet.”

  “When did they fall out?”

  “I couldn’t give you a date and time,” she said. “As I said, I was no longer around.”

  “It seems like Walter tried to stand up for him during the internal hearing,” I said. “Deflect some of the blame.”

  “Yes.”

  “So at that point, at least, they were still close.”

  “Yes, noble Walter, falling on his sword. You see, my dear, what you fail to grasp is how much it pleased him to martyr himself.”

  The notion of Rennert as masochist rang true. And it pointed to a line of succession for Walter Rennert’s self-destructive affection: from his sons to Linstad. From Linstad to Triplett.

  Not much room left for Tatiana. With her, the pattern was reversed: she was the one sacrificing herself for him.

  I said, “What caused the rift between him and Linstad?”

  “Everyone disappoints in the end.”

  A logical conclusion for a woman married five times. “How did Walter react to the news of Nicholas’s death?”

  No answer.

  “He talked to you about everything else,” I said. “He didn’t talk to you about that?”

  For a moment she sat motionless.

  She said, “Let’s get one thing perfectly clear: I don’t know where the boy is now.”

  She looked at me. “All right? You can put me in the rack, it won’t do any good.”

  I nodded.

  She cleared her throat, took a sip of her tea. “The night Nicholas died, Walter phoned me up.” She paused, corrected: “Not that night, the next day, early. He said he needed to see me, right away. He was adamant. He said, ‘I can’t drive, you have to come here.’ I refused, of course, and next thing I know he’s pounding at my door. I was living in the Sunset then. He showed up looking like a wet dog, with his hair stuck down to the top of his scalp. He was drunk, which I suppose is why he didn’t want to drive. I almost slammed the door in his face but he looked so pitiful. He said, ‘There’s been an accident.’ ”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “He wouldn’t elaborate,” she said. “He had the boy with him in the car. He asked, would I put him up for a few days while he thought things through. The place I was in had a little garage. I said he could sleep there temporarily.” Wistful smile. “That tells you what you need to know about the depth of our love. For all I knew, I was sheltering a killer. But Walter assured me I’d be safe, and I trusted him.”

  “How long did Triplett stay with you?”

  “Walter picked him up the next day.”

  “Where did they go?”

  She shook her head. “I told you. I don’t know.”

  I assumed she was lying. But I could detect her patience thinning, and I didn’t think that going at her any harder would yield the truth.

  “You never reported any of this,” I said.

  “Report what? I had no idea Nicholas had died until weeks later. Then I drew my own conclusions.”

  “That?”

  “The boy had killed Nicholas, Walter was protecting him.”

  “Is that what you still believe?”

  She said, “I believe people get what they deserve.”

  CHAPTER 35

  At Amy’s insistence, I chose the restaurant. She’d lived away for nearly a decade, and her ideas about where to go and what to do were “fossilized in adolescence.”

  She left her car at my place, and we drove together to Temescal, parking on a grim, unlit side street. In her gray peacoat and scarf, she looked like an authentic New Englander, moving comfortably in the cold, our sleeves brushing as we reached the bright, sharp scene sprung up along Telegraph Avenue.

  All around us was the same head-on collision—between poverty and frivolity, bleeding need and fussy want—resonating throughout Oakland.

  Art gallery. Bike co-op. Flannel and stiff denim.

  Drugstore. Bus stop. Abandoned lottery tickets and blackened gum.

  “We never used to call it Temescal,” Amy said.

  “What did you call it?”

  “The ghetto.”

  Outside the Burmese restaurant there was, as always, a crowd.

  “They don’t take reservations,” I said. “We can go somewhere else if you’re hungry.”

  I pointed north. “Organic pizza.”

  I pointed south. “Jack in the Box.”

  Amy smiled. “I’m fine waiting.”

  —

  OVER BOWLS OF samusa soup, we caught each other up. She was in the clinical track at Yale, writing her dissertation on PTSD in female veterans, working at the West Haven VA. Proximity to damaged souls had converted her into a zealous advocate for small pleasures.

  “I cannot believe you’ve never watched Naked and Afraid,” she said. “It’s the best example of my absolute favorite TV genre.”

  “Which is.”

  “ ‘Idiots in the woods.’ ”

  She shared an apartment with one of her old volleyball teammates who was at the divinity school. She didn’t get to play her game much, either, these days.

  She hadn’t told her parents yet—she didn’t want to get their hopes up—but she was toying with moving back to the Bay Area. She’d poked around the job market.

  “Lot of demand,” she said, wiping her mouth, “lot of supply.”

  I kidded her about her father’s ham-fisted attempts at matchmaking; our laughter chased by a secondary laugh, as we both acknowledged, inwardly, that he’d succeeded.

  Reaching to dish her more garlic noodles, I noticed that I was sitting up taller, my body big and open. I’d been carrying around so much tension for so long that it had become my resting state, imperceptible until I was free of it.

  No conflicts of interest hissing in the background. No power dynamics to negotiate.

  It tells you a lot about my state of mind just then that our ease with each other made me suspicious. There we were, behaving as thou
gh we had a history—detailed, rich, important—when in reality, we’d seldom gone beyond hi how are you fine thanks. What else could we have said? Back then she was the Professor’s Daughter: sixteen, lovestruck, dumbstruck. I was twenty-one, riding the hardest downward slope of my life, myopic and full of self-pity. But they call those years formative for a reason. Memories retain their pungency. Faces and personalities imprint, assuming an importance out of proportion. The context had shifted; we had shed those selves. And yet they remained molds, priming us for this present, a reincarnation in more compatible shapes.

  Now she was a sly, funny, beautiful, perceptive woman.

  Now we were equals.

  She asked about my family.

  “They’re okay,” I said. “I saw my folks on Sunday.” I felt the same blockage rising in my throat as when Tatiana asked me if I had siblings.

  Amy already knew, though. I didn’t need to hide anything from her.

  I said, “I’ve been thinking about something my mom said.”

  She put down her utensils and paid attention.

  “She asked why I’m so angry at Luke. She wants to know why I don’t visit him.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t. I turned it around on her. I couldn’t help myself, she put me on the spot.”

  Amy nodded. “All right,” she said. “Do-over. What would you say to her now?”

  I thought about it. “I’m not angry at him. I mean, I am, on some level. But that’s not the reason I don’t go.”

  I paused. “Have you ever seen him?”

  She shook her head.

  “He looks like me,” I said. “We could switch clothes and trade seats and nobody would notice. He could walk out of there and I’d be stuck behind bars.”

  “Too close for comfort,” she said.

  “I worshiped him,” I said. “What are we going to say to each other now? I can’t go. I used to. Every time I’d feel like shit for days afterward. I can’t do it.”

  We let the babble of the restaurant briefly insulate us.

  I said, “I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. It has to do with this case. They’re not the same, not remotely. I can’t stop, though.”

  Amy reached across the table and took my hand.

  “Thanks,” I said. Forced a smile. “I’m actually a lot more fun than this.”

  She smiled.

  I said, “I’ll be right back.”

  She held on to me a moment, squeezed, let go.

  I locked myself in a bathroom stall, feeling foolish for having bolted the table.

  I fished out my phone to check the time.

  Tatiana had texted me, twice.

  U went to see my mom

  Wtf

  The more recent message had come in twelve minutes prior. I fussed with my reply, aware that my date was waiting for me. Before I could finish, the phone dinged in my hand.

  U need to call me she wrote. And then: Right now please

  Busy I typed. Tomorrow

  I silenced the phone and put it away.

  Back at the table, Amy was helping herself to more tea leaf salad. “I heard my dad kicked your ass at HORSE.”

  “PIG,” I said, sitting down. “And I let him.”

  “Did you, now.”

  “Can’t beat up on an old man.”

  “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “I’ll pay for dinner.”

  “Didn’t you know?” One corner of her mouth went up. “You already are.”

  —

  BELLIES FULL, WE walked to my car, stopping to kiss on the cracked sidewalk beneath a gaudy streetlight halo.

  It was easier than kissing Tatiana, because Amy was five foot ten and because I didn’t have to worry about her reporting me to my superiors. I could feel her long torso through the dense wool of her coat. She pressed into me and the lapels parted, and I tugged my jacket open, allowing the warmth of her body to find mine. She was trembling slightly.

  She pulled away. “Is this weird for you?”

  “A little. You?”

  “Definitely,” she said, moving in again.

  We didn’t talk much on the drive back to Lake Merritt, letting the air between us build up a charge.

  Turning onto Euclid, I slowed beside her car to let her out. It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do: don’t make assumptions.

  Amy said, “You can keep going.”

  I kept going. I found a spot and parked, and we got out, walking in sync, fingers linked, bag of leftovers swinging in my right hand. We rounded the corner onto my block.

  Whoever designed my building cared enough to mind the details. Fine exterior molding, for instance. Or the shallow alcove, framed in elegant green tile, enabling you to duck out of the rain while searching for your keys.

  Amy’s grip tightened as a small dark buzzing shape stepped out to block our path.

  “You went to see my mother?”

  My heart was a fist. “What are you doing here.”

  “You didn’t want to run that by me first?”

  “We can talk about this later,” I said.

  “I’d like to talk about it now,” Tatiana said. She rocked on her heels, speaking to me as though Amy wasn’t there.

  “Tatiana—”

  “You really upset her. And me.”

  “I—”

  “Are you even aware,” she shouted.

  Her voice slammed off the asphalt and brick.

  I said, “I’m sorry if I did.”

  “Oh well that’s a superb apology,” she said.

  I started to move forward, but Amy tugged me back. She didn’t know what Tatiana was capable of. Frankly, I didn’t, either. She was stinking drunk.

  “Not to mention,” Tatiana said, “it’s pretty insulting you would believe she has any control over what I do.”

  I said, “I don’t think that.”

  “You must think something if you’re begging her to speak to me on your behalf.”

  “That’s…No. If that’s what she told you, she lied.”

  Tatiana pivoted toward Amy, acknowledging her at last, making a big show of looking her up and down, clocking her height, whistling. “Wow. Look at you.”

  Amy said, “I’m Amy.”

  “Tatiana.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tatiana.”

  “You, too, Amy. Some advice, Amy? Keep him away from your mom.”

  “You know what,” Amy said, “I think I’m gonna head home.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” I said, smiling hard at her. But the moment was dead, and her own smile was bruised.

  “Walk me to my car?” she said.

  Tatiana plopped down on the middle step. “I’ll wait right here.”

  —

  I TRIED TO go slowly, buy myself a little time. But Amy had her own ideas and was taking giant, athletic strides, forcing me to keep pace.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” I said.

  “It’s fine.”

  “We’re not together,” I said. “Tatiana and I.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just so you know. We—not anymore, though.”

  “Roger that.”

  “She’s in a bad place right now,” I said.

  “So I gathered.”

  “I really don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

  “I’d estimate about nine beers.”

  I almost said Her father just died but stopped myself. Not only would that be a violation of Tatiana’s privacy, it would make me look like an uncaring dickhead. “I’m sorry.”

  “I said it’s fine, Clay.”

  “How much longer are you in town?” I asked.

  “I leave Thursday.”

  “I’m free tomorrow,” I said. “We could have lunch.”

  “Why don’t you sort things out with her first?”

  “Nothing to sort. I swear.”

  She di
d not reply.

  We reached her car. Last chance. “You really don’t have to go. I can…”

  Amy tilted her head. “Can what?”

  Choke Tatiana out? Cuff her to a lamppost?

  I said, “I’ll go talk to her.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.” She kissed me on the cheek. “It was good to see you, Clay. Don’t be a stranger.”

  I watched her drive away.

  —

  TATIANA MOVED ASIDE to allow me access to the entrance.

  “Amy seems lovely,” she said.

  I ignored her and went inside.

  Tatiana clomped after me, up the stairs. “She’s the right size, anyway.”

  “Please go home,” I said, not looking back.

  She kept on coming. We reached the third floor. I let myself into my apartment and she pitched forward to block the closing door.

  I was too tired to argue. Maybe my lizard brain was still holding out hope that I’d get laid before night’s end. I don’t know.

  I started toward the kitchen to put the leftovers in the fridge.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  I paused and turned. Tatiana was pointing at the tumbler on the mantel—the first thing you saw, as soon as you walked into the apartment.

  “That’s my father’s,” she said.

  “It used to be,” I said. I hurried to grab hold of the tumbler before she hurled it out the window or did something equally melodramatic. “Then it was yours. Now it’s mine.”

  I took it into the kitchen.

  “Clay.”

  I stashed the glass up on a high shelf.

  “I’m talking to you,” she said.

  I put the leftovers away, opened a carton of milk and sniffed.

  “Can you look at me? Please?”

  I put the milk back, poked around for another prop to demonstrate my indifference. Mine is a bachelor’s refrigerator, heavy on condiments. I pretended to examine pickles.

  “Please listen to me,” she said softly.

  I closed the fridge, faced her.

  She was crying.

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  “What for? Ruining my night? The part where you don’t answer me for a month?”

  “I needed to work through some things,” she said.