Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge

by Over the Edge

  'One vehicle? You'd expect two bikes.'

  'The old man claims he heard only one, and the techs found only one set of unaccounted tyre marks, so it looks like they doubled up on one chopper. Romantic, huh?'

  He ran his hand over his face and stared at his shoes.

  'I looked at the body myself, Alex. He was thoroughly eviscerated. You know how I felt about the guy, but that's still no way to go.'

  We began walking away from the crime scene, drifting toward the roadside and keeping parallel to it. There was a large bolt in the dirt, and Milo kicked it. A flock of crows rose, squawking over a distant hilltop.

  'Tell me more about that sculpture he brought,' he said.

  'A heavy lump of clear Lucite, with all kinds of toys moulded inside to create a tableau.'

  'A Ken doll hanging, you said?'

  'From a noose, with a knife in his belly. What really grabbed my attention was the title. The Wretched Act. It's a phrase Jamey used to describe suicide.'

  'And the artist is another one of those geniuses from the university.'

  'Right. A kid named Gary Yamaguchi. According to the others, the closest thing Jamey had to a friend. He was seen going off with Jamey and Chancellor.'

  'Tell me more about the toys inside the plastic.'.

  'I realised that I hadn't looked at the sculpture that closely. Concentrating, I tried to recall the details of the scene.

  'It was a takeoff on a teenager's bedroom. Football pennants, a diary, miniature pill vials - empty ones - a toy knife, fake blood.'

  He frowned.

  'Doesn't sound like something worth bidding for. Anything else?'

  'Let's see - some photos of Barbie, an Elvis poster, love letters.'

  'What kind of love letters?'

  'Miniatures. One-inch scraps of paper with "I Love You' all over them.'

  'All that to dress up Ken with a knife in his gut, huh?' He shook his head. 'Art.'

  We walked a bit.

  'The bikers,' I said, 'they keep cropping up.'

  'Uh-huh.' , 'Doesn't that put a new cast on the Slasher case?'

  'It complicates matters, but if you mean, does it help Cadmus, the answer is no. All it might boil down to is that Chancellor and Cadmus's little cutting club had two more members than we thought. Which makes sense - we never found anyone who saw Chancellor cruising Boystown, and a guy like him would be damned conspicuous. He was an executive type, used to delegating odd jobs. So he could have sent the bikers to snare pretty boys and bring them to the mansion, then let them stay for the party.'

  'Which means the bikers may have killed him.'

  'We found the knife in Cadmus's hand. What does that make him, an innocent bystander?'

  'A psychotic bystander.'

  'Then why wasn't he killed, too? You're reaching, Alex.'

  'Maybe,' I said, 'but what's Radovic's connection to all of it?'

  'Could be he found out what was going on during his

  nights off, and when he tried to blackmail the bikers, things got out of hand.'

  'Then why was he following me? And why was he so intent on buying The Wretched Act?'

  He sighed.

  'Look, I'm not saying that's the way it actually went down. Just that it's goddamned complicated and far from a reprieve for Cadmus.' He clenched his jaws and breathed in deeply. 'Maybe Radovic really was trying to clear Chancellor's name - even assholes have bursts of altruism -and he thought you might know something useful because you were Cadmus's therapist. Or maybe his motives were impure, and he thought you might be able to give him some dirt for the same reason.'

  'I hadn't treated Jamey in five years.'

  'How was he supposed to know that? What if Cadmus rambled on about what a great doc you were and Radovic thought you were still in the picture?'

  I remembered what Andrea Vann had told me that first night at Canyon Oaks: that Jamey had spoken of me fondly. When he was lucid.

  'That still doesn't explain why the bikers ransacked Gary's place.'

  'You want me to play Answer Man? Okay, Yamaguchi was a member of the cutting club, too.'

  My mind rebelled at the thought of another Project 160 member indicted for murder.

  'That's ridiculous.'

  'Why? You yourself said he was seen going off with Chancellor and Cadmus.'

  'If he were a murderer, he wouldn't advertise it in a sculpture.'

  'It's been known to happen. Few years back one of those British crime writers made a good case for a painter named Sickert being Jack the Ripper. The guy did paintings that were damned close to some of the murder scenes. And from what you told me about Yamaguchi, rationality isn't his strong suit. Shoot enough speed, and the old cerebral cortex starts to look like Swiss cheese.'

  'When I saw him, he was hostile, but he was rational - '

  'Point is, Alex, I could stand here and theorise all day, which would be a great parlour game for the whodunit crowd. But without evidence the whole thing translates to bullshit. Bikers, Cadmus, back to bikers again. A goddamn roller coaster. And roller coasters always make me puke.'

  He lengthened his stride and jammed his hands in his pockets.

  'What really gripes me,' he said, 'is that we've already done a damned good search for those assholes. Spent weeks running down dozens of leads and listening to Whitehead's pearls of wisdom. Visited every S and M bar in L.A. and saw enough leather to upholster the state. We even pulled a couple of guys out of undercover - guys Narco'd taken a lot of time to plant in the outlaw gangs. All for nothing.'

  'You've got a physical description to go on now.'

  'What? One fat, one skinny? For some reason -undoubtedly sociological - those assholes tend to fall into two categories: gordos disgustos or speed freak anorexics. Fat and skinny eliminates exactly zero percent of the population.'

  'The old man saw them. Couldn't he tell you more?'

  'Sure. The fat one was bald - or maybe he had real short hair - with a big or maybe medium beard that was either black or brown. The skinny one had long hair that was straight or wavy or curly and a moustache - no, make that a moustache and a beard.' He sighed disgustedly. 'Eyewitnesses are notoriously inaccurate when it comes to physical description, and this one's an eighty-year-old depressive coming out of a heavy drunk. I'm not even totally convinced he heard any of the conversation he reported. I need something solid, Alex. I've put in an order to have Pacific Division go down to the marina and toss Radovic's boat. Maybe we'll even find the sculpture and learn that it's crammed full of emeralds. Or coke.'

  'Just like in the movies.'

  'Hey' - he grinned - 'this is L.A. Anything's possible, right?' The grin faded. 'I want to talk to Yamaguchi. Where can I find him?'

  'He drifts around downtown. I got to him through the gallery, but it sounded as if he were planning to leave L.A. He may be gone by now.'

  He took out his book and wrote down Gary's name and the address of Voids Will Be Voids. I thought of something.

  'There was a little blonde girl with him who looked as if someone might have eared for her once upon a time.'

  'Name?'

  'He called her Slit.'

  'Sweet. I'll run a check with Juvie. Let's head back. I want to put a couple of calls through.'

  We turned around and walked back toward the cafe. When we reached the Matador, Milo got in and began talking into the radio. While I waited, I peered inside the cafe. A small, shrivelled man in a plaid flannel shirt and overalls stood behind the counter, scouring the chrome-lipped top with a wet rag. The counter stools were chrome-legged mushrooms with red leather tops. An inert Black Forest cuckoo clock hung on the knotty pine wall, next to a third-rate oil painting of Lake Tahoe. Strains of country music - George Jones lamenting that his blood could start a still - floated forth from a cheap transistor radio.

  The music was overtaken by engine sounds from the north. I turned and saw a jeep appear to float over the horizon. It sped on and slowed down at the cordon. The driver stared at the crim
e techs, then coasted to a halt in front of the cafe, turned off the motor, and got out. The jeep bore the emblem of the Parks Department, and the man wore a ranger uniform. He was in his forties, skinny, and sun-cured with generous features, round wire-rim eyeglasses, and an Abe Lincoln beard. Wisps of yellow hair sneaked out from under the brim of his Smokey the Bear hat. The back of his neck was the colour of steak tartare. 'Sergeant Sturgis?' he asked. 'That's him over there.'

  'Bill Sarna.' He extended a hand as hard and dry as rawhide.

  'Alex Delaware.'

  'Sergeant?' 'Consultant.'

  That puzzled him, but he smiled through it. I looked over at Milo.

  'He should be off in a moment.'

  He glanced at the cafe's open door.

  'I'm going to go see how Asa's doing. Come on in when you're ready.'

  He removed his hat and entered Sal's.

  Several minutes later we joined him at the counter. Inside were more third-rate landscapes, more time warp ambience: a shelfful of Depression glass; a tool and die company calendar dating from 1967, a wall menu listing steak and eggs for $1.59 and nickel coffee. Cobwebs tapestried every corner. The place smelled stale and musty, like the mausoleum it was.

  'Hello, gents,' croaked the old man. He was moving a lot without accomplishing much - darting, pacing, scrubbing nonexistent stains, patting, wiping. His face had a caved-in look, the legacy of several years of toothlessness; his hyperactivity seemed theatrical, a charade designed to coat the place with the veneer of vitality.

  Sarna stood. He and Milo introduced themselves.

  'Like to offer you fellows coffee or something,' said the old man, 'but I been a little lax about provisions.'

  'That's okay, Asa,' said the ranger. 'Next time.'

  'You betcha. Chicken-fried steak and buttermilk biscuits with snap beans and chicory coffee. Maybe next time?'

  'Sure.' Sarna smiled. 'Looking forward to it.' He put a hand on Skagg's shoulder, told him to take care of himself, and led us out of the cafe.

  'How's his mind?' asked Milo.

  'Good enough for eighty-three.'

  'What about as a witness?'

  The ranger put on his hat and adjusted it.

  'Sometimes he gets a little lost in wishful thinking.'

  'Terrific. Has he been suicidal before?'

  Sarna looked surprised.

  'Before?'

  As Milo told him about the hose around the exhaust pipe, his face grew grim. The moustacheless beard made him look like an Amish elder.

  'That's news to me. I've always thought of him as a solid old guy with too many memories. As far as being a quality witness, I couldn't say.'

  'He have any family?'

  'Not that I know of.'

  'Who can I talk to about looking in on him?'

  'There's a senior citizens' group at the Baptist church, but as far as I know, Asa's a nonbeliever. If you want, I can ask around.'

  'I'd appreciate that, Bill.'

  Up the road the technicians had started to pack up.

  'My captain said it was a nasty one,' said Sarna, watching. 'Biker cutting?'

  Milo nodded.

  'We get a few of those each year, mostly in Angeles Crest. Which club was involved?'

  'We don't know. Skaggs couldn't identify any colours.'

  'What about the victim?'

  'The victim wasn't a biker.'

  'Hmm. That's worrisome. Most of our calls are the result of those turkeys getting blasted on booze and crank and tearing away at each other. But for the most part, they've stayed away from the straights. Hope this isn't the start of something. Do you need help with your search?'

  'No, thanks. The search is over. We sent guys out in all directions hours ago, but they didn't find a thing. Later the techs told us that the tyre tracks pointed back to the highway.'

  'That means they could have headed into one of the northern canyons or back into the city. When did it happen?'

  'About eight this morning.'

  'Then it's too late to do anything about it. Asa give you any physical description?'

  'One was fat; the other was skinny. Which clubs ride around here?'

  'The major ones - Angels, Mongols, Satan's Disciples -as well as a bunch of smaller packs that come and go. They tend to headquarter in Foothill Division - Tujunga, Sunland - and use parkland for partying.'

  'Is this parkland?'

  'No. Originally it was owned by the army. Then it was transferred to private ownership. But once in a while we patrol here anyway. The surrounding canyons have been earmarked for recreational development, and unless you've got a map, the boundaries are tricky. If you're asking whether this is a hub of biker activity, it isn't.'

  'What kind of criminal stuff goes on here?'

  'In Bitter Canyon specifically? Not much. Once in a great while we come across a body that was killed elsewhere and dumped. Then there's the usual petty stuff- teenagers drinking, poachers bagging tortoises. Nothing heavy.'

  'What I'm getting at is this,' said Milo. 'Our victim may have been engaged in a blackmail scheme. The homicide could have resulted from a payoff gone bad. Can you think of any reason someone would come all the way out here to transact business?'

  Sarna removed his glasses and grew contemplative.

  'Just that it'd be far from prying eyes. It's a darned quiet place, Milo. No tourism to speak of, because it's not as pretty as some of the other spots. The lake's impressive, but it's inaccessible for fishing or water sports. Lately there's been a little more traffic because of the power plant - surveyors, architects, construction people - but even they're few and far between.'

  'What kind of power plant?' I asked.

  'Hydroelectric.'

  'From a lake?'

  Milo looked at me curiously, but he didn't cut me off.

  'It's more than the lake,' said Sarna. 'Bitter Canyon's not really a canyon at all. It's a water-filled volcanic crater surrounded by sloping mountain walls and fed by underground streams. It's the streams that make the difference, because you get constant replenishment. The estimates run into the billions of gallons. Untapped.' He'd segued into a

  lecture and was enjoying it. 'There's a ten-year plan with two long-range goals: to harness the water for enough energy to meet the needs of the northern Valley and to establish an emergency drought control reservoir that interfaces with the aqueduct.'

  'Sounds like the quiet days will be over.'

  'Once the construction gets going. It's a huge undertaking - forty-five million dollars for the plant alone and another twenty-five million for the town that's supposed to grow around it. They've been talking about it for years. It got a kick in the pants a few years back when we had that drought and all the fancy restaurants stopped serving water with dinner. Then the rains finally came, and things quieted down. They revived it about two years ago, but it took quite a bit of backroom politics to push through a bond issue to finance it.'

  'Environmentalists?' I asked.

  'No. Like I said, except for the lake itself, which few people ever see, it's not particularly pretty around here, and the locals are more interested in jobs than preserving creosote. But there was a conflict-of-interest matter that took a while to resolve; the company that owned the land was the prime bidder to build the plant.'

  'Cadmus Construction?'

  'That's right,' he said, surprised. Then he looked at us with sudden insight. 'Homicide cops from West L.A. That case, huh?'

  'Bill,' said Milo, leaning forward conspiratorially, 'we don't know yet. And we'd appreciate it if this conversation were kept under wraps.'

  The ranger drew a line across his lips.