Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “The Central City Skills Center: For Fifteen Years, a Citadel of Hope.” The photos showed blind people walking with guide dogs and operating computers, smiling amputees trying on prosthetic limbs.

  The course list: sewing, crafts, mechanical assembly. A small-print list of funding sources was followed by a smaller-print professional advisory board. Doctors, lawyers, politicians . . .

  Alphabetized.

  Near the middle: Roone Lehmann, Ph.D., psychological consultant.

  “Working with the handicapped,” I said. “Must have given him a laugh. But maybe he got a bigger laugh playing financial games with the school. Taking candy from blind babies.”

  Milo hurried over and read the roster. “Myers discovers Lehmann ripping off the school and threatens to write an exposÉ. Maybe he tells Lehmann, even blackmails him, because one thing Myers doesn't lack is gall. Lehmann agrees to pay him off, calls a meet in that alley and someone— probably Baker— finishes Myers off.”

  He took the brochure from Daniel.

  “The murders,” said the Israeli, “are their way of mixing business with pleasure.”

  “The only problem is,” Milo told him, “all we've got is theory. Because the only thing close to evidence— the Polaroids of Nolan Dahl's play-dates— were destroyed. Even if we find Tenney's van in Zena's garage, I have nothing that justifies a warrant.”

  “What would it take,” I said, “to move on any of them?”

  “A full confession would be peachy, but I'll settle for an incriminating remark. Anything that lets us focus on one of them— a weak link.”

  “That might be Zena. She spouts the eugenics line but it seems like role-playing. I'm not saying she's harmless. But so far, she's been less interested in politics than in partying. I have a date with her tonight at ten. Maybe I can get her to open up more about NU. Maybe eventually she can be made to see it's in her best interests to give up the others.”

  Milo frowned. “Don't know about the date, Alex. Tenney did make eye contact with you a couple of times and even though you don't think Baker recognized you, you're not sure.”

  “Tenney doesn't know me,” I said, “so he's got no reason to suspect me of anything. He's probably just an antisocial guy. What would he tell Baker? Zena's got a new boyfriend? And if I break the date wouldn't that make Zena wonder?”

  “Old Andy's a heartbreaker. He changed his mind.”

  “Then what?” I said. “Where do you go from there?”

  No answer.

  “Milo, the one good thing about these people being so arrogant is they have no idea they're under suspicion. On the contrary, they're probably gloating that everything's gone off smashingly. Five murders, all unsolved. They're getting cocky. That's why the pace has picked up. Think of what you said: half the city and all of the Valley. Thousands of handicapped people who can't be protected.”

  “And your date tonight is gonna change all that?” he barked.

  “At least it's a connection to NU. Maybe Zena will tell me something important. At the very least, you can pull her in and lean on her a little. I repeat: What else is there?”

  Longer silence.

  “All right,” he said. “One more time, but that's it. After tonight, you're out of it and we shift gears, go for full surveillance on Baker and Lehmann, keep Daniel's New York people stuck to Sanger and Cranepool, get a look at Zena's garage. If Tenney's van is in there and he splits like you think he's planning to, I'll use Baker's technique. Stop the bastard for a traffic violation and take it from there.”

  “Where does Baker live?” said Daniel.

  “A boat in the marina called Satori.” I described the location of the slip.

  “Satori,” he said. “Heavenly tranquility.”

  “The bastard's a pro,” Milo told him. “Did Vice work and robbery undercover, meaning he understands surveillance.”

  “So I need to be careful,” said Daniel.

  “Start with being careful tonight, friend. I want both of us covering Alex nonstop from the time he sets out to romance Little Ms. Murder til he gets home. A post on her street and another on the hillside behind the house.”

  “I can do the hillside,” said Daniel.

  “You're sure?”

  “I've done climbing in Israel. Caves in the Judean Desert.”

  “Recently?”

  Daniel smiled and flopped the dead hand. “Recently. One accommodates. Contrary to what our NU friends believe, life goes on for all kinds of people.”

  “Fine. Where you sleeping tonight, Alex?”

  “Might as well go home,” I said.

  “I'll follow you.” He faced Daniel. “After that, you and I meet back here.”

  53

  On Saturday, Daniel slept from 4:00 A.M. to 8:00, awoke, put on fresh jeans, loafers, a black T-shirt, and his best sportcoat, a black serge Hugo Boss jacket given to him by his mother-in-law last Chanukah. After buying a morning paper, he drove to Marina del Rey, where he walked through the Marina Shores Hotel and out to the harbor.

  Shielding his face behind the paper, he looked for Baker's boat. Easy enough. Alex's description had been precise.

  Satori was long, sleek, white. On a police sergeant's salary? Or had Dr. Lehmann played share-the-wealth in all kinds of ways?

  He could smell the ocean, hear the gulls. Impossible to tell from here if Baker was on the boat. One way or another, he'd find out.

  He strolled up and down the breezeway, pretending to sightsee. Twenty minutes later, Wesley Baker came out on deck with a cup of coffee, stretching and looking up at the sky.

  Solid-looking in a white T-shirt and white shorts. Tan, muscular, gold-rimmed glasses. A real California guy, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Hannah Arendt would have been pleased. . . .

  He gave another stretch, unfolded a deck chair, and brought it close to the boat's pointed bow. There he sat, mug in hand, feet on a lower ledge.

  Face full of sun.

  Just another golden day for the elite.

  Daniel forced himself to watch.

  He got back to the house on Livonia before noon and had something of a Sabbath, studying the weekly Torah portion, reciting kiddush, eating a light meal. Grape juice today, no wine.

  Not allowing the murders to reenter his mind for an hour, but after that, they were all he thought of.

  Milo arrived at 2:00 P.M. and the two of them discussed equipment. The German plastic gun interested the American the most— lightweight, convertible to automatic with the press of a button, two dozen rounds in a cartridge, easy to speed-load.

  Daniel had three, offered him one. The big man thought about it, finally accepted, muttering about “the next time I want to sneak something onto a plane.” They talked about long guns and agreed Daniel would take a rifle with a night-scope because he'd be on the hillside.

  Milo had spent the morning reviewing Baker's police personnel files as unobtrusively as possible. Nothing in the records indicated Baker's transfer had been disciplinary. No record of any punishment or demotion due to Zev Carmeli's complaint. No documentation, at all, of the incident with Liora Carmeli.

  “Figures,” said Milo. “The brass investigates complaints enthusiastically. Like Michelangelo would investigate sculpting David out of dog shit.”

  The man had a way with words.

  “Pencil pushers are the same everywhere,” said Daniel.

  Milo made that grumbling noise, then he left at 3:30.

  The plan was for Alex to call Zena Lambert at 5:00 to confirm tonight's date. Anything unusual would mean calling the whole thing off— Milo was protective of his friend. That caused Daniel to think about things better left ignored and he stopped himself and concentrated on getting onto that hillside.

  At 5:15, his phone rang and Milo said, “It's on.”

  Daniel set out at 8:30. Dark enough for concealment but enough time to be stationed behind the house well before Alex arrived at 10:00.

  He wore ultralightweight black pants with pa
ratrooper pockets, black shirt, black stocking cap. Concealing the rifle meant the long black coat with the Velcro-fastened pouch sewn in the lining. Other pockets for the plastic gun and ammunition. His backpack held the parabolic mike, a couple of tiny concussion grenades, mini tear-gas canisters, a combat knife that dated back to his Army days— he'd yet to find something better than the old blade.

  He felt adrenalized and just a bit ludicrous. Big tough commando. Like one of those ninja movies his sons loved to watch. He'd assured Milo he could handle it. Because they weren't talking about freeing multiple hostages, here. Just getting onto that hillside, listening, recording, returning home.

  As he headed for the door, the phone rang.

  Milo, again? Change in plans?

  “Yes?”

  “Shavuah tov.” Zev Carmeli offered the traditional post-Sabbath greeting— have a good week.

  “Same to you, Zev.”

  “I need to see you, Daniel.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “I'm afraid that's—”

  “Now,” Carmeli repeated.

  “I'm in the middle of—”

  “I know what you're in the middle of. Where you're going is here—the consulate. I've sent a driver for you, he's parked right behind the Toyota. Which has two flat tires.”

  “Zev—”

  “And don't think about sneaking out the back door, Sharavi. Someone's watching.”

  “You're making a huge—”

  The connection broke. As he put down the phone, two men came in, both young, one blond, one dark-haired. Dark suits, open-necked white shirts. He knew them by face and name. Guards from the consulate, Dov and Yizhar. He hadn't heard them enter. Carmeli had known the phone call would distract him.

  Mr. Ninja, indeed.

  “Erev tov,” said Dov.

  And a good evening to you, too, schmuck. “Do you have any idea what you're doing?”

  The man shrugged.

  Yizhar smiled and said, “Following orders. Who says the only good Germans are Germans.”

  54

  Milo was at his desk at the West L.A. station when Captain Huber called him in.

  Huber was doing paperwork at a chaotic desk and didn't look up or speak. His bald spot was pink, slightly flaky.

  “Sir.”

  “Your lucky day, Sturgis. Meeting downtown with Deputy Chief Wicks. What'd you do, solve a crime or something?”

  “When?”

  “Now. Ahora. They even sent a car and a driver— big Afro-Amer two-striper waiting just outside my office, you're really rating today.”

  Huber stopped writing, but kept his head down. “Maybe it's an affirmative-action thing, diversity and all that good stuff. Don't look so glum.”

  Never making eye contact, so he had no idea about Milo's expression.

  “I—”

  Now Huber looked up sharply, thick face mottled with anger. Wicks's call had caught him by surprise. Out of the loop.

  Milo suddenly understood why and his bowels began to churn.

  “What's that, Sturgis?”

  “I'm on my way.”

  “Looks like you are, indeed. Making any progress on your cases?”

  “Which ones?” said Milo.

  “All of them.”

  “We're doing okay.”

  “Good. Don't keep them waiting. Close the door on your way out.”

  55

  Body-searched, pockets emptied, daniel sat sandwiched between the two men in the consulate car, breathing in their tobacco smell, knowing there was no chance to break free. He feigned relaxation.

  They drove him to the consulate, placed him in Zev Carmeli's office, and remained outside the door.

  He sat wondering if Zev would show.

  Feeling like an idiot for neglecting the obvious. How could he have not seen it? How could it have been any other way?

  Denial, pathological denial.

  Had Milo been intercepted, too? How far did this go?

  Hopefully, it wouldn't matter, Alex walking into the date unprotected. Just a date with a crazy girl and back to the Genesee apartment.

  More denial.

  Alex was expecting full coverage, would behave accordingly.

  He remembered the tranquil look on Baker's face, all those murders and the guy was taking in the sun, unbothered by life.

  Guy like that, nothing would bother him.

  He looked around Zev's office. Saw something that could help, pocketed it, and knocked on the door.

  Dov opened it. “What?”

  “Bathroom.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Up to you, soldier. I can piss on his desk.”

  Dov smiled, took his arm firmly, and propelled him to a nearby unmarked door.

  No need for another search, the first had been so thorough.

  “Have fun,” Dov told him.

  Once inside, Daniel urinated, flushed, turned on the faucet, took the cell phone he'd lifted from Zev's desk out of his pocket, and dialed a familiar number. Time for only one call— he hoped the phone was a normal line, not one of Zev's preassigned coded things.

  Ringing. Good.

  Pick up, friend, pick up, pick up . . .

  “Hello?”

  “Gene? It's me. I can't talk long. I need your help.”

  Knocking on the door. Dov's voice, “Hey, you drown or what? How long does it take to pee?”

  “Wait til you reach my age,” Daniel called out.

  “Ain't that the truth,” said Gene.

  56

  Zena was at the store when i made the confirmation call.

  “How gallant of you to verify, A.”

  “Just wanted to make sure you weren't too worn out from the party.”

  “Me? Never. On the contrary, bursting with energy. I shall prepare comestibles— pasta with clams, Caesar salad, fruit of the vine.”

  “The woman cooks, too.”

  “Oh, do I.” She laughed. “I simmer and sometimes I boil over. I'll leave a key in the empty flowerpot near the door. I'll be ready.”

  At 9:30 I put on an Andrew uniform: gray shirt, baggy gray pants, the same tweed sportcoat. The same cologne.

  Starless night, a washed-slate sky, the air reeking of wet paper, damp around the edges.

  I took La Brea to Sunset. The boulevard was rife with spandex and leather, delusions passing as hope. East of Western it changed: darkened buildings hemmed by shadow-strewn corners, everything murky, grubby, too quiet.

  I drove automatically, slowly, as if riding a track, reached Lyric just after ten o'clock, and climbed the winding road, now stripped of cars.

  Rondo Vista was mortuary silent. Zena's garage was closed and one car was parked in front of her house. Fifty-eight T-bird. Pink with a white top, faded and scarred.

  Had to be hers.

  The same faint light from her window. Setting the mood?

  I parked and headed for the door. The covered pathway was dark, the dead spider plants shuddered in the night breeze. Feeling an inexplicable pang of first-date anxiety, I groped til I found the key in the pot, resting atop a mound of bone-dry planter's mix.

  Music from inside.

  Electric guitars played slowly.

  Beautiful, dreamy music.

  “Sleepwalk,” by Santo and Johnny.

  Zena setting the mood. I remembered the song from my childhood. She hadn't been born when it hit the charts.

  I unlocked the door, expecting to find her downstairs in the bedroom, maybe some kind of cute note directing me to the stuffed animals.

  She was right there in the living room.

  Lit by a single pole lamp with a weak blue bulb.

  Theatrical.

  Nude, on the sofa.

  She reclined, one arm extended along the top of the couch, like Goya's “Naked Maja.” Wide-eyed with eagerness, her tiny white body perfectly formed, pearly in the steely light. Nipples pink and erect, oversized for the small, white breasts, black hair sprayed static. Her
legs were spread just enough to offer a view of bleached-blond pubic patch. Her other arm rested on her flat, smooth belly.