Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 16 - The Murder Book

by The Murder Book(Lit)

  Another half a second was all he needed - mission accomplished. The face was one he'd seen before. Mr Smiley. The asshole who'd accosted him at the hot dog stand, claiming to be Paris Bartlett. Craig Eiffel Bosc. Eiffel/Paris. Cute.

  Bosc/Bartlett stymied him for a moment, then he got it: two varieties of pears.

  How imaginative. Sell it to the networks.

  Bosc/Bartlett was moving his head in time to music, oblivious, and Milo sped up, got two cars ahead of the Saab, used the next red light to peer through the intervening Toyota with its two little chicklets also bopping - to some bass-heavy hip-hop thing. He tried to get another look at Craig Eiffel Bosc but caught only the girls' hyperactivity and the Toyota's windshield glare. The right lane opened up and he eased back into it, allowed the Toyota and the Saab to pass.

  Glancing to the left without moving his head as Smiley Pear zipped by. Then catching up and keeping pace with the Saab just long enough to take a mental snapshot.

  Smiley was in shirtsleeves - deep blue shirt - with his sky-colored tie loosened, one paw on the wheel, the other wrapped around a big fat cigar. The Saab's windows were untinted but shut, and the interior was clouded with smoke. Not thick enough, though, to obscure the smile on Craig Eiffel Bosc's struggling-actor-handsome countenance.

  Such a happy fellow, toking tobacco and cruising and grooving in his zippy little Swedish car on a sunny, California day. On top of the world. We'll see about that.

  Craig Bosc took Coldwater Canyon into the Valley. Medium traffic made the tail easy. Not that Bosc would be looking out for him. The guy was no motor-pro - a real ninny for showing himself in plain view on Milo's block. The cigar and his grin said he couldn't even imagine the tables turning.

  At Ventura, the Saab turned right and drove into Studio City, where it pulled into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour yuppie gym on the south side of the boulevard. Craig Bosc got out with a

  blue bag and half jogged to the front. One good arm push and he was through the door and gone.

  Milo looked around for a vantage point. A seafood restaurant across Ventura offered a perfect view of the gym and the Saab. The surf-and-turf special sounded enticing - he was hungry.

  Ravenous.

  He indulged himself with an upgrade from the special: extra big lobster, Alaskan crab legs, sixteen-ounce top sirloin, baked potato with sour cream and chives, a mountain of fried zucchini. All that washed down with Cokes instead of beer, because he needed his

  wits.

  He ate slowly, figuring Bosc would be in there for at least an hour, doing the old body-beautiful thing. By the time he'd asked for the check and was working on his third coffee refill, the Saab was still in plain view. He threw down money, hazarded a trip to the men's room, left the restaurant, and sat in the Dodge for another half hour before Bosc emerged with wet hair. Back in his street clothes - the blue shirt and black slacks - minus the tie.

  Bosc bounced over to the Saab, disarmed the alarm, but instead of getting in, stopped to check his reflection in the side window. Fluffing his hair. Undoing the shirt's second button. Milo watched the asshole show off that big smile for the glass audience - Bosc actually turned his head here and there. Appreciating his own damn face from multiple angles.

  Then Bosc got in the Saab and did an L.A. thing: drove less than a block before pulling into another parking lot.

  A bar. Little cedar-sided cube stuffed between a sushi bar and a bicycle shop. A painted sign above the cedar door labeled the place as EXTRAS. A banner to the right advertised the psychic benefits of happy hour.

  Half a dozen cars in the lot. Not too many happy people?

  But Craig Bosc was. Grinning as he parked next to a ten-year-old Datsun Z, got out, checked his teeth in the side mirror, rubbed them with his index finger, went inside.

  EXTRAS. Milo'd never enjoyed the ambience, but he knew the bar by reputation. Watering hole for small-time actroids - pretty people who'd arrived in L.A. with a couple years of Stanislavski or

  summer stock or college theater under their belts, fueled by Oscar fantasies but settling, a thousand cattle calls later, for the occasional walk-ons and crowd scenes and nonunion commercials that comprised 99.9 percent of movie work.

  Craig Eiffel Bosc, Master Thespian.

  Time for a bad review.

  Bosc stayed in the bar for another hour and a half and emerged alone, walking a little more slowly and tripping once. When the guy resumed driving west on Ventura, he'd slowed to ten miles under the limit and was doing that dividing line nudge that made it clear he was under the influence.

  A 502 stop would offer the opportunity for a face-to-face with Bosc, but pulling the turkey over for a deuce was the last thing Milo wanted. Being off duty, the most he could pull off would be a citizen's arrest. That meant holding on to Bosc while calling a patrol car, then having the blues take over and losing any hope of private time with Mr Smiles.

  So he continued tailing the Saab and hoped Bosc wouldn't attract law enforcement attention or run someone over.

  Another short ride - two blocks to a strip mall near Coldwater, where Bosc went shopping for groceries at a Ralphs, deposited two paper bags in the Saab's trunk, made a five-minute stop at a mailbox rentals place, and returned to the car with a stack of envelopes under his arm.

  Mail drop, same setup as the West Hollywood POB where he'd registered as Playa del Sol. The tail resumed, with Milo two lengths behind as Bosc turned right on Coldwater, traveled north past Moorpark and Riverside, then east on Huston.

  Quiet street, apartments and small houses. That made it a tough follow-along, even with the quarry oblivious and slightly intoxicated. Milo waited at the corner of Coldwater and Huston and kept his eye on the Saab. The blue car traveled one block, then another, before hooking left.

  Hoping Bosc didn't live in some security building with a subterranean garage, Milo waited half a minute, wheeled his way up a block and a half, parked, got out and continued on foot toward the

  spot where he'd estimated the Saab had come to rest.

  Luck was with him. The blue car was out in the open, sitting in the driveway of a one-story, white stucco bungalow.

  The house had a cement lawn and no fence. A couple of scraggly palms brushing the front facade were the only concessions to green. The driveway was twenty feet of cracked slab, barely long enough for a single vehicle, and it ended at the house's left side. No backyard. The bungalow sat on a fractional lot - a sliver that had escaped tear-down and development - and behind the tiny house, on the rear-neighboring property, loomed a four-story apartment

  complex.

  The glamour of Hollywood.

  Milo returned to the Dodge and drove twenty feet past the bungalow. Plenty of parked cars here, but he managed to find a spot between a van and a pickup that afforded him a clean, diagonal view. Bosc's gym-bar-shopping excursion had taken up most of the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to drop. Milo sat there, his 9mm resting on his hip, the weapon substantial and cool and comforting, and he felt better than he had in a long time.

  Maybe Bosc was in for the evening, because by 5 p.m. he hadn't shown himself, and lights had gone on in the white bungalow's front rooms. Lacy curtains obscured the details, but the fabric was sheer enough for Milo to make out flashes of movement.

  Bosc shifting from room to room. Then, at nine, a window on the right side of the house went cathode-blue. TV.

  Quiet night for Master Thespian.

  Milo climbed out of the Polaris, stretched the stiffness from his joints, made his way across the street.

  He rang the bell, and Bosc didn't even bother to shout out a 'Who's there?', just opened it wide.

  The actor had changed into khaki shorts and a tight black T-shirt that hugged his actorly physique. One hand gripped a bottle of Coors Light. The other held a cigarette.

  Casual, loose, eyes bloodshot and droopy. Until Milo's face registered and Bosc's well-formed mouth dropped open.

  The actor didn't react to the
roust like an actor would - like any

  kind of civilian would. His legs spread slightly and he planted his feet, the beer bottle jabbed at Milo's chin and the cigarette's glowing tip headed for Milo's eyes.

  Split-second reaction. Tight little martial arts ballet. Milo was mildly surprised, but he'd come ready for anything and retracted his head. The vicious kick he aimed at Bosc's groin landed true, as did the chop to the back of Bosc's neck, and the guy went down, putting an end to any debate.

  By the time Bosc had stopped writhing on the floor and the green had gone out of his complexion, his hands were cuffed behind him and he was panting and struggling to choke out words and Milo was kicking the door shut. He lifted Bosc by the scruff and dumped him on the black leather couch that took up most of the living room. The rest of the decor was a white beanbag chair, a huge digital TV, expensive stereo toys, and a chrome-framed poster of a wound red Lamborghini Countach.

  Bosc sprawled on the sofa, moaning. His eyes rolled back and he retched and Milo stepped back from the expected projectile puke. But Bosc just dry heaved a couple of times, got his eyes back on track, looked up at Milo. And smiled. And laughed.

  'Something funny, Craig?' said Milo.

  Bosc's lips moved a bit, and he struggled to talk through the grin. Sweat globules as big as jelly beans beaded up his forehead and rolled down his sculpted nose. He flicked one away with his tongue. Laughed again. Spit at Milo's feet. Coughed and said, 'Oh yeah. You're in big trouble.'

  I sped up Highway 33, sucking in the grass-sweet air of Ojai. Thinking about Bert Harrison living here for decades, light-years from L.A. For all that, the old man had been unable to avoid the worst the city had to offer.

  As I approached the bank of shops that included O'Neill & Chapin, I eased up on the gas pedal. The stationery shop was still shuttered and a CLOSED sign was propped in the window of the Celestial Cafe. Midway through town, I turned onto the road that led up to Bert's property, drove a hundred feet from his driveway, and parked behind a copse of eucalyptus.

  Bert's old station wagon was parked out in front, which told me nothing. Perhaps he'd left for his overseas trip and had been driven to the airport. Or his departure was imminent, and I'd enter to find him packing.

  Third choice: he'd lied about the journey, wanting to discourage me from returning.

  I admired Bert, wasn't eager to examine the possibilities. Returning to the Seville, I swung back onto the highway. Ready to tap the source, directly.

  The entry to Mecca Ranch was latched but unlocked. I freed the arm, drove through, closed the gate behind me, and motored up under the gaze of circling hawks - maybe the same birds I'd seen the first time.

  The corral floated into view, glazed by afternoon sun. Marge Schwinn stood in the center of the ring, wearing a faded denim shirt, tight jeans and riding boots, her back to me. Talking to a big stallion the color of bittersweet chocolate. Nuzzling the animal,

  stroking its mane. The sound of my tires crunching the gravel made her turn. By the time I was out of the Seville, she'd left the enclosure and was heading toward me.

  'Well, hello there, Dr Delaware.'

  I returned the greeting, smiling and keeping my voice light. The first time I'd met her, Milo hadn't introduced me by name or profession. Suddenly I felt good about the trip.

  She pulled a blue bandana from her jeans pocket, wiped both hands, offered the right one for a firm, hard shake. 'What brings you up here?'

  'Follow-up.'

  She pocketed the bandana and grinned. 'Someone think I'm crazy?'

  'No, ma'am, just a few questions.' I was looking into the sun and turned my head. Marge's face was well shaded, but she squinted, and her eyes receded into a mesh of wrinkles. The denim shirt was tailored tight. Her breasts were small and high. That same combination of girlish body and old woman's face.

  'What kind of questions, Doctor?'

  'For starts, have you thought of anything new since Detective Sturgis and I visited?'

  'About... ?'

  'Anything your husband might've said about that unsolved murder we discussed.'

  'Nope,' she said. 'Nothing about that.' Her eyes drifted to the corral. 'I'd love to chat, but I'm kind of in the middle of things.' 'Just a few more things. Including a sensitive topic, I'm afraid.' She clamped both hands on hard, lean hips. 'What topic?' 'Your husband's drug addiction. Did he overcome his habit by himself?'

  She dug a heel into the dirt and ground it hard. 'Like I told you, by the time I met him, Pierce was past all that.'

  'Did he have any help getting there?'

  A simple question, but she said, 'What do you mean?' She'd maintained the squint, but her eyes weren't shut tight enough to conceal the movement behind the lids. Quick shift down to the ground, then a sidelong journey to the right.

  Another bad liar. Thank God for honest people.

  'Did Pierce have any drug treatment?' I said. 'Was he ever under the care of a doctor?'

  'He really didn't talk about those days.'

  'Not at all?'

  'He was past it. I didn't want to rake things up.'

  'Didn't want to upset him,' I said.

  She glanced over at the corral again.

  I said, 'How did Pierce sleep?'

  'Pardon?'

  'Was Pierce a sound sleeper or did he have trouble settling down at night?'

  'He was pretty much a-' She frowned. 'These are strange questions, Dr Delaware. Pierce is gone, what difference does it make how he slept?'

  'Just general follow-up,' I said. 'What I'm interested in specifically is the week or so before the accident. Did he sleep well or was he restless?'

  Her breath caught, and the hands on her hips whitened. 'What happened, sir, is what I told you: Pierce fell off Akhbar. Now he's gone and I'm the one has to live with that and I don't appreciate your raking all this up.'

  'I'm sorry,' I said.

  'You keep apologizing, but you don't stop asking.'

  'Well,' I said, 'here's the thing. Maybe it was an accident, but you did ask for a drug scan on Akhbar. Paid the coroner quite a bit of money to do it.'

  She took a step away from me, then another. Shook her head, plucked a piece of straw out of her hair. 'This is ridiculous.'

  'Another thing,' I said. 'Detective Sturgis never introduced me by name, but you know who I am and what I do. I find that kind of curious.'

  Her eyes widened and her chest heaved. 'He said you might do this.'

  'Who did?'

  No answer.

  I said, 'Dr Harrison?'

  She turned her back on me.

  'Mrs Schwinn, don't you think we need to get to the bottom of

  things? Isn't that what Pierce would've wanted? Something was keeping him up at night, wasn't it? Unfinished business. Wasn't that the whole point of the murder book?'

  'I don't know about any book.'

  'Don't you?'

  Her lips folded inward. She shook her head again, clenched her jaw, swiveled, and caught a faceful of sun. A tremor jogged through her upper body. Her legs were planted, and they absorbed the motion. She turned heel and half ran toward her house. But I followed her inside; she didn't try to stop me.

  We sat in the exact same spots we'd occupied a few days ago: me on the living-room couch, she in the facing chair. The last time, Milo had done all the talking, as he usually does when I tag along, but now it was my game and, God help me, despite the anguish of the woman sitting across from me, I felt cruelly elated.

  Marge Schwinn said, 'You guys are spooky. Mind readers.'

  'We guys?'

  'Head doctors.'

  'Dr Harrison and I,' I said.

  She didn't answer, and I went on: 'Dr Harrison warned you I might be back.'

  'Dr Harrison does only good.'

  I didn't argue.

  She showed me her profile. 'Yes, he was the one who told me who you were - after I described you and that big detective, Sturgis. He said your being here might mean things would be differe
nt.'

  'Different?'

  'He said you were persistent. A good guesser.'

  'You've known Dr Harrison for a while.'

  'A while.' The living-room windows were open, and a whinny from out in the corral drifted in loud and clear. She muttered, 'Easy, baby.'

  'Your relationship with Dr Harrison was professional,' I said.

  'If you're asking was he my doctor, the answer is yes. He treated us both - Pierce and me. Separately, neither of us knew it at the time. With Pierce it was the drugs. With me it was... I was going through... a depression. A situational reaction, Dr Harrison called