When the Bough Breaks

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "Yes?" Wariness.

  "The psychologist."

  "Yes. Milo's spoken of you. I'm Rick Silverman."

  The doctor, the mother's dream, now had a name.

  "I just called to let you know that Milo stopped by here after work to discuss a case and he got kind of--intoxicated."

  "I see."

  I felt an absurd urge to explain to the man at the other end that there was really nothing going on between Milo and me, that we were just good friends. I suppressed it.

  "Actually, he got stoned. Had eleven beers. He's sleeping it off now. I just wanted you to know."

  "That's very considerate of you," Silverman said, acidly.

  "I'll wake him, if you'd like."

  "No, that's quite all right. Milo's a big boy. He's free to do as he pleases. No need to check in."

  I wanted to tell him, listen you insecure, spoiled brat, I just called to do you a favor, to set your mind at ease. Don't hand me any of your delicate indignation. Instead, I tried flattery.

  "Okay, just thought I'd call you to let you know, Rick. I know how important you are to Milo, and I thought he'd want me to."

  "Uh, thanks. I really appreciate it." Bingo. "Please excuse me. I've just come off a twenty-four-hour shift myself."

  "No problem." I'd probably woken the poor devil. "Listen, how about if we get together some time--you and Milo and my girlfriend and myself?"

  "I'd like that, Alex. Sure. Send the big slob home when he sobers up and we'll work out the details." "Will do. Good talking to you." "Likewise." He sighed. "Goodnight."

  At nine thirty Milo awoke with a wretched look on his face. He started to moan, turning his head from side to side. I mixed tomato juice, a raw egg, black pepper, and Tabasco in a tall glass, propped him up and poured it down his throat. He gagged, sputtered, and opened his eyes suddenly, as if a bolt of lightning had zapped him in the taiibone.

  Forty minutes later he looked every bit as wretched but he was painfully sober.

  I got him to the door and stuck the files of the nine psychopaths under his arm.

  "Bedtime reading, Milo."

  He tripped down the stairs, swearing, made his way to the Fiat, groped at its door handle and threw himself in with a single lurching movement. With the aid of a rolling start, he got it ignited.

  Alone at last, I got into bed, read the Times, watched TV--but damned if I could tell you what I saw, other than that it had lots of flat punch lines and jiggling boobs and cops who looked like male models. I enjoyed the solitude for a couple of hours, only pausing to think of murder and greed and twisted evil minds a few times before drifting off to sleep.

  11

  "All right," said Milo. We were sitting in an interrogation room at West L.A. Division. The walls were pea-green paint and one-way mirrors. A microphone hung from the ceiling. The furniture consisted of a gray metal table and three metal folding chairs. There was a stale odor of sweat and falsehood and fear in the air, the stink of diminished human dignity.

  He had fanned out the folders on the table and picked up the first one with a flourish.

  "Here's the way your nine bad guys shape up. Number one, Rex Alien Camblin, incarcerated at Sole dad, assault and battery." He let the folder drop.

  "Number two, Peter Lewis Jefferson, working on a ranch in Wyoming. Presence verified."

  "Pity the poor cattle."

  "That's a fact--he looked like a likely one. Number three, Darwin Ward--you'll never believe this--attending law school, Pennsylvania State University."

  "A psychopathic attorney--not all that amazing, really."

  Milo chuckled and picked up the next folder.

  "Numero cuatro--uh--Leonard Jay Helsinger, working construction on the Alaska pipeline. Location likewise confirmed by Juneau P.D. Five, Michael Penn, student at Cal State Northridge. Him we talk to." He put Penn's file aside. "Six, Lance Arthur Shattuck, short-order cook on the Cunard Line luxury cruiser Helena, verified by the Coast Guard to have been floating around in the middle of the Aegean Sea somewhere for the past six weeks. Seven, Maurice Bruno, sales representative for Presto Instant Print in Burbank--another interviewee." Bruno's file went on top of Penn's.

  "Eight, Roy Longstreth, pharmacist for Thrifty's Drug chain, Beverly Hills branch. Another one. And-last but not least--Gerard Paul Mendenhall, Corporal, United States Army, Tyler, Texas, presence verified."

  Beverly Hills was closer than either Northridge or Burbank, so we headed for Thrifty's. The Beverly Hills branch turned out to be a brick-and-glass cube on Canon Drive just north of Wilshire. It shared a block with trendy boutiques and a Haagen Dazs ice-cream parlor.

  Milo showed his badge surreptitiously to the girl behind the liquor counter and got the manager, a light skinned middle-aged black, in seconds flat. The manager got nervous and wanted to know if Longstreth had done anything wrong. In classic cop style, Milo hedged.

  "We just want to ask him a few questions."

  I had trouble keeping a straight face through that one, but the cliche seemed to satisfy the manager.

  "He's not here now. He comes on at two-thirty, works the night shift."

  "We'll be back. Please don't tell him we were here."

  Milo gave him his card. When we left he was studying it like a map to buried treasure.

  The ride to Northridge was a half-hour cruise on the Ventura Freeway West. When we got to the Cal

  State campus, we headed straight for the registrar's office. Milo obtained a copy of Michael Penn's class schedule. Armed with that and his mug shot, we located him in twenty minutes, walking across a wide, grassy triangle accompanied by a girl.

  "Mr. Penn?"

  "Yes?" He was a good-looking fellow, medium height, with broad shoulders and long legs. His light brown hair was cut preppy short. He wore a light blue Izod shirt and blue jeans, penny loafers with no socks. I knew from his file that he was twenty-six but he looked five years younger. He had a pleasant, unlined face, a real All-American type. He didn't look like the kind of guy who'd try to run someone down with a Pontiac Firebird.

  "Police." Again, the badge. "We'd like to talk to you for a few moments."

  "What about?" The hazel eyes narrowed and the mouth got tight.

  "We'd prefer to talk to you in private."

  Penn looked at the girl. She was young, no more than nineteen, short, dark, with a Dorothy Hamill wedge cut.

  "Give me a minute, Julie." He chucked her under the chin.

  "Mike...?"

  "Just a minute."

  We left her standing there and walked to a concrete area furnished with stone tables and benches. Students moved by as if on a treadmill. There was little standing around. This was a commuter campus. Many of the students worked part-time jobs and squeezed classes in during their spare time. It was a good place to get your B.A. in computer science or business, a teaching credential or a master's in accounting. If you wanted fun or leisurely intellectual debates in the shade of an ivy-encrusted oak, forget it.

  Michael Penn looked furious but he was working hard at concealing it.

  "What do you want?"

  "When's the last time you saw Dr. Morton Handler?"

  Penn threw back his head and laughed. It was a disturbingly hollow sound.

  "That asshole? I read about his death. No loss."

  "When did you see him last?"

  Penn was smirking now.

  "Years ago, officer." He made the title sound like an insult. "When I was in therapy."

  "I take it you didn't think much of him."

  "Handler? He was a shrink." As if that explained it.

  "You don't think much of psychiatrists."

  Penn held out his hands, palms up.

  "Hey listen. That whole thing was a big mistake. I lost control of my car and some paranoid idiot claimed I tried to kill him with it. They busted me, railroaded me and then they offered me probation if I saw a shrink. Gave me all those garbage tests."

  Those garbage tests included the Minnesota
Multiphasic Personality Inventory and a handful of project ives Though far from perfect, they were reliable enough when it came to someone like Penn. I had read his MMPI profile and psychopathy oozed from every index.

  "You didn't like Dr. Handler?"

  "Don't put words in my mouth." Penn lowered his voice. He moved his eyes back and forth, restless, jumpy. Behind the handsome face was something dark and dangerous. Handler hadn't misdiagnosed this one.

  "You did like him." Milo played with him like a gaffed stingray.

  "I didn't like him or dislike him. I had no use for him. I'm not crazy. And I didn't kill him."

  "You can account for your whereabouts the night he was murdered?"

  "When was that?"

  Milo gave him the date and time.

  Penn cracked his knuckles and looked through us as if zeroing in on a distant target.

  "Sure. That entire night I was with my girl."

  "Julie?"

  Penn laughed.

  "Her? No I've got a mature woman, officer. A woman of means." His brow creased and his expression changed from smug to sour. "You're going to have to talk to her, aren't you?"

  Milo nodded his head.

  "That'll screw things up for me."

  "Gee, Mike, that's really too bad."

  Penn threw him a hateful look, then changed it to bland innocence. He could play his face like a deck of cards, shuffling, palming from the bottom, coming up with a new number every second.

  "Listen, officer, that whole incident is behind me. I'm holding down a job, going to school--I'm getting my degree in six months. I don't want to get messed up because my name's in Handler's files."

  He sounded like Wally on "Leave It to Beaver"-all earnest innocence. Gosh, Beave... "We'll have to verify your alibi, Mike."

  "Okay, okay, do it. Just don't tell her too much, okay? Keep it general."

  Keep it general so I can fabricate something. You could see the gears spinning behind the high, tan forehead.

  "Sure, Mike." Milo took his pencil out and tapped it on his lips.

  "Sonya Magary. She owns the Puff 'n' Stuff Children's Boutique in the Plaza de Oro in Encino."

  "Have you got the number handy?" Milo asked pleasantly.

  Penn clenched his jaws and gave it to him.

  "We'll call her, Mike. Don't you call her first, okay? We treasure spontaneity." Milo put away his pencil and closed his notepad. "Have a nice day, now."

  Penn looked from me to Milo, then back to me, as if seeking an ally. Then he got up and walked away in long, muscular strides.

  "Oh, Mike!" Milo called.

  Penn turned around.

  "What are you getting your degree in?"

  "Marketing."

  As we left the campus we could see him walking with Julie. Her head was on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. He was smiling down on her and talking very fast.

  "What do you think?" Milo asked as he settled behind the wheel.

  "I think he's innocent as far as this case goes, but I'll bet you he's got some kind of dirty deal going on. He was really relieved when he found out what we were there for."

  Milo nodded.

  "I agree. But what the hell--that's someone else's headache."

  We got back on the freeway, heading east. We exited in Sherman Oaks, found a little French place on Ventura near Woodman and had lunch. Milo used the pay phone to call Sonya Magary. He came back to the table, shaking his head.

  "She loves him. "That dear boy, that sweet boy, I hope he's not in trouble." " He imitated a thick Hungarian accent. "She verifies he was with her on the fateful night. Sounds proud of it. I expected her to tell me about their sex life--in Technicolor."

  He shook his head and buried his face in a plate of steamed mussels.

  We caught up with Roy Longstreth as he got out of his Toyota in the Thrifty's parking lot. He was short and frail-looking, with watery blue eyes and an undernourished chin. Prematurely bald, what little hair he did have was on the sides; he had left it long, hanging down over his ears, so that the general effect was of a friar who'd been meditating too long and had neglected his personal grooming. A mousy brown mustache snuck across his upper lip. He had none of Penn's bravado but there was that same jumpiness in the eyes.

  "Yes, what do you want?" He piped up in a squeaky voice after Milo gave him the badge routine. He looked at his watch.

  When Milo told him, he looked as if he were going to cry. Uncharacteristic anxiety for a supposed psychopath. Unless the whole thing was an act. You never knew the tricks those types could come up with when they had to.

  "When I read about it I just knew you'd come after me." The insignificant mustache trembled like a twig in a storm.

  "Why's that, Roy?"

  "Because of the things he said about me. He told my mother I was a psychopath. Told her not to trust me. I'm probably on some whacko list, right?"

  "Can you account for your whereabouts the night he was killed?"

  "Yes. That's the first thing I thought of when I read about it--they're going to come and ask me questions about it. I made sure I knew. I even wrote it down. Wrote a note to myself. Roy, you were at church that night. So when they come and ask you, you'll know where you were--"

  He could have gone on that way for a couple of days but Milo cut him off.

  "Church? You're a religious man, Roy?"

  Longstreth gave a laugh that was choked with panic.

  "No, no. Not praying. The Westside Singles group at Bel Air Presbyterian--it's the same place Ronald Reagan used to go to."

  "The singles group?"

  "No, no, no. The church. He used to worship there before he was elected and--"

  "Okay, Ron. You were at the Westside Singles group from when to when?"

  The sight of Milo taking notes made him even more nervous. He began bouncing up and down, a marionette at the hands of a palsied puppeteer.

  "From nine to one-thirty--I stayed to the end. I helped clean up. I can tell you what they served. It was guacamole and nachos and there was Gallo jug wine and shrimp dip and--"

  "Of course there'll be lots of people who saw you there."

  "Sure," he said, then stopped. "I--I didn't really mingle much. I helped out, tending bar. I saw lots of people but I don't know if any of them will-remember me." His voice had quieted to a whisper.

  "That could be a problem, Roy."

  "Unless--no--yes--Mrs. Heatherington. She's an older woman. She volunteers at church functions. She was cleaning up, too. And serving. I spent a lot of time talking to her--I can even tell you what we talked about. It was about collectibles--she collects Norman Rockwells and I collect Icarts."

  "Icarts?"

  "You know, the Art Deco prints."

  The works of Louis Icart went for high prices these days. I wondered how a pharmacist could afford them.

  "Mother gave me one when I was sixteen and they--"he searched for the right word--"captivated me. She gives them to me on my birthday and I pick up a few myself. Dr. Handler collected them, too, you know. That--" he let his words trail off.

  "Oh, really? Did he show you his collection?"

  Longstreth shook his head energetically.

  "No. He had one in his office. I noticed it and we started talking. But he used it against me later on."

  "How's that?"

  "After the evaluation--you know I was sent to him by the court after I was caught--" he looked nervously at the Thrifty's building--"shoplifting." Tears filled his eyes. "For God's sake, I took a tube of rubber cement at Sears and they caught me! I thought Mother would die from the shame. And I worried the School of Pharmacy would find out--it was horrible!"

  "How did he use the fact that you collected Icarts against you?" asked Milo patiently.

  "He kind of implied, never came out and said it, but phrased it so you knew what he meant but he couldn't be pinned down."

  "Implied what, Roy?"

  "That he could be bought off. That if I bribed him with an Icart or two-
-he even mentioned the ones he liked--he would write a favorable report."

  "Did you?"

  "What? Bribe him? Not on your life. That would be dishonest!"

  "And did he press the issue?"

  Longstreth picked at his fingernails.