Blood Test

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Come on,” he took my elbow. “Let’s go upstairs, get something liquid in you and then you can tell me what happened.”

  As the crime scene crew busied themselves with the technical minutiae of murder I sat in my old leather sofa and drank Chivas. The shock was beginning to slough off; I realized I was still sick— chilled and weak. The Scotch went down warm and smooth. Across from me sat Milo and Del Hardy. The black detective was dapper, as always, in a shaped dark suit, peach-colored shirt, black tie, and spit-polished demiboots. He put on a pair of reading glasses and took notes.

  “On the surface,” said Milo, “it looks like Moody had plans to torch your place and somebody followed him, caught him in the act, and took him out.” He thought for a moment. “There was a triangle, right? How do you like the boyfriend for the shooter role?”

  “He didn’t seem the type to stalk a man like that.”

  “Full name,” said Hardy, pen poised.

  “Carlton Conley. He’s a carpenter for Aurora Studios. He and Moody were friends before it triangulated.”

  Hardy scribbled. “Did he move in with the wife?”

  “Yes. They’re all supposed to be up near Davis. On the advice of her lawyer.”

  “The lawyer’s name?”

  “Malcolm J. Worthy. Beverly Hills.”

  “Better call him,” said Milo. “If Moody had a list he’d be on it. Find out the number up in Davis and check out if anything went down there—she’s still next of kin, has to be notified anyway. Have the local law go over there and read her face—see if she’s surprised by the news. Call the judge, too. Anyone else you can think of, Alex?”

  “There was another psychologist involved in the case. Dr. Lawrence Daschoff. Lives in Brentwood. Office in Santa Monica.” I knew Larry’s office number by heart and gave it to them.

  “What about Moody’s own lawyer?” asked Del. “If the joker thought his case had been botched he might lash out, right?”

  “True. The guy’s name is Durkin. Emil or Elton or something like that.”

  A grimace of recognition crossed the black detective’s face.

  “Elridge,” he growled. “Fucker represented my ex-wife. Cleaned me out.”

  “Well, then,” laughed Milo, “you can have the pleasure of interviewing him. Or consoling his widow.”

  Hardy grumbled, closed his pad, and went into the kitchen and left to make the calls.

  A crime scene tech beckoned from the door and Milo patted my shoulder and went out to talk to him. He returned in a few minutes.

  “They found tire tracks,” he said. “Fat ones, like on a hot rod. Ring any bells?”

  “Moody drove a truck.”

  “They already looked at his wheels. No match.”

  “Nothing else comes to mind.”

  “There were six more gas cans in the truck, which supports the hit list theory. But it also doesn’t make sense. He was going to use three cans here. Let’s assume that he planned this out as some kind of structured revenge ritual, three cans per victim. Given a minimum of five victims—you, the other shrink, both lawyers, and the judge, that adds up to fifteen cans. Six left means nine used. Not counting you, that makes two prior attempts. If he planned on torching the family home, make it twelve and three possible priors. Even if the numbers are wrong it’s unlikely you were singled out for more gas than anyone else. Which means you probably weren’t his first stop. Why would the shooter follow him around town, watch him set two or three fires, risk being seen, and wait until the third to do the job?”

  I puzzled over that.

  “Only thing I can think of,” I said, “is this is a pretty secluded area. Lots of big trees, easy for a sniper to hide.”

  “Maybe,” he said skeptically. “We’ll pursue the tire angle. The Hot Rod Killer. Catchy.”

  He chewed on a hangnail, looked at me gravely.

  “Got any enemies I don’t know about, pal?”

  My stomach lurched. He’d put into words what had been fulminating in my mind. That I was the intended victim...

  “Just the Casa de Los Ninos guys, and they’re behind bars. No one on the streets that I know of.”

  “Way the system runs you never know whether they’re on the streets or not. We’ll run parole checks on all of them. Which’ll be in my best interests, too.”

  He sipped coffee and leaned forward.

  “I don’t want to raise your anxiety level, Alex, but there’s something we should deal with. Remember when you called me about the rat and I asked you to describe Moody? You told me you and he were almost exactly the same size and coloring.”

  I nodded numbly.

  “You’ve been in the house all day, sick in bed. Someone arriving after dark wouldn’t have known that. From a distance, the mistake would be easy to make.”

  He waited a moment before continuing.

  “It’s not pretty to think about, but we’ve got to consider it,” he said, almost apologetically. “In my gut I don’t think the Casa thing’ll pan out. What about the jokers you’ve run into on the Swope case?”

  I thought of the people I’d encountered during the last couple of days. Valcroix. Matthias and the Touchers. Houten—did the sheriff’s El Camino have fat tires? Maimon. Bragdon. Carmichael. Rambo. Even Beverly and Raoul. None seemed remotely likely as suspects and I told Milo so.

  “Of all of them, I like that asshole Canadian the best,” he said. “Guy’s a Class A bad actor.”

  “I don’t see it, Milo. He resented being interrogated and could have held that against me. But resentment isn’t hatred and whoever fired those shots did it out of blood lust.”

  “You told me he was a heavy doper, Alex. They’ve been known to get paranoid.”

  I thought of what Beverly had said about Valcroix’s increasingly strange behavior and repeated it to Milo.

  “There you go,” he said. “Cokehead madness.”

  “I guess it’s possible, but it still doesn’t feel right. I wasn’t that important to him. Anyway, he seems more of an escapist, someone who’d retreat rather than act out. The peace-love-Woodstock type.”

  “So were the Manson family. What kind of car does he drive?”

  “No idea.”

  “We’ll run it through D.M.V., then pick the guy up for questioning. Talk to the others, too. Hopefully the whole thing will boil down to Moody. When you get down to it he sounds like an easy one to hate.”

  He stood and stretched.

  “Thanks for everything, Milo.”

  He waved it off. “Haven’t done a damn thing so don’t thank me yet. And I probably won’t be able to handle it myself. Gotta travel.”

  “Where to?”

  “Washington, D.C. On the rape-murder. The Saudis have one of those slick public relations firms on retainer. Been putting millions into commercials showing they’re just plain folks. Prince Stinky’s exploits could make them look like the enemy again. So there’s been pressure from the top to let him slink out of town to avoid a trail and all the publicity. The department won’t let go of this one cause the crimes were too damned ugly. But the Arabs keep pushing and the politicos have to do a bit of symbolic brownnosing.”

  He shook his head in disgust.

  “Other day a couple of gray suits from the State Department came down and took Del and me out to lunch. Three martinis and haute cuisine at the taxpayer’s expense, followed by congenial chitchat about the energy crisis. I let them talk, then I shoved a bunch of pictures of the girl Stinky killed right in front of them. Foreign Service types must have delicate constitutions. They almost heaved right into the coq au vin. That afternoon I got volunteered to fly to D.C. and discuss it further.”

  “That’ll be something to see,” I said. “You and a room full of bureaucrats. When are you leaving?”

  “Don’t know. I’m on call. Could be tomorrow or the day after. Going first class for the first time in my deprived life.”

  He looked at me with concern.

  “At least Moody’
s out of the way.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “I wish it could have happened another way.” I thought of April and Ricky, what this would do to them. If Conley turned out to have been the one who blew away their father, the tragedy would be compounded. The entire case had a raw, primal stink that foreshadowed tragic endings for generations to come.

  Hardy came back from the kitchen and gave his report.

  “Coulda been worse than it was. Half of Durkin’s house is up in smoke. He and his wife suffered second-degree burns and some smoke inhalation but they’re gonna live. Worthy had smoke alarms and caught it in time. He lives in the Palisades, big property with lots of trees. Couple of ’em burned down.”

  Which meant plenty of hiding places. Milo glanced at me meaningfully. Hardy kept on talking.

  “The judge’s and Daschoff’s places haven’t been touched so the cans in the car were probably meant for them. I sent uniforms to check out all of their offices.”

  Richard Moody had ended his tormented life in a blaze of twisted passion.

  Milo whistled and told Hardy the Delaware-as-victim scenario. Hardy found merit to it, which did nothing to improve my state of mind.

  They thanked me for the coffee and stood. Hardy left the house and Milo lingered behind.

  “You can stay here if you want,” he said, “because most of the forensic work will go on outside. But if you want to go somewhere else, that’s okay, too.” It was intended more as advice than the granting of permission.

  The glen was filled with blinking lights, footsteps, and muted human conversation. Safe, for now. But the police wouldn’t be there forever.

  “I’ll move out for a couple of days.”

  “If you wanna stay at my place, the offer’s still open. Rick’ll be on call next couple days, it’ll be quiet.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Thanks, but I really want to be alone.”

  He said he understood, drained his coffee mug, and came closer.

  “I see that gleam in your eyes and it worries me, pal.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So far. I’d like to see it stay that way.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Milo. Really.”

  “It’s the kid, isn’t it? You haven’t let go of it.”

  I was silent.

  “Look, Alex, if what happened tonight has anything to do with the Swopes, that’s all the more reason for you to stay out of it. I’m not saying cut off your feelings, just cover your ass.”

  He touched my bad jaw gently. “Last time you were lucky. Don’t push it.”

  I packed an overnight bag and drove around awhile before deciding on the Bel-Air Hotel as a good place to recuperate. And hide. It was just minutes away, quiet and secluded behind high stucco walls and towering subtropical shrubbery. The ambience— pink exterior, forest green interiors, swaying coconut palms, and a pond in which flamingos floated—had always reminded me of the old mythical Hollywood—romance, sweet fantasy, and happy endings. All of which seemed in short supply.

  I headed west on Sunset, turned north at Stone Canyon Road, and drove past immense gated estates until coming to the hotel’s entrance. No one was parking cars at one forty in the morning; I slipped the Seville between a Lamborghini and a Maserati and left it looking like a dowager escorted by two gigolos.

  The night clerk was a brooding Swede who didn’t look up when I paid in advance with cash and registered as Carl Jung. Then I noticed he’d recorded it as Karl Young.

  A tired-looking bellman took me to a bungalow overlooking a pool, which was lit up like an aquamarine. The room was understated and comfortable, with a big soft bed and heavy dark forties furniture.

  I slid my body between cool sheets and remembered the last time I’d been there: the previous July, on Robin’s twenty-eighth birthday. We’d heard the philharmonic do Mozart at the Music Center and followed the concert with a late supper at the Bel-Air.

  The dining room had been dark and quiet, our booth private and next to a picture window. Between the oysters and the veal a stately older woman in a formal gown had glided regally across the palm court.

  “Alex,” Robin had whispered, “look—no it couldn’t be...”

  But it was. Bette Davis. We couldn’t have custom-ordered it.

  Thinking of that perfect night helped keep the ghastliness of this quite imperfect one at bay.

  * * *

  I slept until eleven, dialed room service and ordered fresh raspberries, an herb omelette, bran muffins, and coffee. The food came on china and silver and was superb. I chased images of death from my mind and ate heartily. Soon, I started to feel like a human being again.

  I slept some more, woke, and called West L.A. Division at two. Milo had flown to Washington so I checked in with Del Hardy. He informed me that Conley was out as a suspect. While Moody was being blown apart, he’d been on location in Saugus for a night shoot on a new TV series. I took the news with equanimity, never having seen him as a calculating killer. Besides, I’d already convinced myself I was the sniper’s intended victim. Accepting the role didn’t make for tranquillity but at least I’d be vigilant.

  I went for a swim at four, more for exercise than pleasure, returned to my room, and called for the evening paper and a Grolsch. The flu seemed to have surrendered. I sank into an armchair to read and drink.

  The news of Valcroix’s death was a two-inch filler piece on page twenty-eight entitled DOCTOR LOSES LIFE IN AUTO CRASH. From it I learned the genre, if not the make, of the car the Canadian had driven (“foreign compact”) before crashing it into an abutment near the Wilmington harbor. He’d been pronounced dead at the scene and relatives in Montreal had been notified.

  Wilmington is midway between L.A. and San Diego if you take the coastal route, a drab section of warehouses and shipyards. I wondered what he’d been doing there and which direction he’d been headed before the collision. He’d visited La Vista before. Was he returning from there when he crashed?

  I thought of his boasts to Beverly about having an ace up his sleeve with regard to the Swopes. More questions reverberated relentlessly: was the crash an accident, the result of drug-numbed reflexes, or had he tried to play that ace and lost his life in the process? And what was the secret he’d considered his salvation? Could it solve the murder of the Swopes? Or help locate their children?

  I turned it over, again and again, until my head hurt, sitting tensely on the edge of the chair, groping haphazardly like a blind man in a maze.

  It wasn’t until I realized what was missing that I was able to focus on what had to be done. Had I looked at it clinically, as a psychologist, clarity of purpose might have come sooner.

  I’d been trained in the art of psychotherapy, the excavation of the past as a means of untangling the present and rendering it livable. It’s detective work of sorts, crouching stealthily in the blind alleys of the unconscious. And it begins with the taking of a careful and detailed history.

  Four people had perished unnaturally. If their deaths seemed a jumble of unrelated horrors, I knew it was because such a history was missing. Because insufficient respect had been paid to the past.

  That had to be remedied. It was more than an academic exercise. There were lives at stake.

  I refused to compute the odds on the Swope children being alive. For the time being, it was sufficient that they were greater than zero. I thought, for the hundredth time, of the boy in the plastic room, helpless, dependent, potentially curable but harboring an internal time bomb... He had to be found or he’d die in pain.

  Seized with anger at my helplessness, I shifted from altruism to self-preservation. Milo had urged me to be careful but sitting still could be the most dangerous act of all.

  Someone had hunted me. The news of my survival would eventually emerge. The hunter would return to claim his prey, taking his time so as to do it right. I wouldn’t, couldn’t play that waiting game, living like a man on death row.

  There was work to be done
. Exploration. Exhumation.

  The compass pointed south.

  19

  TO TRUST someone is to take the greatest risk of all. Without trust nothing ever happens.

  The issue, at this juncture, wasn’t whether or not to take the risk. It was who could be trusted.

  There was Del Hardy of course, but I didn’t see him, or the police in general, as being much help. They were professionals who dealt with facts. All I had to offer were vague suspicions and intuitive dread. Hardy would hear me out politely, thank me for my input, tell me not to worry, and that would be it.