Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Mission unaccomplished,” said Milo. He nudged me. “What’s that technical term, something with a Z, Freud’s mark of Zorro, whatever?”

  I said, “Zeigarnik effect.”

  Braxton’s eyebrows rose.

  I said, “Tension for unfinished business.”

  She said, “I’ll have to remember that for parties.” Her tone said she wouldn’t. “So here’s the deal: Seven years ago a teacher named Jacqueline Mearsheim disappeared. Married for the third time, one kid from the first, a twelve-year-old boy. She was widowed the first time, divorced the second. Husband Two was also a teacher who’d moved overseas—some oil country in the Mideast, he got looked into, totally out of the picture. Mearsheim was Hub Three, also worked for the school district, some kind of administrative job. He and Jackie met on the job, got hitched pretty quickly. A year later, he reported her missing. Three days after she failed to show up for school. His story was he wanted to give her space, she’d been depressed, had taken a couple of days to sort herself out. Conveniently, the son was also away during that time, class trip to Sacramento.”

  A busboy brought the food.

  Milo said, “Three days after. Yeah, I can see Bob twitching.”

  “Plus Mearsheim gave him a bad feeling from the get-go. Too theatrical, crying, going all Mr. Sensitive but no real tears, it seemed rehearsed. Add that to the obvious: He’s the spouse and the last person to see her alive. Plus no one else ever saw Jackie as being depressed. The final factor was the boy. Cormac Thurber, yes, he was called Cory.”

  Out came Milo’s pad. “With an e or no?”

  “C-O-R-Y. He ended up telling Bob his mom had confided she was going to leave Mearsheim because he had no human feelings for her.”

  I said, “He ended up?”

  “Quiet kid, hard to get anything out of him, Doctor.”

  “That was his wording—‘no human feelings’?”

  “It was,” said Braxton. “I remember thinking it was pretty sophisticated for a twelve-year-old. And something his mother might actually say. Bottom line, everyone—even Mearsheim—agreed Jackie would never walk out on Cory.”

  I said, “Mearsheim’s theory was a stranger-danger thing?”

  “Exactly, Doctor. Snatched by the convenient shadowy villain.”

  “Was her car ever found?”

  “Nope. And no charges on her card or ATM withdrawals. A super-meticulous shadowy bad guy, right? Bob’s gut said that was bull.”

  Milo said, “Before we go on any further,” and showed her the photo from Edda Halversen’s house.

  She took a while examining it. “I knew him when he was prepubescent but if I had to bet, I’d say yes.”

  She cut off a nibble of scampi as if eating was expected of her. Milo began sawing into his steak. No reticence, there.

  I took my phone out, logged onto a pay-per-view yearbook photo site, and pulled up Santa Barbara High. Keywording cormac thurber brought up nothing.

  Braxton said, “What are you scanning?”

  I showed her. She said, “It’s possible he didn’t go to a regular high school. After Jackie’s disappearance, he ended up in the foster care system and when Bob ran into him a couple of years later, he was studying music and going to some alternative program. It was a comfort to Bob, at least the kid had something going for him.”

  I returned to the Internet. Alpha Alternative School, Goleta. For working actors, athletes, musicians, or anyone benefiting from an individualized curriculum.

  A hundred or so students. In lieu of yearbooks, faces had been collected each graduating year and cached for public use.

  The face I was looking for had appeared two years ago. I showed it to both of them.

  Milo said, “Our boy.”

  Braxton said, “No doubt, then.”

  “The foster system, Sheila? Stepdad bailed?”

  “That’s what I meant by part of the story. Six weeks after Jackie disappeared, Mearsheim was gone along with every penny Jackie had put away. Including insurance money from her first husband’s death. Supposedly she’d signed everything over to him and left Cory with nothing. Bob found out later that Mearsheim had inquired about cashing out a hundred-grand term life insurance policy he’d taken out on her a few months before. But with no body, no payout. He was too smart for his own good.”

  Milo said, “Paul Mearsheim,” unclasped his attaché case, and brought out the DMV shot of the man we knew as Paul Weyland.

  Braxton took her time. “He had a beard back then but yup, it’s him. He’s your suspect? Amazing.”

  “He goes by Paul Weyland and he works for the L.A. school district.”

  “The system working for our kids,” said Braxton. “Unbelievable. So what’s he done now?”

  Milo summarized. “Unfortunately, Sheila, we’ve also got nothing solid.”

  “Multiple murder,” said Braxton. “This is really ugly. So what’s your interest in Cory?”

  “His car was seen near the houses of both victims.”

  “You figured him for an accomplice? Uh-uh, Milo, I can’t see it, there was no relationship between him and Mearsheim. Just the opposite, the bastard abandoned him.”

  I said, “He could be seeking out Mearsheim to find out what happened to his mother.”

  “If so, dangerous pursuit,” said Braxton.

  I stood. “Be back in a sec.”

  * * *

  —

  I found a quiet corner in the adjoining parking lot and pulled out my phone.

  Mary Josefina “EmJay” Braun answered on the fifth ring. “Oh, hi. You solve it?”

  “Working on it. How’re you doing?”

  “In pain, as usual,” she said. “Pretty bad a few days ago. It would help if I could clear up Hal’s disability but the government’s being a butt.”

  “Hope it works out.”

  “It sure better.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “Did a young man in a black Camaro ever drop by your house?”

  “Once,” she said.

  “When?”

  “Right after Hal got…a few days after you guys were here. He brought me some food. Said he was a friend of Hal’s, Hal had tried to help him out, he wanted to help me back. I didn’t eat it, greasy burger, I don’t like grease, also he made me nervous.”

  “How?”

  “Twitchy. I had him leave it outside, once he left, I threw it out.”

  “Skinny, long blond hair?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he say how Hal helped him?”

  “I didn’t give him time to say anything, sir. It was Hal on one of his missions. Why, you think he killed Hal? I saved my life by keeping him out?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Whatever,” she said. “I was smart not to let him in.”

  “If he returns, please let us know.”

  “If he returns, I’ll call 911,” said EmJay Braun. “I don’t like strangers.”

  * * *

  —

  Mary Ellen Braun answered after one ring. “Oh, hi. You solved it?”

  “Still working on it.”

  “Oh.” Deflated. “What’s up?”

  “Did Hal ever talk about helping someone in Santa Barbara?”

  “No, I can’t say he did. Did someone from Santa Barbara kill him?”

  “We’re trying to get a handle on his activities. Did he ever mention helping teenagers or one boy in specific?”

  “He liked kids, I could see that,” she said. “Not in a sick way, I hope you’re not going there.”

  I said, “Not at all. Mary Jo told us Hal went on what he called quests. We’re wondering if one of them might’ve put him in danger.”

  “In Santa Barbara? I can see him hiking there, it’s so pretty up there, you never think of it as dangerous. Then again, Hal was such a nice man and look what happened to him.”

  * * *

  —

  I returned to the restaur
ant. Milo and Braxton looked up from their food.

  I told them about Cory Thurber bringing a burger to Mary Jo.

  “That nails it,” said Braxton. “He didn’t do anything bad.” Not much confidence in her voice. She studied me.

  I said, “I’m thinking Cory and Braun ran into each other up here, nothing planned, maybe just two people sitting on the beach or the pier. Cory opened up about his mom, Braun was a good listener and offered to help.”

  Milo said, “Help how?”

  “Either locate Mearsheim or, if Cory already had tried that, find Mearsheim and demand to know what happened to Jackie.”

  Braxton said, “That would be crazy.”

  I said, “Braun fancied himself a knight errant.”

  “He’d do that for a stranger?”

  I told her about the McDonald’s incident, the tree, the snake. Braun going off for days at a time.

  She said, “Living dangerously. He confronts Mearsheim, it’s lamb to slaughter. But why would Mearsheim leave his body in your second vic’s house? If we’re right about Jackie, his thing was to conceal the corpse.”

  I said, “With Jackie he knew he’d be the prime suspect. With Braun, there’d be no obvious connection so no need to conceal. Who’d suspect the kind neighbor who opened his doors? We didn’t.”

  Milo said, “He’s right, Sheila. Guy came across as total Beta Male. If he knew his wife was fooling with Chet, there’d be no shortage of motive for using Braun’s body as an eff-you.”

  “You think he disappeared Donna, just like Jackie?”

  “Weyland said she was visiting her mom, I’m gonna try to find out.”

  I said, “Any idea what Cory’s been up to for the last seven years?”

  She wiped her hands on her napkin and stood. “My turn to take a break outside.”

  * * *

  —

  She was gone for fourteen minutes. During that time, Milo tried to reach Donna Weyland at the school district but was waylaid by sadistic voicemail instructions devoted to keeping callers away.

  I picked at my salmon and, while on hold, he consoled himself with half a dozen Grassy Bay oysters on the half shell and an equal quantity of Kumiais from Mexico.

  Braxton returned, shaking her head. “No hint where Cory is. My contact at social services says he was a chronic problem for his foster families. Five families, he kept running away. He also messed up in school, refused to study. Alpha provides home-study plans and a couple of the fosters are good folks who really tried.”

  I said, “Any drug history?”

  “Not as far as she knows, Doctor. But that doesn’t mean much, does it?”

  Milo said, “Smart enough to avoid the system or lucky.”

  I said, “Or he stayed clean.”

  Braxton said, “You’re an optimist?”

  Milo said, “All these years, he refuses to see the light.”

  “It would sure be nice to be that way.”

  I said, “Maybe piano helped. Something positive he could build on.”

  “Hmm,” said Braxton. “Apparently, he does have talent, my contact said one of the fosters had a piano and each time she visited Cory was playing and sounding really good. I hope you’re right, Doctor. He’s sure had a rough road.”

  “When he showed up at Braun’s house, it was to bring food to Braun’s wife and to tell her Braun had helped him. But there was no indication he knew Braun had been murdered. In fact, I think he might’ve really gone there to find out where Braun was but never got the chance.”

  “Then why Arrowhead?” said Milo.

  “What if Braun had traced Donna and Chet there and he wanted to warn Donna about her husband?”

  Sheila Braxton said, “Oh, geez. If Mearsheim ever found out, that would be nuclear explosive.”

  Milo said, “We need to find this kid.”

  We parted ways with Braxton, cruised Cabrillo south, and parked illegally on the beach side as Milo ran searches on Paul Mearsheim.

  “Clean. Big deal, he stinks of con man, who knows what his real identity is.”

  I said, “He’s used ‘Paul,’ maybe because that’s his actual given name. ‘Mearsheim’ morphing to ‘Weyland’ could be identity theft of some random dead person. Or he assumed Donna’s name.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Playing the Beta to the hilt, letting her think she was in charge. The cars were in her name because he pled poverty, meanwhile he’s got Jackie’s money hidden from her.”

  “Another wife disappeared.”

  “Maybe this one can be found,” I said. “Brassing’s murder could’ve resulted from his discovering something buried in that forest behind the A-frame.”

  “I told him to stay away.” He thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his fist. “The place has to be processed—let’s see if Ahearn’s a man of his word.”

  We got onto the freeway where he immediately ignored speed limits. Just before Carpenteria, with the road sun-brightened and nearly empty, he pulled out his cell then lowered it as something to the right caught his eye.

  A CHP Dodge Challenger was parked just beyond a road curve on the western shoulder, blue ocean gleaming through the passenger windows, tan-uniform at the wheel, aiming a radar gun.

  Geography providing a nifty little speed trap. Maybe Milo could’ve skated, maybe not. Professional courtesy between the highway patrol and city cops is unpredictable.

  He slowed precipitously. The Challenger’s beefy tires rotating toward the highway said it was ready to pounce. Milo altered that plan by turning off onto the right shoulder and coming to a stop three car lengths ahead of the cruiser. By the time he rolled down his window, the trooper was out of his car, one hand on his holster.

  A quick flash of Milo’s I.D. and a few pacifying words about heading to a new crime scene and not wanting to drive distracted turned the trooper contemplative.

  Milo consulted his phone. “Oh, man, this is serious. Multiple victims.”

  The Chippie, young, beefy, sunburn-ruddy, said, “Good thinking your getting off the highway, Lieutenant, the law’s for everyone.” Looking crushed, he swaggered back to his black-and-white and sat there as Milo punched in Ahearn’s numbers.

  Ahearn didn’t answer his cell or his desk phone. A desk officer said the lieutenant was out but wouldn’t give details.

  Milo said, “Any word on a forensic analysis at—?”

  “No idea. I’ll give him the message.”

  As we got back on the highway, Ruddy pretended to ignore us.

  * * *

  —

  At Oxnard, Milo looked around and speed-dialed. Nothing to report from Binchy, Petra, or Biro.

  He handed me the phone. “Look up the school district I called before, punch it, and hand it over. Please.”

  He weathered bureaucracy through Camarillo and well into Thousand Oaks. Hopping like a frog in a lily pond, transferred from one bureaucrat to another. Near Lindero Canyon, I spotted another CHP stalk and said so.

  He passed me the phone and I pretended to be him with three L.A. Unified functionaries.

  Finally, a woman named Estrelle said, “Neither person is currently employed by the district.”

  “Did they quit or were they terminated?”

  “I can’t give out that information.”

  “Could you make a theoretical guess?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you—”

  “It’s important to find them. They could be homicide victims.”

  Estrelle said, “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well…is this being taped?”

  “No.”

  “All right,” said Estrelle. “All I can tell you is voluntary leaves of absence have been known to take place.”

  “How long ago? Theoretically.”

  “Well…could be a month. Around.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Victims,” said Estrelle. “That’s bad.”

  I handed the phone back
to Milo.

  He said, “You should be me more often, amigo. Though you would need to up your caloric intake. A month. So they both left around the same time.”

  I said, “Maybe Donna gave notice first because she was hiding from Mearsheim and prepping to run away with Corvin. Mearsheim found out and quit to go looking for her, finally nabbed her at the Sahara. Then he took her back to Arrowhead to finish her off. Returning to the scene of her crime to mete out justice, but maybe not swift justice. Brassing’s death says Mearsheim was up there recently. One good reason would be to have his way with Donna.”

  “You think he tortured her?”

  “Someone who could blow a man’s face off, sever his hands, and take the time to stage the body in a neighbor’s house is capable of anything.”

  He had me speed-dial Ahearn, still no luck.

  “Just like TV,” he said. “Solved by the fourth commercial.”

  I said, “By adorable things using whiz-bang DNA.”

  He was quiet for the next few exits. Then: “That goddamn place has to be processed.”

  No news by ten the following morning.

  I had a custody evaluation scheduled, initial session with an eight-year-old girl named Amelia buffeted by her parents’ guerrilla warfare.

  She arrived with her father, a grim screenwriter with a history of depression. That, alone, wouldn’t prejudice his case; his ex, a former model, had been in and out of rehab.

  Amelia held his hand but pulled it loose when she saw me. Chubby, ginger-haired kid with gray, war-orphan eyes. Tear streaks down her cheeks had dried to salty granulation.

  Her father said, “You need to know: She didn’t want to come.”

  I bent and smiled, made sure to talk normally, not with that saccharine I’m-so-sensitive shrink-voice amateurs use. “Hi, Amelia. I’m the kind of doctor who doesn’t give shots. We won’t do anything you don’t want.”

  Her mouth twisted.