Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  One way or another, the would-be eugenicist was covered.

  Nothing from Petra, yet.

  She seemed good. Quiet, serious, all business. So far all the L.A. people he'd met were good, Zev's experience notwithstanding.

  Shabbat . . . still, he was happy to be doing something. Especially after the wasted afternoon at Melvin Myers's trade school.

  Nothing strange about the place, they truly did seem to be training handicapped people to get jobs. He hadn't been able to get to Darlene Grosperrin, settling for a brief interview with a young social-work assistant named Veronica Yee.

  Each of them thinking the other was the subject.

  Smiling, courteous, Ms. Yee had taken a brief history and told him the school was well-established, twenty years old, funded mostly by government money, offering a full range of educational services, including job and psychological counseling. And yes, they would probably have something for him but not until the new term began in two months. He was welcome to fill out the application and get back to them.

  Handing him a sheaf of papers— the application, government pamphlets on rights of the handicapped, availability of educational grants, public-relations stuff on the school.

  He'd looked for some sign that Melvin Myers's death had caused an impact— a funeral notice, memorial service, anything, and had found only an announcement on the bulletin board. “We regret to announce . . .” Letters and braille.

  It had given him the opportunity to work Myers into the conversation with Ms. Yee.

  She'd said, “Yes, he was murdered downtown. Terrible. I have to be honest with you, it is a tough neighborhood, Mr. Cohen.”

  Honest, open.

  Nothing to report.

  The taxi in front of him edged up the line and he rolled forward.

  He'd waited until the queue stretched beyond the pickup area before taking a position at the back. Hoping things stayed slow and he wouldn't reach the front before Sanger arrived, then be forced to zoom past a fare, attracting attention.

  The phone rang.

  “He's here, the plane arrived early,” said Petra. “No one met him at the gate. A briefcase, a carry-on, and a wardrobe, so he probably didn't check anything through— I'll make sure. . . . He's getting on the moving sidewalk, I'm thirty feet in back of him. He's big, about Milo's size, wearing a blue blazer with gold buttons, khaki slacks, dark blue polo shirt. Dark hair slicked back, tortoiseshell glasses, heavy face. The carry-on and briefcase are olive green and the wardrobe's black. . . . Okay, we're at the end now— he's definitely bypassing the carousel . . . heading for . . . Avis. Looks like he's got paperwork already prepared.”

  Something else Daniel's sources hadn't come up with. Maybe Sanger had used one of those Airfones, set up the car rental while in flight.

  “He's filling out an express form,” said Petra. “I'm pretending to be using a pay phone across the hall, will let you know when he heads for the Avis lot.”

  Sanger's car was a brown Oldsmobile Cutlass and as it headed east on Century Boulevard, Daniel's taxi was just ahead.

  Both vehicles eased into the traffic and Daniel switched to the left lane and slowed, allowing Sanger to get ahead, managing to get a look at the lawyer through the driver's window.

  Sanger looked big, sitting high in the seat. Serious expression; smooth, ruddy cheeks well into the jowl stage. Soft around the jowls. A thick, rosy nose. A cigarette dangled from his lips, already half-smoked. He drove quickly, inattentively, flicking ashes out the window.

  Daniel followed him toward the airport's outer reaches, passing freight depots, commercial hangars, commuter hotels, import-export sheds, nudie bars.

  “I'm on Century approaching Aviation,” said Petra. “How far ahead are you?”

  “Approaching the 5 Freeway,” Daniel told her. “We're making good time. He's getting on the freeway, headed for— looks like North— yes, North. We're on the freeway now, merging.”

  Sanger stayed in the slow lane for a couple of minutes, then shifted one lane over and maintained a steady speed of sixty.

  From Daniel's perspective, traffic was ideal: light enough for movement, no jam-ups with the unpredictability that could bring, yet sufficiently dense to give him three car-lengths' cover. Who'd notice a taxi?

  Sanger went past the Santa Monica Freeway interchange and exited shortly after on Santa Monica Boulevard, east. He took the lightly traveled street past Century City into Beverly Hills, turned left on Beverly Drive, and drove north through the wide, residential street lined with mansions.

  Trailing him here was a little trickier and Daniel had to work a bit to keep a Jaguar and a Mercedes between the taxi and the brown Cutlass. Petra had just called in; she was a half-mile back, stopped at the Beverly–Santa Monica light.

  Sanger crossed Sunset and drove straight into the entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel, refurbished recently by some oil sultan, reputed to be the richest man in the world. Years ago, during his Olympic assignment, Daniel had done some security work at the hotel, guarding a cabinet minister's wife in a bungalow, finding the place amazingly pink, somewhat decrepit.

  Still pink, even brighter. The Israeli Consulate threw no parties here because the sultan was anti-Israel. Plenty of bar and bat mitzvahs, though.

  Pink and shiny. Sanger had stayed here last time, but he'd have thought an East Coast corporate lawyer would have chosen something quieter.

  Maybe when he came here, he went Hollywood.

  The no-tie look for Sanger supported that theory. Preparing for Zena Lambert's casual-dress party?

  Without telling Milo, Daniel had driven up Zena's street this morning, early, before the trade school opened. Hoping for a look at this strange-sounding woman as she left the small white house with the blue trim, maybe with one of her guests. Maybe the garage door would be open and he could copy down a license-plate number.

  No such luck. But it was good that he'd seen the site firsthand, verifying what Milo had said about a tough surveillance situation.

  He'd been driving a pickup truck at the time, a lawn mower and other gardening equipment in the bed. With his dark skin he'd be pegged as a Mexican gardener and rendered, for all intents, invisible.

  Not a long-term solution because there wasn't much gardening to do up there, mostly concrete pads like Zena's instead of lawns, and the sloping hillside lots in back were untendable.

  He sped away, mentally rationing his time, thinking about when and how to return to Rondo Vista. Wondering about the boundaries of loyalty.

  Parking the cab at the mouth of the sloping hotel driveway, he climbed toward the entrance just in time to see a bellman hold the brown Cutlass's door open for Sanger, then open the trunk and take out the two pieces of luggage.

  Sanger breezed through the main entrance, seemingly unaware as the doorman held the door open for him.

  Accustomed to being served.

  The luggage followed moments later.

  Daniel retreated down the drive, walked to Sunset and, when the light turned green, crossed the boulevard by foot. On the south side, Beverly and Crescent and Canon met in a confusing intersection. The hub was a park where Daniel had once taken his children to see the Florentine fountain spouting into a pond full of Japanese carp— fish like Delaware's. Now, however, the fountain was dry and most of the flowers he remembered were gone. He waited at the south edge until Petra arrived.

  Petra entered the hotel.

  Her flight-attendant's uniform minus wings and insignia was just another tailored suit, and with her short dark hair, fine-featured face, and discreet makeup, she looked like just another Beverly Hills working woman.

  The black crocodile valise said a very well-employed working woman. She strode confidently to the front desk. The lobby was crowded— lots of check-ins, mostly Japanese tourists. Several harried-looking clerks, male and female pretty-faces, were on duty, typing, dispensing keys. Petra waited in one of the lines, allowed an old Japanese man to go past her, so she could get a male
clerk.

  Nice-looking guy, blond, struggling actor, yawn, yawn. The poor dear was clicking away, miserable through his smile.

  She looked at her watch. “I'm from DeYoung and Rubin with the delivery for Mr. Galton. Has he checked in yet?”

  Blondie gave her a half-second lookover, then a real smile, as he tapped computer keys.

  “Frank Galton,” she added, a little more impatient. “He phoned from the plane, said he'd be in by now.”

  “Yes, he is— just arrived. Shall I call him for you?”

  Chest tightening, Petra checked her watch again. “No need, he's expecting this, said to have you bring it right up.”

  Blondie looked past her at the undiminished line.

  Petra tapped her nails on the granite counter. “Okay, I'll do it— what room?”

  “Three fourteen,” said the clerk, refusing eye contact. “Thanks.”

  Daniel lit up the off-duty sign and moved his taxi to Hartford Way on the west side of the hotel, where he exchanged it for the gray Toyota and changed into an olive-green uniform with the name Ahmed embroidered over the pocket.

  Petra had a Coke in the hotel bar, avoiding the stares of men, making several trips to the third floor.

  The third time, Daniel was up there, too, holding a broom, and she returned to the lobby and read a newspaper, looking all-business.

  At 9:00 P.M., Daniel saw a room-service waiter bring Farley Sanger a club sandwich, a Heineken, and coffee.

  No food at the party? Going late to the party?

  He phoned Petra and told her he was returning to the Toyota, to let him know if Sanger came downstairs.

  Circling the hotel property, slowly.

  At 10:00, just as he pulled up to the mouth of the drive for the fifth time, Petra called. “Still no sign of him. Maybe he's not going to the party, after all.”

  Maybe, indeed, thought Daniel. Was this whole evening, like so much police work, a wrong guess based on fine logic?

  By 10:15, Daniel was ready to believe the lawyer had turned in— for Sanger, still on East Coast time, it was 1:00 in the morning.

  Give it another hour to be safe.

  Five minutes later, Petra said, “Here we go. He's wearing a light gray sportcoat, black shirt, black slacks.”

  Daniel thanked her and started his taxi, told her to have a nice night.

  “Sure you don't need me?” she said.

  “I'm fine. Thanks. Stay on call.”

  She didn't argue, understood that one strange car near the house on Rondo Vista was enough.

  At 10:20, the lawyer pulled out onto Sunset, going east, and Daniel was ready for him.

  Sanger stayed on the boulevard, leaving Beverly Hills, and cruising the Strip, the Sunset Plaza boutique district, continuing into Hollywood, where marble and granite and sultans' fortunes were the last things on anyone's mind.

  Daniel could see him well enough to know the lawyer was smoking steadily, progressing from one cigarette to another, flicking still-lit butts out the window, where they sparked on the asphalt.

  The scenery was ancillary film businesses— photo-processing places, color labs, sound studios— plus convenience and liquor stores, cheap motels with the requisite prostitutes out front.

  Cruising for something the wife back in Manhattan would never know about? A little fun before the party?

  Wouldn't that be interesting?

  But, no. Sanger kept looking but never stopped.

  Smoking his third cigarette since leaving the hotel.

  And that briefcase said business . . .

  They stopped at a red light at the Fountain intersection and Daniel prepared himself for a right turn toward Apollo, but when the light changed, Sanger stayed on Sunset.

  Speeding up.

  Continuing east, toward a sparkle of lights in the distance.

  Downtown.

  Daniel stayed with him under the Pasadena Freeway overpass to Figueroa. Figueroa south to Seventh Street, Seventh to the corner of Flower, where Sanger parked in a pay-lot, got out, looked around for several seconds, and began walking down the street.

  Financial buildings, now dark and deserted.

  Sanger looked a bit nervous, checking over his shoulder, glancing from side to side.

  Holding the green briefcase close to his body.

  That much cash in a tough neighborhood?

  Daniel parked across the street, in another lot, watched Sanger stop at a six-story limestone building. The lobby was lit, faintly, but enough for Daniel to see charcoal granite with discreet gold trim.

  The shock of recognition.

  This time, a uniformed security guard sat behind the small desk.

  Sanger stood at the locked double doors, tapped a foot, until the security guard saw him, opened the doors, and escorted him in.

  Surprise, surprise.

  Daniel sat in his car, trying to make sense of it.

  50

  Friday night. Party time.

  I left the house at seven, spending some time at the Genesee apartment, wanting to get used to the place in case Zena had the impulse to come here. To Semite-town.

  Robin had asked me what Zena was like and I'd said only, “Weird, just what you'd expect.”

  Robin and I had made love at six. Because she wanted to and I wanted to. And I had another reason: Anything that weakened the reflexive response to Zena was welcome.

  It made me feel dishonest.

  Four murders— maybe five— helped me live with it.

  I sat on Andrew's dusty couch, listening to Andrew's music, thumbing through Andrew's books. Then Twisted Science, the first few pages of the late Professor Eustace's essay on the Loomis Foundation.

  Eustace's tone went well beyond academic criticism, as he accused the group of racist underpinnings, exploiting slave labor in Asia. Funding diploma mills in order to churn out “eugenic foot soldiers.” Apex University, Keystone Graduate Center, New Dominion University— I'd set my watch for 9:30 P.M. and it chimed. Placing the book under the mattress, I went out to the garage and pulled out the Karmann Ghia. Children's voices filled the block and the smells of supper drifted from nearby buildings. Edging into the alley, I drove up Fairfax to Sunset and traveled east, very slowly. Twenty-five minutes later I was at Apollo and Lyric.

  Well past the cocktail hour. Late enough, I hoped, for me to be lost in the activity and able to observe.

  Enough activity to occupy the hostess.

  The souped-up Karmann Ghia chewed its way up the nearly black road. Treacherous if someone came barreling down from the summit. The parked cars began well before the corner of Rondo Vista and I had to pull over and continue on foot.

  I tried on the tinted glasses. The night rendered them hazardous and I returned them to my pocket and continued on, inspecting the cars. Average cars. No vans. A few lights shone from neighbors' windows but most were dark. Night wind had blown away some of the smog, and blades of view between the properties sparkled. As I got closer to Zena's house, I heard music.

  Calypso, just like in the bookstore.

  Bongos and happy vocals. Just another hillside party.

  Who were these people? How many of them, if any, were killers?

  Murdering out of some warped notion of genetic cleansing? Or just for fun?

  Or both.

  There was precedent for that kind of thing. Seventy years ago, two young men with stratospheric IQ scores had stabbed to death an innocent fourteen-year-old boy in Chicago. Motivated, they claimed, by the challenge of pulling off the perfect “motiveless” crime.

  Leopold and Loeb had been sexually twisted psychopaths and I was willing to bet the DVLL crimes had roots in something beyond intellectual exercise.

  I'd reached the white-and-blue house. Lights poked through drawn drapes, but barely. Turning, I sighted down the road, at the line of parked cars.

  Had Milo already arrived? Copied down license numbers, sent them along to Daniel for a quick screen?

  Calypso shifted to Stravin
sky.

  The exact same tape from the bookstore.

  Frugal? Probably cheap booze, too.

  No matter; I wouldn't be drinking.

  The door was locked and I had to ring several times before it opened. The man in the doorway was in his middle thirties with a bushy, wheat-colored beard and a crew cut. He wore a gray sweatshirt and brown pants, was holding a glass of something yellow and filmy.