Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I smelled clam sauce but the lights were out in the kitchen.

  No preliminaries. How to get out of this—

  “Hi,” I said.

  She didn't speak. Or move.

  I came closer, was inches away before I saw the ligature around her neck. Copper wire, biting into the slender stem, so tight it had been invisible.

  Wide, wide blue eyes. Not seductiveness. Surprise, the final surprise.

  I turned to run, was caught by the elbows from behind.

  A knee in the small of my back sent a jolt of pain up my spine and made my legs give way.

  Then hands around my neck, more pain, different— an entire new definition of pain, as the back of my head exploded.

  57

  Milo's driver was named Ernest Beaudry and he was coal-black, maybe thirty, handsome, impassive, a devout Baptist, with a bristly mustache that looked laser-trimmed and an eighteen-inch neck turned to asphalt by shaving bumps.

  The car was a blue unmarked Ford, same model as Milo's but newer and much cleaner, parked in the West L.A. station lot. Beaudry stayed close to Milo as they approached it, held the door open for him.

  “Some service, Officer.”

  Beaudry didn't answer, just shut the door and got into the driver's seat.

  He managed the car skillfully. Driving was one of his favorite things. As a kid he'd fantasized about becoming a professional race driver til someone told him there were no black ones.

  The police radio was on, reciting that night's epic poem of coded violence, but Beaudry wasn't listening. Turning out of the lot, he headed for the 405.

  “Downtown?” said Milo.

  “Yup.”

  As they got on the ramp, Milo said, “So what's this about?”

  No answer, because Beaudry had none, and even if he had, he was smart enough to keep it zipped. The 405 was clogged with nighttime airport traffic and they barely moved for a while.

  Milo repeated the question.

  “No idea, sir.”

  A few car lengths later: “You work for Chief Wicks?”

  “Yup.”

  “Assigned to the motor pool?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well,” said Milo, “all these years on the force and I never got driven before. So this is my lucky day, huh?”

  “Looks like it.” Beaudry let his left hand sink to the driver's-door handrest as he one-fingered the wheel.

  Traffic started moving.

  “Okay, I'll just sit back and enjoy this,” said Milo.

  “There you go.”

  Sturgis stretched his legs and closed his eyes. They cruised slowly but steadily.

  Nice and easy— then Beaudry heard, “Shit— Jesus.”

  Rustling motion on the passenger side. Beaudry glanced to the right and saw that Sturgis was sitting up.

  “Oh— Jeesus, I can't—” The last word was guillotined by a gasp and Beaudry saw Sturgis slump, one hand on his barrel chest, the other fighting to loosen his tie.

  “What's the problem?”

  “Stomach— chest— probably just gas . . . the shit I had for dinner— oh, man, here's another— Jesus, it hurts like a mother— oh, shit, this is not—”

  Sturgis sat up again, suddenly, as if pierced by something. Gasping, rasping, yanking the tie loose but holding on to the limp fabric. Clutching the left side of his chest. Beaudry heard a button pop and plink against the dashboard.

  “You all right—”

  “Yeah, yeah— get the hell over to Parker, maybe they've got a— no . . . I dunno— oh shit!”

  The long legs stiffened, knees knocking against vinyl. Sturgis's eyes were shut now, and his color looked bad— grayish, his face screwed up tight.

  “Ever have this before?” said Beaudry, fighting to sound calm.

  Milo's response was a deep, bearish moan.

  “Sir, have you ever experie—”

  “Ohh! Jeez— get me— oh— ah!” Sturgis arched his back, bit his lip, and Beaudry heard fast, rough breathing.

  Beaudry said, “I'm getting you to a hospital—”

  “No, just get me—”

  “No choice, sir— where's the closest one— Cedars, okay, Robertson exit's just a ways up, hold on—”

  “No, no, I'm oka— ahh!”

  Left hand back on the wheel, Beaudry switched to the fast lane and floored the unmarked, using his right hand to snatch the handset and call in an emergency.

  No one answered at Deputy Chief Wicks's office. Of course; they'd asked him to bring Sturgis straight to that conference room on the fifth floor, some kind of high-level detective stuff— what was the extension there? No idea. Should he go through the Parker switchboard? No, they'd made it clear this was confidential. Meaning they were trusting him with more than just chauffeuring, probably preparing him for something bigger and better—

  Meanwhile, his charge was moaning and gasping like a fish out of water, sounding like he was gonna die right here in the car— look how heavy he was, probably didn't exercise, ate all kinds of garbage— just his luck, Ernest Beaudry's golden luck. All that clean living and raising his kids right, doing his job without a hitch, getting assigned to the motor pool and making Delores happy because he wouldn't get shot by some crackhead. Pushing for motor pool because his uncle had started that way and made sergeant even with all the departmental racism. Because his uncle and other relatives had told him a smart young guy like him, with presence, could do even better. Driving, the connections you made, maybe he'd get to drive for the chief.

  Heck, driving could make you a chief. Daryl Gates had started off driving for Saint William Parker. Then again, look where Daryl Gates had ended up, so maybe it was just the opposite and driving was really bad luck, a curse, a hex. This sure wasn't a good sign, he wished Sturgis would just stop having his heart attack, decide it had been gas, start breathing normally again—

  Silence. Oh, no— “You all right?”

  No answer. But Sturgis was still breathing, Beaudry could see the big belly heaving.

  “It's all right,” he said soothingly. “We'll take good care of you, almost there.”

  Sturgis's face screwed up tighter as he seized again and landed almost prone on the seat, sliding down. Thank God he had his seat belt on. Bucking and heaving . . . that wheezing—

  Robertson, 1 mile. Beaudry checked the rearview and slid across all four lanes, raced down the exit ramp, which was thank-God clear, ran an amber-to-red at National, and jetted north. Cedars just a couple miles away.

  Don't die here, man, at least wait til we get there— Pico, Olympic, another iffy amberoo, some cross-traffic that honked at him.

  Forget you, I am allowed, I am the po-lice— Wilshire, Burton, here we go, here we go, here we go— Cedars, yes! Swing in on Alden, into the covered parking lot, up to the emergency entrance— no one there, Sturgis quieter— but looking worse— was he still breathing, oh, Lord, please give him just a few more breaths— CPR? No, no, no, of course not, not with all these doctors around . . .

  “We're here, just hold on, man,” he said, slamming the car into park. “Help's right on the way.”

  He left the engine running and track-starred into the E.R. reception area, yelled at the sleepy-looking clerk that an officer needed help.

  The place was full of sick old people and accident victims, various species of lowlife. Before the clerk could answer, Beaudry ran past them and grabbed the first person in uniform that he saw— a nurse, Filipina— then a female intern in scrubs, the three of them hustling to the unmarked.

  “Where?” said the intern, red-haired, looking maybe sixteen, but her badge said S. Goldin, M.D.

  “Right here.” Beaudry threw open the unmarked's passenger door.

  No one inside.

  His first thought was that Sturgis had been gripped by another attack, had somehow opened the door, fallen out, crawled somewhere to die. . . . He ran around the car to check, then looked under the vehicle.

  “Where?” said the intern, now
looking skeptical.

  She and the nurse stared at Beaudry. Taking in his badge, the uniform, the two stripes, the Sam Browne loaded with gear, the nine-millimeter.

  Figuring, he was for real but what the hell was his story?

  Beaudry raced around the parking lot, looking over, under, between every damn vehicle, greasing up his uniform, soaking his tapered-to-the-muscle shirt with stress sweat.

  When he came back, Intern S. Goldin repeated, “Where? What's going on, Officer?”

  Now Beaudry was breathing hard and his own chest hurt.

  Stand tall, show no stress.

  “Good question,” he said.

  So much for family advice. Driving was definitely a hex.

  58

  Newly retired police captain Eugene Brooker, thirty pounds overweight, slightly hypertensive, and a non-insulin-dependent diabetic, walked uphill.

  Old man and the mountain; some image. When his daughters inquired about his health, he always said, “Feel like a kid.”

  So, live the lie tonight.

  Danny's surprise call— talking twice as fast as usual, from that consulate bathroom— had ended with, “It'll probably be nothing. Do what you can, Gene, but don't put yourself in danger.”

  Sneaking a phone into the john? Why were Danny's own people doing this to him?

  He trudged up Lyric, staying in the shadows when he could. He'd parked his car a long way down on Apollo, brought the only two weapons handy: the old service revolver, which he'd continued to clean and oil out of habit, and the nine-millimeter that he kept in his bedside nightstand. No long guns because all three of his were already packed away in the U-Haul and they were for quail, not people. Another reason: Rifles were too conspicuous. An overtly armed black man walking the hills at night was beyond a joke.

  Up, up, and away. . . . He forced himself to breathe slowly. How long had it been since he'd done real-life, break-a-sweat police work? He didn't even want to think about it.

  Pathetically out of shape, but with the diabetes you had to be careful about your exercise— who was he kidding, since college football and walking a beat on Central, he hadn't done a damn thing, athletic-wise. . . .

  Climb every mountain, ford every stream, huff huff, the old Nikes nice and quiet.

  He'd memorized the address on Rondo Vista.

  Slow and steady, it wouldn't do to have a heart attack up here and end up roadkill or worse.

  No reason to hurry, probably a quiet night, as Danny had said. Just a precaution for the shrink's sake.

  Danny hadn't had time to give many details. The main thing was that a cop named Baker, whom Gene didn't know, might be part of it, so watch out for him, he drove a Saab convertible.

  A cop behind all that blood? It could make the Rodney King case look like musical comedy. Beyond that, all Gene knew was that a crazy girl was also part of it and the shrink was on an undercover date with her.

  Why a shrink for bait?

  How had Danny and Sturgis put it all together?

  He'd find out tomorrow. Tonight his job was to keep an eye on the house. If something looked treacherous for the shrink, pull some kind of distraction.

  More, if necessary.

  He made it to Rondo Vista nearly out of breath, wanting to clear his throat but the street was too silent for that kind of noise so he lived with the phlegm.

  He'd made sure to eat an orange before leaving, keep the old blood sugar steady, he should probably test more often, but sticking himself was such a hassle.

  As he stood there, searching for the house, he became aware of pounding in his ears. Like a fast tide, the high blood pressure. Luanne had died of a stroke— no, stupid to think about that. . . . Lord, it was quiet up here.

  Manson Family terrain; you could dismember someone in the middle of the road, no one would notice til sunrise. . . . There was the house, small place, white with dark trim, gray or blue.

  He studied the layout, examined nearby cars.

  One in front, the Karmann Ghia Danny had given the shrink, and an old pink T-bird in the driveway that had to be the girl's.

  Nothing else except the few vehicles he'd passed on the way up. Couple of compacts and one honey, a white Porsche 928, no doubt some hill-house guy's toy. Porsches and hill-houses went together, the old L.A. lifestyle he'd never much tasted . . .

  Danny had said look out for three things: a Chevy van, it could be in the garage, Baker's Saab, and a Mercedes sedan owned by some other shrink named Lehmann.

  What the hell was this all about?

  He looked carefully. None of those were around. Maybe in the garage.

  If he'd been official, he'd have run a make on every vehicle within a half-mile radius, the compacts, the white Porsche, but now . . .

  Retirement.

  He realized he was breathing fine, felt good, great, no more pounding, no clammy skin or other warning signs of impending hypoglycemia.

  Revolver in his shoulder holster, nine-millimeter tucked in his waistband at the small of his back.

  This was good. A send-off before he died a slow death in Arizona.

  Ten more minutes of silent watching from behind a tree, and he decided to get a closer look at the house.

  A narrow space ran between the crazy girl's place and its southern neighbor and Gene could see lights— more hill-houses way across a canyon.

  From what he could tell, the ground sloped down sharply, probably not much backyard.

  Danny'd said that if Sturgis was there, that's where he'd probably be stationed, but he had a feeling Sturgis wouldn't make it.

  Cold, quiet anger in the Israeli's voice. Unusual . . .

  Sturgis. Gene didn't know the guy, had only seen him from a distance and he didn't look in any better shape than Gene. Usually you thought of those gay guys being obsessed with their bodies. Luanne had once remarked that they seemed to be the best-looking guys, probably because they didn't have families, plenty of time for the gym—

  The conversation in his head came to an abrupt halt; had he heard something?

  A rustling?

  No, just silence. And nothing around the house had changed.

  He examined the place some more. Not much in the way of front windows, and the way the structure was stuck into the hillside, the entire bottom floor was below street level. Probably lots of windows in back, to catch the view. How to get back there— was there some foothold? Had to be for someone like Sturgis to obtain a position.

  Enough idle curiosity. The idea was to stay here, on the chance— the less-than-unlikely, minuscule off-chance— that his old bones would see some action.

  If Luanne were alive she'd say something like, You're doing what? Can't you work your midlife crisis out some other way, sugar?

  That night, finding her on the kitchen floor . . . stop. Don't even think her name, don't visualize her face.

  God, he missed her—

  He decided to go past the house, check out the northern edge of the girl's property.

  As he took a step, something pressed against his left mastoid and a voice whispered, “Don't move, don't even blink. Hands up, very slowly— behind the head, grab the head.”

  A hand took hold of his shoulder and turned him around.

  Suppressing Oh, shit! thoughts, Gene mentally prepared a plan: Size up the enemy, figure out a way to catch him off-guard, land a sucker punch, maybe trip him, distract—

  It was Sturgis and he looked furious. His eyes were green— God, they were bright, even in the darkness. The guy stank of exertion and stress.

  They stared at each other. Sturgis's shirt had a button missing. Something black and plastic, probably one of those German Glocks, was a foot from Gene's nose.

  “Hey,” whispered Gene. “I'm a civilian now, but shouldn't rank count for something, Detective?”

  Sturgis kept staring.

  “Can I drop the damn hands, Detective Sturgis?”

  The Glock lowered. “What're you doing here, Captain?”

  Ge
ne told him about the bathroom call. The guy didn't look surprised, just angrier.

  The disheveled appearance. They'd tried to keep him away, too, but he'd managed to get away.

  Gene said, “You, too?”