Motive

by Jonathan Kellerman

“But nothing addictive,” said Clara DiMargio.

  Her husband humphed. She withdrew her hand. “I’m not saying she was blameless. There was some drinking, some marijuana. But nothing serious and until then she’d never done anything even naughty. Just the opposite, she was our little Goody Two-shoes, refused to even taste mulled wine at Christmas.”

  Bill DiMargio said, “If only that had lasted.”

  “She did not have a drug problem,” said Clara.

  “You say so.”

  “I do. You know I’m right, Bill.”

  “Probably,” he conceded. “Though there were times she looked like it was more than just wine and reefers.”

  “Say what you want,” said his wife between clenched jaws. “She was never addicted to anything. Everyone told us that.”

  I said, “Everyone meaning—”

  “School counselors,” she said. “She tested with learning problems but never once, not ever, was there even the slightest suspicion of addiction to anything.” Glaring at her husband.

  He muttered, “Must be true, they’re the experts.”

  Clara said, “Which isn’t to say whatever she was doing was acceptable. Frankie’s grades suffered. She was never the greatest student but up until eighth grade she’d managed to pass everything. After the change, she began failing.”

  “Once it started, banzai,” said Bill. Forming a wing with one hand, he dive-bombed sharply.

  Clara said, “We had her tested several times, she’s at least average, above average in some things. Like creative thinking, she was definitely creative. School was even harder for her because her sister and her brother had found it easy. Classes and the social things.”

  Bill said, “That’s for sure, Tracy could party in her sleep.”

  “Tracy’s our older daughter,” said Clara. “She’s extremely social. Works as a party planner.”

  “Bill Junior’s an accountant,” said her husband. “Smart as a whip.”

  “Do they live in L.A.?” I said.

  Clara said, “Tracy lives outside of Chicago, Bill Junior’s firm is in Phoenix.”

  “Raking in the big bucks,” said Bill. “He was the easiest one to raise.”

  “Thank God everyone’s doing well,” said Clara. “Including Frankie, she really had pulled things together.” The unspoken word: finally.

  I said, “When’s the last time you saw Frankie?”

  Long silence.

  Bill said, “We really didn’t see her. Not since … maybe four months. She came by to get some cash.”

  “Cash for …”

  “Living. That’s on top of we’re already paying her rent.”

  Clara said, “Not all of it.”

  “Most of it,” he said. “Never even saw the place. She didn’t want us to.”

  Clara said, “I saw it.”

  “Once. Before she moved in. It’s not like we pay the rent and get to be entertained the way Tracy and Bill entertain us when we visit.”

  “Everyone’s different. Frankie needed to live her own life.”

  Bill grunted.

  “She was painfully shy,” Clara persisted. “Social things were so hard for her.”

  I said, “Did she have any friends after high school?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Any idea who they are?”

  “People at work, I’d imagine.”

  “Losers,” said Bill. “Nutcases. You want who did this, look there. A loony or some ghetto lowlife.”

  I said, “Did she report any problems at work? With anyone?”

  “Never,” said Clara.

  “Like she’d tell us?” said Bill.

  Clara sprang up and ran out. This time she didn’t return.

  We sat there with Bill but something in the air had changed and every subsequent question evoked a slow, weary shake of his head. As we turned to leave, he remained seated.

  Milo said, “Thank you, Mr. DiMargio.”

  “For what? All I did was fucking cry. And now she’s pissed off.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  Bill DeMargio didn’t look at us as we left his house.

  Outside, Milo said, “Poor people. Not exactly a model family, huh?”

  I said, “Does that exist?”

  “Good point. You see or hear anything relevant?”

  I said, “I heard confirmation of my guess last night. Frankie’s shyness could’ve led her to trust the wrong person.”

  “Doesn’t shyness usually make you suspicious? My mother always talked about her middle sister, my aunt Edna, being afraid of her own shadow as a kid. When I knew her, she was a scary crone who rarely left her house, hated the Masons and the Baptists and kept a shotgun propped by her bed.”

  “That sounds like more than shyness.”

  “Probably. You don’t want to know about most of my relatives.” He laughed. “Model families.”

  We got in the car. I said, “Shyness isn’t a single trait, anyway. There are people who just enjoy solitary pursuits. Without them, there’d be precious little music, art, or literature, not to mention higher math. Others withdraw because they’re anxious about being judged. Some of that’s probably hardwired at birth—babies who startle easily are more prone to be introverts. But that doesn’t imply pathology, just human variety. Plenty of introverts are perfectly happy to be that way. But in Frankie’s case, it sounds more problematic. Poor social skills and trouble reading people can create a confusing world. When your head’s filled with static, you can lose your balance. A predator able to overcome her resistance would score an easy target.”

  “He’d have a good victim, too,” he said. “No problem leaving behind physical evidence.”

  “The time it took to find the body.”

  He nodded. “Parents live minutes away but she shut them out and ends up lying there, undiscovered for at least a week. Pathetic.”

  “She was the family outcast,” I said. “Her sibs are more conventional and outwardly successful. The fridge is plastered with a lot of photos. Everyone but Frankie.”

  He looked at me. “That’s why you got the water?”

  “No, I got it because they needed it. Seeing the fridge was an added benefit.”

  “Reward of virtue … you really see Frankie succumbing to someone like Fellinger?”

  “Would you imagine Kathy Hennepin dating Kleffer? There’s no way to know which key fits which lock until you try a bunch out. I’m sure Fellinger gets out of his suit once in a while.”

  “What, he comes into the bookstore wearing a concert T-shirt and jeans with calculated holes, buys something weird, and Frankie falls in love?”

  “More like she sank slowly into love. He’d take his time, dropping in repeatedly, browsing, ignoring her. All the while, he’s scoping her out until the time comes to begin worming his way into her life. Probably by claiming some sort of mutual interest.”

  “The Joy of Two-Headed Embryos.”

  “That would work. So might the fact that he’s older—substituting for a father who disapproves of her.”

  “Yeah, Bill’s no peach.”

  I pulled away from the curb. “Something else just occurred to me: her landlords and her parents.”

  His eyes widened. “They’re alike.”

  “From what we’ve seen they are. Grumpy Dad, softer Mom, lots of obvious discord. Frankie managed to find lodgings that replicated her home life. Probably unconsciously. That tells me she had a giant hole in her soul.”

  “Big-time rebel when all she needed was a cuddle?”

  “Pretending to reinvent herself but wanting the comfort of the familiar,” I said. “Poor kid, life’s been tough for her.”

  “And now it’s ended. Her parents couldn’t tell me much. Think it’s worth talking to her brother and sister?”

  “Definitely.”

  A mile later, he said: “Okay, Kathy and Frankie were shy and Deirdre Brand got on his nerves. But I don’t see Ursula fitting in. Just the opposite, she sound
s like a social superstar.”

  “But she met Fellinger during a particularly stressful period and grew dependent on him. The fact that she came back to him after the divorce settled—to tweak her will—says the dependency was durable. I agree, her murder stands out: She wasn’t taken at home, there was no blitz-attack, and the dinner scene wasn’t set up until later. But that could just be practicality on the part of a smart killer. And for all we know, despite sleeping with Fellinger, Ursula kept him at arm’s length, never invited him into her home. So he took her on his own territory. But when you get down to it, she was hunted and bagged, just like the others.”

  “He handles her divorce and decides to kill her.”

  “Maybe she pulled away sexually and he doesn’t take well to rejection.”

  “Bang, bon appétit,” he said. “Moving up to a designer kitchen.”

  “But the message remains the same: I run the show.”

  “He took his time setting up Ursula’s scene, careful to make sure no one would be home. He’s able to delay gratification.”

  “I hate that in a criminal. Okay, time to drop in at the bookstore where Frankie worked. If Fellinger was a regular, someone’s gotta know.”

  “I was figuring the same thing, Big Guy.”

  “Great minds,” he said. “Or we’re both rowing in circles.”

  He said he’d need his car later so I dropped him at the station and we continued separately. The address he gave me was on Sunset Boulevard east of Hollywood, the initial fringes of Silverlake. At this time of day, a forty-five-minute drive, minimum, which gave me plenty of time to think about what I hadn’t told him.

  A killer icing the cake by misleading the cops.

  My thoughts about that had solidified because each of the murders had been ripe with misdirection.

  Katherine Hennepin set up as a textbook crime of passion and lust committed by an intimate.

  Ursula Corey set up as a textbook professional execution.

  Deirdre Brand, the “obvious” victim of an unfortunate lifestyle.

  And now, Frankie DiMargio, perhaps the most vulnerable of all of them. A victim who’d made textbook easy.

  Unconventional woman left to decay in a room full of oddities, the obvious assumption, something related to a strange, possibly dark lifestyle.

  Meaning the real reason was anything but?

  Meaning the visit to the bookstore might very well dead-end.

  My tendency to put a positive spin on life was a perpetual source of amusement to Milo.

  There you go again, doing that optimistic thing.

  I doubt he knows that it’s learned behavior, not instinct. Growing up with a chronically depressed mother and a violent boozehound father, you figure out a survival strategy or you perish.

  Friendship’s a fine thing but in the end we all walk alone.

  Milo’s my best friend. No reason to disillusion him.

  This time, he arrived first, unmarked parked in a loading zone but no sign of him.

  Even Odd was a brick-faced storefront with a black-painted window. Carelessly applied orange paint rimmed the glass. Every day, Halloween.

  I went in, found Milo talking to a heavyset woman around thirty wearing—big surprise—all black. Her butt-length hair was dyed to match, ironed straight in spots, looped and plaited in others. The skin of her arms and what I could see of her upper chest was more ink than clear space. A blue-dot tattoo centered her chin and her eyebrows were pierced by a row of what looked like ordinary office staples.

  The crowning touch was a nose-ring hefty enough to restrain a bull: a circle of oxidized iron assaulting the cartilage of her lower septum and grazing the top of black-glossed lips. Sneezing couldn’t be fun; I hoped she wasn’t prone to hay fever.

  The obvious metaphor was someone willing to be led around by the nose. Her body language said otherwise, reminding me why I’d grown allergic to quick assumptions.

  The DeMargios had described the place as a bookstore but no books in sight. No taxidermy, either, just tables of CDs labeled as Aunti-Q Sounds and carousels crammed with vintage clothing. Emphasis on gauze, camouflage, and what looked to be fake leather.

  Milo was saying, “We know Frankie DiMargio works here.”

  The woman had ignored my arrival, paid no mind as I stepped next to him. Staring directly into his eyes. Placid. Mute.

  He said, “It’s not a trick question, honestly. Does she work here or not?”

  The woman said, “Maybe no trick, but it’s a question.” Deep voice, borderline masculine.

  “Is that a problem?”

  She smiled. Her outfit was a frayed lace top over a crepe A-line skirt. The skirt’s waist was set high, emphasizing melon-breasts.

  Milo said, “C’mon, yes or no. Please.” Straining as he tagged on the nicety. Fighting to keep his voice even.

  The woman cocked a hip and looked away.

  Milo said, “This is important—”

  “Yes, it is,” said the woman. “She comes in but I wouldn’t call it work.” Rotating back toward us.

  “Okay.” Lowering his voice the way he does when he’s really fighting anger. “Could you please clarify that?”

  “I give her things to do because she said she wanted to help. It’s not an official job.”

  “You’re doing her a favor,” he said. “Does she get paid?”

  “Minimum wage.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Thank you. When did you first meet her?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What?”

  The woman said, “Meeting is a formal rite, preceded by introduction. She just walked in and said, ‘I could do things around here.’ I’m essentially lazy so I said okay.”

  “You own the store.”

  “No.”

  “Who does?”

  “Koichi.”

  “Koichi who?”

  “Koichi Takahashi.”

  “Where can I find him or her?”

  “You can find him in Tokyo.”

  “Absentee owner.”

  “Quite.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Just fine.”

  “I mean—”

  She smiled. “I’m funnin’ with you, John Wayne. How does it work? He wanted a store to help his collection, has a rich father who bought the entire block.”

  “What does Mr. Takahashi collect?”

  “Italian American vocalist CDs.”

  “Frank Sinatra.”

  “Obviously,” she said. “Also Dean Martin, Perry Como, Lou Monte, Jerry Vale, Vic Damone.”

  “A guy sets up a store so he can snag the best stuff?”

  Reaching beneath the counter, she brought out a magazine. Peacock blue Japanese characters blazed above a color photo of a young, long-haired man surrounded by walls of compact discs displayed face-out, like paintings. The man’s hair was dyed turquoise. His smile spelled enchantment.

  The woman groped a bit and showed us something else. CD, still sealed in factory plastic. Sinatra’s face. Nothing But the Best.

  The woman said, “I’m sending him this tomorrow. He’s got fourteen hundred and thirty-seven other copies.”

  Milo said, “Quantity and quality.”

  “The road to happiness.”

  “Unfortunately, Frankie DiMargio’s not happy. She’s not anything unless you include dead.”

  The woman’s smile flickered out. She braced herself on the counter. “You didn’t say that.”

  Milo said, “Now I have. Let’s start again.”

  Act II: Strange conversation.

  “You hired Frankie DiMargio.”

  “I’m not trying to be a pain, but I can’t really call it that.”

  “Hiring’s a formal arrangement.”

  “She came and went as she pleased.” A beat. “What happened to her?”

  Milo said, “Someone ended her life and my job is to find out who.”

  “I hope you succeed.” Sounding like she meant it. “Do you beli
eve in capital punishment? I do. Why should we pay to keep them alive? Maybe you can catch him and torture and kill him so we don’t have to waste taxpayer money.”

  Milo studied her.

  She said, “I have my opinions.”

  “Let’s get back to Frankie. How many hours a week did she spend here?”

  “Ten, fifteen tops. I can’t tell you anything about what she did because when she came, I left. She was my excuse to get out of here.”

  “Any predictability to her schedule?”

  She gave that some thought. “She usually came in later. Four, five, six.”

  “When do you close?”

  “When I feel like it.”

  “Did you leave her to close up?”

  “It’s not a big deal, the door self-locks, you just leave.”

  “So she was here by herself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Any idea where she was when she wasn’t working?”

  “Not a one.”

  “You two never hung out.”

  “I don’t hang out,” she said.

  “With anyone?”

  “With anyone.”

  “How about Frankie’s friends? You ever see any?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever mention annoying customers? Someone who bothered her?”

  “She never said anything. We never talked because the minute she showed up, I bailed.”

  Milo waited.

  “I’m telling you the truth, Mr. Detective. I want you to catch him and torture him.”

  “Okay, thanks for your time. What’s your name?”

  “Bekka, two k’s.”

  “Bekka what?”

  “Bekka Mankell, two l’s.” She licked black lips, allowed her tongue to linger. The tip had been forked surgically. “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” said Milo.

  “How was she—what was done to her?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “You don’t have a body?”

  “We have one but it had been lying there for a while.”

  “Oh.” Black lips folded inward.

  “That kind of thing,” said Milo, “time of death is tough to determine. When’s the last time you saw her?”

  Bekka Mankell said, “Hmm … has to be a week.”

  “Her being gone didn’t alarm you because it wasn’t a real job.”

  “I don’t even have a phone number for her.”