Flesh and Blood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “And her job was to clean rooms.”

  “Yes, sir— she was a Housekeeper One.”

  “Could I have her most recent address?”

  Valparaiso's hands spread atop his desk. “I hope she hasn't done anything that reflects upon the hotel.”

  “Not unless grief's bad for your image.”

  * * *

  “Twelve hundred Cochran,” Milo said, reading the slip as we headed for the car. “The place Mindy told us about.” He plugged Agnes Yeager's name into DMV. “No wants, warrants, violations, but the address is back in Santo Leon.”

  “Maybe she gave up, moved back.”

  He got the area code for the farm town, called Information. “Not listed— Okay, let's have a look at Cochran.”

  The apartment was a six-unit dingbat just south of Olympic, on the east side of the street. White-stucco box faced with blue diamonds, remnants of sparkle paint glinting at the points, an open carport packed with older sedans, and a spotless concrete yard where there should've been lawn. No Yeager on the mailbox in front, and we were about to leave when an old black man leaning on a skinny chromium cane limped out of the front unit and waved.

  His skin was the color of fresh eggplant, shaded to pitch where a wide-brimmed straw hat blocked the sun. He wore a faded blue work shirt buttoned to the neck, heavy brown twill trousers, and bubble-toed black work shoes with mirror-polished tips.

  “Sir,” said Milo.

  Tip of the hat. “So who did what to who, Officers?” The cane slanted forward as he limped toward us. We met him midway to the carport.

  Milo said, “We're looking for Agnes Yeager, sir.”

  Cracked gray lips canted downward. “Agnes? Is this about her daughter? Something finally happen with that?”

  “You know about her daughter.”

  “Agnes talked about it,” said the man. “To anyone who'd listen. I'm around all the time, so I ended up doing lots of listening.” Bracing himself on the cane, he held out a horned hand, which Milo grasped. “William Perdue. I pay the mortgage on this place.”

  “Detective Sturgis, Mr. Perdue. Nice to meet you. You're talking about Mrs. Yeager in the past tense. When did she leave?”

  Perdue worked his jaws and placed both hands on the cane. The straw of his hat brim had come loose near the band, and the sunlight poking through created a tiny lavender moon under his right cheekbone. “She didn't leave of her own will— she got sick. Nine or so months ago. Happened right here. My niece was down visiting me from Las Vegas. She's a traffic dispatcher for the police there, works the morning shift and tends to get up early, so she was out that morning just before sunrise. She heard it— a big noise from Agnes's apartment.” Twisting slowly, Perdue pointed to the ground-floor unit across from his. “Agnes fell down, right inside her door. The door was open, and the newspaper was on the floor next to her. She went outside to fetch it, took a step back inside, and collapsed. Tariana said she was breathing, but not too strong. We called 911. They said it looked like a heart attack. She didn't smoke or drink— all that sadness was probably what caused it.”

  “Sadness over her daughter.”

  “It cut her to the bone.” The cane wobbled, but Perdue managed to draw himself up.

  “Any idea where she is, Mr. Perdue?”

  “They took her right down the block— to MidTown Hospital. Tariana and I went to see her there. They had her in the intensive care and we couldn't get in. She didn't have insurance, so a while later they moved her to County Hospital for evaluation. That's a far trip for me, so I just called her. She wasn't in much of a state for talking, said they still didn't know what was wrong with her, but she'd probably be moving out, she'd send someone for her things, sorry about the rent— she owed a month. I said not to worry and don't be concerned about her things either— There wasn't much, she rented the place furnished. I had everything packed up— two suitcases— and Tariana brought them over to County Hospital. That's the last I heard from her. I know she was discharged from County, but no one would tell me where.”

  “Mr. Perdue,” said Milo, “did she have any ideas about what happened to Shawna?”

  “Sure did. She figured Shawna had been killed, probably by some man who lusted after her.”

  “She used that word, sir? ‘Lusted'?”

  Perdue pushed up the brim of his hat. “Yes, sir. She was a pretty religious woman, one of those with a strong sense of sin— Like I said, no drinking or smoking, and once she got home from work, she sat and watched TV all night.”

  “Lusted,” said Milo. “Did she tell you why she thought that?”

  “It was just a feeling she had. Shawna meeting up with the wrong gent. She also said the police weren't doing much— no offense. That the officer in charge didn't communicate with her. One time I met her out back. We were both taking out the garbage and she was looking sad and I said what's wrong, and she just started bawling. That's when she told me. That Shawna had been a little difficult back home and that she'd tried her best but Shawna had a mind of her own.”

  “Wild in what way?”

  “I didn't ask her, sir,” said Perdue, sounding offended. “Why would I pour salt in her wounds?”

  “Of course,” said Milo. “But she didn't give you any details?”

  “She just said she regretted the fact that Shawna's daddy died when Shawna was a baby. That Shawna never had any father, didn't know how to relate to men properly. Then she started crying some more, talking about how she'd done the best she could, how when Shawna announced she was moving down here to go to college it had scared her 'cause Shawna was all she had. But she let her go, because you couldn't say no to Shawna— she'd do what she pleased, like entering those beauty contests. Agnes never approved of that, but Shawna wouldn't be refused. Agnes figured you had to cut the apron strings. ‘Now look what's happened, William,’ she told me. Then she just cried some more. Pitiful.”

  Perdue ran a finger over his upper lip. The nail was hardened, cross-grained like sandstone but carefully shaped. “I told her it wasn't any of her fault, that things just happen. I lost a boy in Vietnam. Three years I spent fighting Hitler's war, and I came back without a scratch. My boy flies over to Vietnam, two weeks later he steps on a mine. Things happen, right?”

  “They do, sir,” said Milo.

  “They do, indeed.”

  * * *

  We drove to Crescent Heights, crossed Sunset as the street shifted to Laurel Canyon, and headed for the Valley.

  “Woman with a heart condition,” said Milo. “I'm gonna kick her off the ledge?”

  “What do you think about what she told Perdue?”

  “About Shawna being wild?”

  “Wild because she had no father in her life,” I said. “Wild in a specific way. I think her mother knew of Shawna's attraction to older men. Meaning maybe Shawna had older boyfriends back home.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But that could also mean that Shawna's story about heading home for the weekend was true. She got dolled up for some Santo Leon Lothario, it went bad, he killed her, dumped her somewhere out in the boonies. That's why she's never been found. If so, there goes the Lauren connection.”

  “No,” I said. “Agnes might've been aware of Shawna's tendencies, but I doubt she knew about a specific hometown boyfriend. If she had, wouldn't she have given his name to the police? Even if the police weren't listening.”

  “Leo Riley,” he said. “SOB still hasn't called back.”

  “He probably couldn't tell you much anyway. Milo, I think Agnes Yeager knew Shawna's pattern and suspected history had repeated itself in L.A., but she didn't know the specifics.”

  “Could be. . . . The thing that bothers me is that whoever made Shawna dead really didn't want her to be found. But just the opposite's true of Lauren, and Michelle and Lance. We're talking bodies left out in the open, someone flaunting— maybe wanting to set an example, or scare someone off. Something professional. None of that fits with a sex crime.”

  �
�So the motives were different,” I said. “Shawna was a lust killing, the others were eliminated to shut them up.”

  We passed the Laurel Canyon market, and the road took on a steep grade. Milo's foot bore down on the accelerator, and the unmarked shuddered. As the trees zipped by my heart began racing.

  “Oh, man.”

  “What?”

  “What if Shawna's death is the secret? Lauren found out somehow, tried to profit from it. Talk about something worth killing for.”

  He was silent till Mulholland. “How would Lauren find out?”

  I had no answer for that. He began pulling on his earlobe. Took out a panatella. Asked me to light it and blew foul smoke out the window.

  “Well,” he finally said, “maybe Jane can elucidate for us. Glad you're here.” Angry smile. “This might require psychological sensitivity.”

  * * *

  We drove up to the gates of the Abbot house just before four P.M. Both the blue Mustang convertible and the big white Cadillac were parked in front, but no one answered Milo's bell push. He tried again. The digital code sounded, four rings. Broken connection.

  “Last time it was hooked up to the answering machine,” he said. “Cars in the driveway but no one's home?”

  “Probably just as we thought,” I said. “They went away, took a taxi.”

  He jabbed the bell a third time, said, “Let's talk to some neighbors,” and turned to leave as the third ring sounded. We were nearly at the car when Mel Abbot's voice broke in.

  “Please . . . this is not . . . this is . . .”

  Then a dial tone.

  Milo studied the gate, hiked his trousers, and had taken hold of an iron slat. But I'd already gotten a toehold, and I made it over first.

  22

  WE RAN TO the front door. I tried the knob. Bolted. Milo pounded, rang the bell. “Mr. Abbot! It's the police!”

  No answer. The space to the right of the house was blocked by a ficus hedge. To the left was an azalea-lined flagstone pathway that led to the kitchen door. Also locked, but a ground-floor window was half open.

  “Alarm screen's in place,” said Milo. “Doesn't look like it's been breached. Wait here.” Unholstering his gun, he ran around to the back, returned moments later. “No obvious forced entry, but something's wrong.” Replacing the weapon and snapping the holster cover, he flipped the screen on the partially open window, shouted in: “Mr. Abbot? Anyone home?”

  Silence.

  “There's the alarm register,” he said, glancing at a side wall. “System's off. Okay, boost me.” I cupped my hands, felt the crush of his weight for a second, then he hoisted himself in and disappeared.

  “You stay put, I'm going to check it out.”

  I waited, listening to suburban quiet, taking in what I could see of the backyard: a blue corner of swimming pool, teak furniture, old-growth trees screening out the neighboring property, pretty olive green shadows patching a lawn skinned in preparation for fertilizer. . . . Someone had plans for a verdant spring.

  Eight minutes passed, ten, twelve. Why was he taking so long? Should I return to the car and call for help? What would I tell the dispatcher?

  As I thought about it, the kitchen door opened and Milo beckoned me in. Sweat stains had leaked through the armpits of his jacket. His face was white.

  “What's going on?” I said.

  Instead of answering he showed me his back and led me through the kitchen. Blue granite counters were bare but for a carton of orange juice. We hurried through a floral-papered breakfast nook, a butler's pantry, the dining room, past all that art, and Milo ran past the elevator into the living room, where Melville Abbot's trophies were gloomed by blackout drapes.

  He vaulted up the stairs, and I followed.

  When I was halfway up, I heard the whimpering.

  * * *

  Abbot sat propped in bed, cushioned by a blue velvet bed husband, hairless skull reflecting light from an overhead chandelier, slack lips shellacked with drool.

  The room was huge, stale, someone's vision of Versailles. Gold plush carpeting, mustard-and-crimson tapestry curtains tied back elaborately and topped by fringed valances, French Provincial replica furniture arranged haphazardly.

  The bed was king-sized and seemed to swallow Abbot. The bed husband had slipped low against a massive swirl of rococo headboard of tufted yellow silk. Lots of satin pillows on the bed, several more on the carpet. The chandelier was Murano glass, a snarl of yellow tendrils crowned by multicolored glass birds. A small Picasso hung askew above the crest of the headboard, next to a dark landscape that could've been a Corot. A folded wheelchair filled one corner.

  The straggling white puffs of Melville Abbot's hair had been battened down by sweat. The old man's eyes were vacant and frightened, lashes encrusted with greenish scum. He wore maroon silk pajamas with white piping and LAPD-issue handcuffs around his wrists.

  To his left, a few feet from the bed, red-brown splotches Rorschached the gold carpet. The largest stain spread from under Jane Abbot's body.

  She lay on her left side, left arm stretched forward, legs drawn upward, ash hair loose and fanned across the thick pile. A silver peignoir had ridden up, exposing still-sleek legs, a sliver of buttock swelling beneath black panties. Bare feet. Pink toenails. Graying flesh, green-tinged, purplish suggestions of lividity at ankles and wrists and thighs, as dead blood pooled internally.

  Her eyes were half open, filmed, the lids swollen and blueing. Her mouth gaped, and her tongue was a gray garden slug curling inward. One ruby-crusted hole blemished her left cheek; a second punctuated the hairline of her left temple.

  Milo pointed to the floor next to the nightstand. A gun, not unlike his 9 mm, near the draperies. He drew the clip from his trouser pocket, put it back.

  “When I got here, he was holding it.”

  Abbot gave no indication of hearing. Or comprehension. Saliva trickled down his chin, and he mumbled.

  “What are you saying, sir?” said Milo, drawing closer to the bed.

  Abbot's eyes rolled back, reappeared, focused on nothing.

  Milo turned to me. “I walk in and he points the damn thing at me. I almost shot him, but when he saw me he let go of it. I kept trying to find out what happened, but all he does is babble. From the looks of her, she's been dead several hours. I'm not pushing him without a lawyer present. It's Van Nuys's case. I called them. We should have company soon enough.”

  Mel Abbot groaned.

  “Just hold on, sir.”

  The old man's arms shot out. He shook his wrists, and the cuffs jangled. “Hurts.”

  “They're as loose as they can be, sir.”

  The chocolate eyes turned black. “I'm Mr. Abbot. Who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Sturgis.”

  Abbot stared at him. “Sherlock Bones?”

  “Something like that, sir.”

  “Constabulary,” said Abbot. “State trooper stops a man on the highway— have you heard this one?”

  “Probably,” said Milo.

  “Aw,” said Abbot. “You're no fun.”

  23

  MILO SCANNED THE bedroom as we waited. I could see nothing but tragedy, but his trained eye located a bullet hole on the wall facing the bed, just to the right of the wheelchair. He drew a chalk outline around the puncture.

  Mel Abbot continued to hunch stuporously in the bed, cuffed hands inert. Milo wiped his chin a couple of times. Each time Abbot yanked his face away, like a baby repelling spinach.

  Finally, the howl of sirens. Three black-and-whites on Code Two, a Mutt-and-Jeff detective duo from Van Nuys Division named Ruiz and Gallardo, a squadron of cheerful, bantering paramedics for Mel Abbot.

  I stood on the landing and watched the EMTs set up their mobile stretcher. Milo and the detectives had moved out of the bedroom, out of the old man's earshot, talking technical. Sidelong glances at the old man. A moist slick of snot mustached Abbot's upper lip. Jane's corpse was within his line of vision, but he made no attempt to l
ook at her. A paramedic came out and asked the detectives where to take him. All three cops agreed on the inevitable, the prison ward at County General. The short D, Ruiz, muttered, “Love that drive to East L.A.”

  “No place like home, ese,” said Gallardo. He and his partner were in their thirties, solidly built, with thick black hair, perfectly edged and combed straight back. He was around six-two, Ruiz, no more than five-eight. But for the height differential they could have been twins, and I began thinking of them as outgrowths of some Mendelian experiment: short detectives, long detectives. . . . Anything to take my mind off what had happened.