Killer

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I’m not going to shoot you.

  Technically, a non-threat.

  Massaging the bulge in her purse.

  Subtle.

  Connie Sykes had shown herself eager to use the legal system as a weapon, so maybe the visit was a ploy. Enticing me to accuse her of something, so she could file a spite lawsuit.

  A weapon? Ridiculous. I keep tissues, cosmetics, and a cell phone in there. This is defamation and harassment, this man is clearly unfit for the job with which he’s been entrusted.

  If she tried that, she’d lose. Again. But that wouldn’t stop her from convincing herself she had a chance of winning. Because if Connie Sykes believed it, it had to be true.

  I could call Milo but drawing him into the mess would just add complication.

  I imagined a fine-print complaint against him hand-messengered to the LAPD brass. Parker Center was Cover-Your-Ass Central. Milo, always an official irritant operating beyond his official boundaries, would be vulnerable.

  Medea Wright, not my biggest fan, would enjoy the process.

  Gun in a purse? The complainant is a physician, not a criminal, and this alleged mental health expert is showing himself to be rather delusional and paranoid, leading to serious questions about his professional competence and qualifications for state licensure. Furthermore, his exploitation of personal connections to the police department in order to exert vengeful damage to the complainant is nothing short of venal.

  If you couldn’t get the outcome you wanted, torture ’em with process.

  The more I thought about it, the better it explained Connie showing up on my terrace. Bested in court, she itched to squeeze out a few drops of control.

  To Connie Sykes, everything was about control. That’s why she’d tried to confiscate her sister’s child in the first place.

  To Connie Sykes, winning meant someone had to lose.

  Dr. Zero-Sum. I decided the best response to her stunt was none at all. Give her time to cool down.

  Even if she forgot about me, she was likely to regroup for Connie v. Ree, Chapter II. Because she had the means and the opportunity and the system was receptive to second, third, fourth, millionth chances.

  So forget about telling Milo, keep the bear in his den. But I’d let Robin know because the invaded territory was as much hers as mine.

  Steeling myself for the walk through the garden to the studio, I poured coffee in the kitchen, drank some but found it bitter, organized my desk, checked files that didn’t require inspection, ran out of delay tactics.

  Just as I was about to leave the office, I thought of someone else who needed to know.

  If Connie Sykes could muster that level of rage against me, what was she feeling about the judge?

  I phoned Nancy Maestro. A hard, wary male voice answered, “Chambers.”

  Familiar voice; the deputy I’d met with the bronze-lensed eyeglasses. H. Nebe.

  I said, “Hi, it’s Dr. Delaware.”

  “Her Honor’s unavailable. You have a message you want to leave?”

  More of the protective attitude I’d seen in court. Not a bad idea, as it turned out. I told him about Connie Sykes.

  He said, “Well, that’s pretty insane. She do anything else crazy?”

  “No.”

  “Not going to shoot you, huh?” said H. Nebe. “Sounds like she got you pretty scared.”

  “No, just wary.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Watchful. I figured the judge should know.”

  “Okay, Doc. I’ll handle it from this end.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That nutcase shows up again, lock your door and call 911.”

  I filled a second mug with coffee, carried it down the back stairs to the garden, paused by the pond to listen to the waterfall and feed the koi, continued up the stone path to Robin’s studio.

  Quiet day, no machine noise. I found her standing over her workbench, face-masked, auburn curls topknotted, wearing red overalls over a black T-shirt and looking sexy. Vials of varnish and oil and stain flanked her. A HEPA filter whirred at high speed.

  Her hand gripped a soft wad of cotton, moved in small, concentric circles. French-polishing the quilted maple back of a seventeenth-century French guitar. One of those petite parlor instruments, high on decoration but low on sound. What used to be called women’s guitars, back when women were deemed incapable of making serious music. This one was owned by a man, a collector who couldn’t play a note but demanded that everything in his world—including his third wife—be pretty and shiny.

  Robin continued working as Blanche, our little blond French bulldog, snored at her feet.

  I cleared my throat. Removing the mask and putting down her polishing cloth, Robin smiled and Blanche’s eyes began fluttering open.

  “The prince brings caffeine. Perfect timing, how’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  By the time she kissed me and took the mug, Blanche had padded over. Robin retrieved a stick of beef jerky from a jar on a shelf, kneeled to Blanche’s level. Blanche took the treat with a soft mouth and held it there until Robin said, “Nosh-time.”

  Waddling to a corner, Blanche settled and chomped with delicate lust.

  I felt a gentle tug. Robin’s finger under my collar. “What’s wrong?”

  No sense asking how she knew anything was wrong, she always did. I told her.

  She said, “What a nasty, vindictive person. Obviously, you were right to keep the kid out of her grasp.”

  “Anyone would’ve made the call.”

  “You’re the one who did.”

  We moved to a couch against the wall, sat with our thighs touching.

  “So,” she said, “you think she might actually do something?”

  “Doubt it,” I said. “I just thought you should know.”

  “Appreciate it. So what’s the plan? We batten down the hatches and go on red alert?”

  “Maybe orange.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Don’t mean to be flip. So you think she was just posturing.”

  “She’s narcissistic and asocial but nothing in her past says she’d ever be violent.”

  “You going to let Milo know?”

  I explained why I wasn’t.

  She said, “You’re making a good point. Okay, for the next week or so—or longer, whatever you think—we’ll lock the gate at the bottom of the road, anyone wants to intrude they’ll have to do it on foot. And we’ll make sure the night-lights are on down there. Be more careful about bolting the doors to the house and when we leave, we’ll be extra-watchful.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. My tone said “good” was a foreign word.

  Her fingers left my collar, traveled to my cheek.

  “What a pain,” she said. “You do your job and get this. I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone needed a scapegoat.”

  “My court work bother you?”

  “Of course not. You’re doing good deeds. Crappy system needs you.”

  She rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s never about the kids, right? Just screwed-up adults going to war. I remember the times I thought my parents were definitely getting divorced.”

  “That happen often?”

  “Two, three times a year. They were always sniping at each other but sometimes the fights got really bad and you could smell how much they hated each other. I mean literally, Alex. The house would fill with this feral odor. Then they’d retrench and each of them would try to get me on their side. Dad always paid attention to me so it felt more natural when he got all chummy. But you know Mom. Parenthood didn’t exactly rank high on her to-do list so when she started going on about all the things we should do together, just us two girls …”

  She shuddered. “I didn’t argue but ugh.”

  Untying her hair, she set loose a torrent of curls, brushed tendrils away from her face.

  “Eventually, they’d make up and have disturbingly noisy sex and I’d go outside and pretend I was living o
n Mars. Then he’d be back to showing me how to use a hand plane and she’d revert to her usual icy, selfish self. Terrible thing to say about the person who gave you life, huh? But you know Mom.”

  My mother had possessed the capacity for tenderness but for the most part she’d been passive, depressed, and unable—or unwilling—to shield me from my father’s alcoholic rages.

  I said, “We don’t pick our relatives.”

  She laughed. “That crazy woman’s sister sure knows that.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  For the next week and a half, life went on as usual except for the locked gate and the lights. And the part I didn’t tell Robin about: during my morning runs, looking for tree-shrouded spots where someone with a firearm could hide.

  To relax myself, I imagined Connie Sykes in combat fatigues and a mud-smeared face jumping out and playing Rambette. The image was ludicrous and my jaws eventually unclenched. By day seven, I didn’t need that bit of cognitive behavior therapy. By day ten, I was certain there was nothing to worry about and we could unlatch the gate.

  I was about to broach the topic with Robin when the buzzer to that very barrier sounded.

  Milo said, “Alex, it’s me.”

  I beeped him in.

  He’s always hounding me about being lax with security. No comment, now, about the extra precaution.

  Preoccupied? Probably a new whodunit.

  Dealing with someone else’s problems. Excellent; I was ready.

  As I waited out on the terrace, a black LTD drove up. The passenger door opened and Milo’s bulk emerged. He wore a navy wind-breaker, baggy brown slacks, scuffed desert boots, white shirt, skinny tie. Even from this distance the tie’s colors were an intrusion: orange-rind paisley over week-old vegetable clippings. His olive vinyl attaché case swung at his side.

  I said, “Morning, Big Guy.”

  His reply wave was minimal.

  Out of the driver’s side stepped a short, stocky woman in her thirties wearing a gunmetal-gray suit. Clipped dark hair, full face, excellent posture, as if she labored to stretch above five two. Clipped to the breast pocket of her jacket was a detective shield. She’d left the jacket unbuttoned, revealing a slice of white shirt and smidge of black—the strap of a nylon shoulder holster.

  She made eye contact immediately, but we’d never met and her eyes had nothing much to say.

  She let Milo lead the way as the two of them climbed the stairs.

  Just before they reached the top, he said, “This is Detective Millie Rivera, North Hollywood Division. Millie, Dr. Alex Delaware.”

  Rivera extended her hand. Her fingers were barely above child-sized, but her grip was solid—a pair of miniature pliers finding their mark and maintaining a hold. On top of that, she’d mastered that thumb-on-webbing trick women learn when they’ve had their hand squeezed too many times by macho fools.

  I said, “Pleased to meet you,” and she let go. “What’s up, Big Guy?”

  Milo said, “Let’s go inside.”

  Typically, he beelines to the kitchen and raids the fridge. Sometimes, when there’s an especially knotty puzzle on his mind, he heads for my office and either commandeers my computer or stretches out on the leather couch, where he proceeds to think out loud or gripe about the policeman’s lot.

  A few months ago I presented him with a gag invoice. Six-figure charge for “years of listening.” He looked at it, said, “Will a large pizza do as payment?”

  This morning he went no farther than the living room, picking the nearest chair and plopping down heavily.

  Detective Millie Rivera settled in an adjoining seat.

  I said, “West L.A. and North Hollywood. Sounds complicated.”

  Milo said, “It’s simple, Alex.” He motioned to the facing couch.

  I sat.

  Milo said, “The bad news is someone wants to kill you. The good news is it hasn’t happened, yet.”

  I said, “Constance Sykes.”

  The two of them looked at each other.

  Millie Rivera said, “You’re aware of the plot?”

  “I’m aware of her anger but never figured she’d go that far.” I recounted Connie’s non-threat.

  Rivera said, “That didn’t alarm you, Doctor?”

  “I’ve been looking over my shoulder.”

  “The gate,” said Milo. “In your world that’s security?”

  Rivera said, “So on some level you figured she was serious. Well, good guess, Doctor. She tried to hire a hit man.”

  “You got him?”

  “No, Doctor. He got us.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re unbelievably lucky, Dr. Delaware. The only reason the plan wasn’t put into action was the person Dr. Sykes hired to kill you only wanted to be a broker and the person he turned to just happened to know you.” She smiled. “Apparently, there are bad guys who think you’re a good guy.”

  Milo muttered, “The friends we keep.”

  Rivera looked at him. He motioned her to go on.

  “Here are the basics, Doctor. Sykes went to a not-so-solid citizen named Ramon Guzman who works for a company that cleans her offices at night. Guzman has a steady gig, now, but he’s gangbanger up the wazoo, spent time in Lompoc for agg assault. At this point we don’t know if Sykes actually knew about Guzman’s prison record, but since he’s covered with tats and looks like a badass, her assuming wouldn’t be a stretch. And turns out, she was right because Guzman had no problem getting involved in murder for hire, he just didn’t want to do the shooting because—get this—his eyes are bad, he didn’t want to mess up. So he took a thousand-dollar down payment from Sykes and turned to one of his senior homeboys, a gangster prince. And wonder of wonders, that guy called me. I know this joker’s entire family, they go way back criminal-wise. But Doctor, this is the first time I’ve ever been contacted directly by an upper-level bad actor. This one goes by the moniker Effo but his given name’s Efren Casagrande.”

  My eyes widened.

  Rivera said, “Obviously he was telling the truth about knowing you.”

  I kept silent.

  “Doctor?”

  Milo said, “He thinks he can’t say anything, Millie. The old shrink-confidentiality thing.” To me: “Guess what, Alex, you’re free to express yourself because Mr. Casagrande let us know he was your patient. Though he was clear that it wasn’t for a ‘head problem.’ ”

  They waited. I said nothing.

  Rivera said, “Effo granted you permission to talk to us.”

  Milo said, “So how ’bout you educate us so I don’t find myself writing a eulogy.”

  I said, “He give you written authorization?”

  He cursed. Pulled out his phone, punched numbers. “It’s me, Lieutenant Sturgis. Ready for a reunion, amigo? Hold on.”

  Handing the phone to me.

  I said, “Dr. Delaware.”

  A familiar voice, older, deeper, ripe with amusement, said, “Yo, Doc. Long time. So how’s the lifestyle? Looks like you still got one.”

  “Looks like it. Thanks.”

  “Hey, you don’t think I’d let your ass—let you get with no lifestyle? Fuck that, Doc. Fuck that.”

  “Appreciate it, Efren.”

  “No prob—anyone else listening to this?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me tell you: I’m so fucking pissed some bitch would try to do that, I’m ready to kill her ass. You with that?”

  I said, “Nope.”

  Laughter. “Just kidding. Maybe. Yeah, okay, let’s both of us hang on to our lifestyles. Let’s both of us represent.”

  “Good idea. How’re things going?”

  “Mostly up, few downs, haven’t been in the E.R. since last Christmas.” Laughter. “Too much partying. You know. What can I say?”

  “Season to be jolly,” I said. “Listen, anytime you want to—”

  “Nah, I’m fine. And so are you. Try to stay that way, Doc.”

  Click.

&nb
sp; I handed the phone back to Milo.

  He said, “Heartwarming,” and hummed a few bars of “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Millie Rivera said, “Casagrande may be charming but he’s suspected in at least five murders. Doctor, you’ve got to be the luckiest man in L.A County.”

  Milo said, “Let’s keep it that way. Now tell us every goddamn thing about this goddamn crazy lunatic who decided you don’t deserve to breathe anymore.”

  Crazy lunatic. Redundant. It wasn’t the moment to get finicky about grammar.

  I said, “A thousand down? How much more to complete the job?”

  “Four,” said Millie Rivera.

  “Five measly gees to snuff you out,” said Milo. His green eyes were hot. His pallid, pockmarked face was tight with rage.

  I couldn’t help thinking some of that was directed at me.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Back when I worked at Western Pediatric Medical Center, my main job was helping children with cancer and their families. But soon I began getting consults from departments other than Oncology, most frequently Endocrinology. And when I switched to private practice, Endo referrals continued.

  It’s a natural pairing. Glandular and metabolic disorders—growth problems, puberty issues, juvenile diabetes—pose obvious emotional challenges. Diabetes adds an additional hardship because it requires a level of patient compliance—monitoring blood sugar, regulating diet, injecting insulin—that anyone would find tough, let alone a kid.

  When diabetic children become teens, it can really get hairy, because adolescence is all about identity, differentiating yourself, breaking away from authority figures. Which isn’t to say that all diabetic teens act out medically. Many ease into mature self-management.

  Others are like Efren Casagrande.

  He came to me as one of those last-resort panic referrals, a fourteen-year-old “exceptionally brittle” diabetic who needed to draw blood multiple times a day and control his food with a level of precision that would faze a competitive bodybuilder. Diagnosed at age eight, he’d been reasonably compliant until the onset of puberty, when his attitude shifted to “Fuck this shit,” and he simply stopped cooperating.