Rage

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I can see that coming out wrong.”

  He bolted up, tried to pace the tiny office, took a single, attenuated step, reached my chair, and sat back down. I was an obstruction. My thoughts drifted to New York on a crisp, snowy day. Gallivanting.

  I said, “If Malley came armed, on the other hand, there might’ve been premeditation.”

  “He was meeting up with his daughter’s murderer. Like you said, he’d have good reason to be careful.”

  “A good lawyer could make a pretty good case for self-defense.”

  He tossed the cigar onto the desk. “Listen to this, we’re psychoanalyzing the poor bastard and neither of us has ever met him. For all we know, he’s a pacifist Zen Buddhist vegan transcendental meditator living out in the woods in the name of serenity.”

  “With thirteen guns.”

  “There is that minor sticking point,” he said. “Man, I’d love to have the techies go over that black truck of his. Love to have grounds for it— Alex, how about we scotch lunch. For some reason my appetite’s waning.”

  I said, “Sure.”

  He turned away and I left.

  When I was ten feet up the hall I heard him call out, “Eventually, we’ll do the tandoori bit. I’ll have my people call your people.”

  * * *

  He phoned that evening at seven-forty.

  I said, “What happened to your people?”

  “On strike. Did more background on Malley. “Eight years ago he ran his own pool-cleaning service, then it stopped a year later.”

  “After Lara shot herself. Maybe he dropped out.”

  “Whatever the reason, given no workplace, I figure to set out at ten tomorrow morning. The grinning fool who reads the weather on TV says warm air’s coming in from Hawaii. Closest I’m gonna get to a tropical vacation. Sound good?”

  “Want me to pick you up at home?”

  “No, you’re doing the psychology bit but I’m the wheelman,” he said. “It’s time to be somewhat official.”

  * * *

  He arrived at ten-fifteen looking as official as he was ever going to be: baggy brown suit, white shirt, putty-colored tie. The desert boots. I had on my courtroom outfit: blue pin-striped three-button, blue shirt, yellow tie. Whether Barnett Malley was a vengeance-sworn gun freak or a quietly grieving victim, wardrobe wasn’t going to make a difference.

  Milo grabbed a stale bagel from my kitchen and chewed at it as he drove down to Sunset then turned right, toward the 405 North. This time, he slowed and pointed out the spot where Rand Duchay’s body had been found. Shrubby patch on the east side of the rise that paralleled the on-ramp. No tall trees, just ice plant and juniper and weeds. No serious intent to conceal.

  The route from the dump spot to Soledad Canyon would take you right past here.

  Milo spoke the obvious: “Do your thing, dump him, go home.”

  * * *

  The trip was fifty-eight minutes of easy driving under blue skies. The weatherman had been righteous: eighty degrees, no smog, the air blessed by one of those faintly fruity tropical breezes that blows in all too rarely.

  We passed through the northern edge of Bel Air, lush, green hills studded with optimistically perched houses. Then, the stunningly white cubes that make up the Getty Museum. It’s an architectural masterpiece funded by a venal billionaire’s trust, housing third-rate art. Pure L.A.: might makes right and packaging is all.

  Traffic stayed light all the way through the Valley. The freeway fringe shifted to the massive Sunkist packaging plant, smaller factories, big-box stores, auto dealerships. Not far east was the Daney house where Rand had slept for three nights of alleged freedom. By the time we transitioned to the 5 it was mostly us and eighteen-wheelers who had veered off onto the truck route. Three minutes later we were on Cal 14, speeding northeast toward Antelope Valley. The mountains got majestic, lush green giving way to wrinkled brown felt. The scenery off the highway was scrap yards, gravel pits, the occasional “De-Luxe Town-Home” tract and little else. Wise people say expansion to the northeast is the future of L.A. And some day the notion of open space will be shattered. Meanwhile, the hawks and ravens do their thing overhead and the earth lies flat and still.

  Fifteen degrees cooler. We closed the windows and wind whistled through the seal.

  Ten miles later, Milo exited at Soledad Canyon and hooked a left away from the boomtown development of Santa Clarita and toward peace and quiet. The road climbed and curved and curled and hooked. Isolated stands of spruce and the occasional windbreak eucalyptus hugged the west side of the highway, but the big players were California oaks glorying in their dry-earth beds, gray-green crowns shimmering in the wind. Copses of the majestic trees ran clear to the next ridge of mountain. They’re tough, ancient creatures that delight in self-denial; when you spoil them with too much water they die.

  As the foliage thinned, the road demanded more respect, hairpin curves wrapping around acute edges of sere mountains, spillover from rock slides pasting Milo’s eyes to the road. The wind’s whistle grew to an insistent howl. The big birds swooped lower, flew more assertively. Nothing to hamper them but the occasional power pole.

  No sign of any other cars for miles, then a woman chattering happily on a cell phone came barreling around a blind curve in a minivan and nearly sideswiped us.

  “Brilliant,” said Milo. When his breathing had settled: “Soledad. Means loneliness, right? You’d have to like your alone time to move out here.”

  A thousand feet higher a few ranches appeared, small, scrubby, desultory plots set into gullies notched off the highway and bounded by metal flex fencing. A cow, here, a horse, there. A weathered sign to nowhere advertised weekend pony rides. No stock to back it up.

  “Read me the address, Alex.”

  I did. He said, “We’re getting close.”

  Ten miles later we came upon several private “picnic grounds” set off the west side of Soledad Canyon Road.

  Cozy Bye. Smith’s Oasis Stop. Lulu’s Welcome Ranch.

  The numbers that matched Barnett Malley’s address were burned into a blue roadside sign that announced Mountain View Sojourn: Recreation and Picknicks.

  I said, “Maybe he’s not that antisocial, after all.”

  Milo pulled off onto the hardpack driveway. We bumped along an oak-lined dirt path until we came to a shaky wooden bridge that crossed a narrow arroyo. The blue Welcome! sign on the other side was bottomed by a whitewashed plank that listed a magna carta of regulations: No smoking, no drinking, no motorcycles, no off-road vehicles, no loud music. Pets by individual approval only, children must be supervised, the pool is for use of registered guests only . . .

  Milo said, “Take that, Thoreau,” and kept driving.

  * * *

  The entry drive ended a hundred yards later at an open paved square. To the left were more oaks— an old, thick grove— and directly in front of us were three small, white-frame buildings. To the right sat another paved area, larger and sectioned by white lines. Half a dozen trout-decaled Winnebagos were hooked up to utility lines. The backdrop was sheer golden mountainside.

  We parked and got out. A shed-sized generator behind the RV lot hummed and snicked. “Recreation and picnicking” seemed to mean a place to park, access to a bank of chemical toilets, and a few redwood tables. An in-ground pool, drained for the winter, was a giant, white, gunite bowl. Behind the swimming area, a pipe-fenced horse corral was empty and sun-bleached.

  A few people, none below sixty, sat in folding chairs near their trailers, reading, knitting, eating.

  “Must be a stopover,” I said.

  “To where?” said Milo.

  I had no answer for that and we continued walking toward the white-frame buildings. Prewar bungalows; all three were roofed with green tar paper and had stout casement windows and tiny front porches. The largest structure was set well back from the campgrounds. A thirty-year-old Dodge Charger, red, with chrome wheels, occupied the adjoining gravel driveway.

 
Staked signs shaped like pointing hands identified the other two buildings as Office and Refreshments. The sunlight made it hard to discern any internal illumination. We tried the office first.

  Locked door, curtains across the windows. No response to Milo’s knock.

  As we headed over to Refreshments, its door creaked open and a tall, thin woman in a brown print dress stepped out onto the porch and positioned her hands on her hips.

  “Can I help you?”

  Milo put on his welcome smile as we approached her. It didn’t change the wary expression on her face. Neither did his badge and his business card.

  “L.A. police.” She had a smoker’s voice, sinewy, freckled arms, a scored, sun-cured face that might’ve been beautiful a few decades ago.

  Wide-set, pink-lashed amber eyes examined both of us. Her nose was strong and straight, her lips chapped but suggestive of once-upon-a-time fullness. Permed auburn hair framed her in a way that concealed some of the wattle in her neck. White frizz near her hairline said she was due for a touch-up. Clean jawline for a woman of her age— sixty-five minimum was my guess. Katharine Hepburn’s country cousin.

  She tried to return Milo’s card.

  He said, “It’s yours to keep, ma’am,” and she folded it small enough to conceal in her hand. The brown dress was a floral jersey and it caught on the sharp bones of her shoulders and pelvis. The upper edge of her sun-spotted sternum was visible in the V-neckline. Her chest was flat.

  “I used to live in L.A.,” she said. “Back when I didn’t know any better. Same question, Lieutenant Sturgis. What can I do for you?”

  “Does Barnett Malley live here?”

  The amber eyes blinked. “He okay?”

  “Far as I know, ma’am. Same question.”

  “Barnett works here and I give him a place to stay.”

  “Works as . . .”

  “My helper. Doing what needs to be done.”

  “Handyman?” said Milo.

  The woman frowned as if he’d never get it. “He fixes things, but it’s more than that. Sometimes I feel like driving into Santa Clarita and seeing a movie, though God knows why, they’re all awful. Barnett looks after the place for me and he does an excellent job. Why’re you asking about him?”

  “He live on the premises?”

  “Right there.” She pointed to the oak grove.

  “In the trees?” said Milo. “We talking Tarzan?”

  She conceded a half-smile. “No, he’s got a cabin. You can’t see it from here.”

  “But he’s not there, now.”

  “Who said?”

  “You asked if he was okay— ”

  “I meant was he okay cop-wise, not was he okay because he was somewhere out there.” She glanced toward the highway. Her eyes said leaving the homestead was highly overrated.

  “Has Barnett ever been in cop trouble, Mrs. . . .”

  “Bunny,” she said. “Bunny MacIntyre. The answer is no.”

  Milo said, “So you used to live in L.A.”

  “We’re making small talk, now? Yeah, I lived in Hollywood. Had an apartment on Cahuenga ’cause I needed to be close to the Burbank studios.” She flipped her hair. “Used to do stunts for the movies. Did a couple body doubles for Miss Kate Hepburn. She was way older than me but she had a great body so they could use me.”

  “Ms. MacIntyre— ”

  “Back to business, ay? Barnett’s never been in any kind of trouble, but when L.A. cops drive all the way here and ask questions it’s not because they want a nice cold drink from my Coke machine. Which, incidentally, is working just fine. I’ve got nachos and chips and some imported bison jerky.” She eyed Milo’s waistline. “Bison’s good for you, has the saturated fat of skinless chicken.”

  He said, “Where’s it imported from?”

  “Montana.” She turned and walked back inside. We followed her into a single, dim room with wide plank floors and a hoop rug and the head of a large, stuffed buck mounted on the rear wall. The animal’s antlers were asymmetrical, a gray tongue tip poked from a corner of its mouth, and one glass eye was missing.

  “That’s Bullwinkle,” said Bunny MacIntyre. “Idiot used to sneak in and eat my garden. I used to sell fresh produce to the tourists. Now all people want is junk food. I never shot him because he was stupid— you had to take pity. One day he just dropped dead of old age on top of my Swiss chard, so I took him to a taxidermist over in Palmdale.”

  She walked over to an old, red Coca-Cola machine flanked by revolving racks of fried stuff in plastic bags. A cash register squatted on an old oak table. Beside it was the jerky— rough-cut, nearly black, stacked in plastic canisters on the counter.

  “Ready for that Diet Coke?” she asked Milo.

  “Sure.”

  “What about you, quiet guy?”

  “The same,” I said.

  “How much buffalo jerky? It’s a buck a stick.”

  “Maybe later, ma’am.”

  “You notice what it’s like out there? Damn oil painting, those deadbeats park all day and eat their own junk. Darn portable freezers. I could use the business.”

  “I’ll take a stick,” said Milo.

  “Three sticks minimum,” said Bunny MacIntyre. “Three for three bucks and with the Diet Cokes that’ll be six and a half.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she pressed buttons on the machine and released two cans, wrapped the jerky in paper towels that she bound with rubber bands, and slipped it into a plastic bag. “There’s no grease to speak of.”

  Milo paid her. “How long has Barnett worked for you?”

  “Four years.”

  “Where’d he work before that?”

  “Gilbert Grass’s ranch— used to be up a ways, on 7200 Soledad. Gilbert had a stroke and retired his animals. Barnett’s a good boy, I can’t see what business you’d have with him. And I don’t pay attention to his comings and goings.”

  “How do we get to his cabin?”

  “Walk back behind my house— the one with no sign— and you’ll see the cut in the trees. I built the cabin so I’d have some privacy. It was supposed to be my painting studio but I never got around to painting. I used it for storage. Until Barnett fixed it up nice for himself.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The path through the trees was a six-foot-wide swath overhung by branches. The black Ford pickup was parked in front of the cabin.

  The tiny building was raw cedar with a plank door. One square window in front. As simple as a child’s drawing of a house. Propane gas tanks stood to the left, along with a clothesline and a smaller generator.

  The truck’s windows were rolled up and Milo got close and peered through the glass. “He keeps it neat.”

  He used a corner of his jacket and tried the handle. “Locked. You wouldn’t think he’d be worried about theft, out here.”

  We walked up to the cabin. Green oilskin drapes blocked the window. A square of concrete served as a front patio. A hemp mat said Welcome.

  Milo knocked. The plank was solid and barely sounded. But within seconds, the door opened.

  Barnett Malley looked out at us. He was taller than he’d appeared on TV— an inch above Milo’s six-three. Still lean and rawboned, he wore his yellow-gray hair long and loose. Fuzzy muttonchops trailed below his jaw before right-angling toward a lipless mouth. Sun exposure had coarsened and splotched his complexion. He wore a gray work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Thick wrists, veined forearms, yellowed nails clipped straight. Dusty jeans, buckskin cowboy boots. A silver-and-turquoise necklace ringed the spot just below a prominent Adam’s apple.

  A peace symbol dangled from the central turquoise. More aging hippie than militiaman.

  His eyes were silver blue and still.

  Milo showed him I.D. Malley barely glanced at it.

  “Mr. Malley, I don’t mean to intrude, but there are some questions I’d like to ask you.”

  Malley didn’t answer.

  “Sir?”

  Silence.
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br />   Milo said, “Are you aware that Rand Duchay was murdered Saturday night?”

  Malley clicked his teeth together. Backed into his cabin. Closed the door.

  Milo knocked. Called Malley’s name.

  No response.

  We walked to the south side of the house. No windows. At the rear a single horizontal pane was set high into the northern wall. Milo stretched upward and rapped the glass.

  Bird calls, forest rustles. Then: music.