The Wedding Guest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Milo was just starting to turn away from Amanda when Nobach planted his feet wide and swung Sean toward the waist-high glass barrier.

  Sean’s gun clattered to the floor as he fought to resist. Nobach’s rage won out and Sean’s upper body tilted over the glass.

  I dove forward, taking hold of Sean’s shirt and pulling him back. Nobach struck out at my face with one hand, missed as he tried to push Sean over with the other.

  For less than a second, Nobach and I played tug-of-war with Sean’s body. Then he said, “Fuck this,” let go, and swung at me.

  What could’ve been a bone-crusher grazed my right cheek as I feinted to the left and concentrated on pulling Sean to safety.

  Sean, gasping, saw his gun on the floor and went for it.

  Milo moved on Nobach.

  Nobach weighed his options.

  I shouted, “ABD pretentious asshole.”

  Nobach’s eyes went blank. He round-housed his fist toward me. I stood there as if ready to take it, then moved to the left just before he reached me.

  Forward inertia murdered his balance. Staggering, fighting for stability, he tried to plant his feet but got caught up in the puddling hem of his caftan.

  He kicked at the cloth violently.

  Tripped and pitched forward.

  Long-legged and high-waisted. The wrong center of gravity when you were fighting a thirty-two-inch railing.

  Arms aloft, mouth a black O, he went over.

  Binchy watched him, saucer-eyed. I rubbed my left cheek. Heating up and swelling. Maybe more than a graze but nothing felt broken.

  Stirring from the chaise drew me away from the pain. A series of gurgles, coughs, and mewls as Amanda Burdette came to.

  Milo said, “There you go, kid,” and lightly slapped her face.

  She looked up at him, groggily.

  “You’re okay, kid.”

  Cloudy eyes flinched, shut, opened.

  It took a few moments for anything close to lucidity to appear.

  “There you go, kid,” said Milo.

  “Go away,” she said. “I don’t like people.”

  CHAPTER

  48

  Even a high-end building needs somewhere to put garbage. The pink tower’s refuse-storage facility consisted of eight industrial dumpsters tucked into a caged square at the rear of the structure.

  Directly below the south-facing units, but no reason to look down when up was so beautiful.

  Thurston Nobach landed atop the left-most bin.

  Postmortem photos didn’t reveal much in the way of humanity. More like a clotted stain, which Milo termed “Beyond apropos.”

  Once Nobach’s parents were notified of his death, they reacted the way people used to getting their way do: mustering a battalion of lawyers to draft a demand letter, ordering immediate release of all information and material related to the cruel, callous, negligent police behavior leading to the death of an innocent young man in the privacy of his own home. Page two announced intention to file criminal charges against the perpetrators of said behavior, to be named. The final page tacked on a civil suit for damages related to…

  Multiple copies were couriered simultaneously to the mayor, the D.A., several state and federal legislators, the local office of the FBI, and the city councilwoman and county supervisor whose districts encompassed the Wilshire Corridor.

  That died quickly when the lawyers had a look at the contents of evidence obtained at Thirsty Nobach’s condo and a unit in the building he “managed.”

  Radio silence. New goal: damage control.

  * * *

  —

  Futile goal. Six hours after Nobach went over the glass, Maxine Driver called me at home. I was in the kitchen, ice pack pushed to my face, Robin and Blanche trying not to look upset.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I got caught up in convention nonsense—serving on an inane committee but you know how it is. Anyway, the serendipity I mentioned was a historian from Emory on the same committee—maybe kismet, huh? Turns out his much younger wife was here as an R.A. and she interviewed to be an advisor for that program. She didn’t get it, Alex, but she knows who did—”

  “Thurston Nobach.”

  Silence. “You got there without me.”

  “No big deal, Maxine.”

  “We’re still pals?”

  “You bet.”

  “When the time’s right you’ll tell me the story?”

  “Got a few minutes right now?”

  * * *

  —

  With Maxine in the loop, everyone on campus knew by morning. By noon the following day, lurid details, some of them true, quite a bit not, spread to social media.

  As Thurston Nobach became the fiend of the moment, the people who’d created him withdrew from public life.

  No attempt to achieve accuracy. That’s the way it is, nowadays: facts, lies, the stuff in between.

  CHAPTER

  49

  I got to read the material soon after Milo.

  LAPD Document 18-4326-187D: Materials seized from two units at Academo-Strathmore Student Residences, Westwood Village.

  Unit C-418

  1. One socket wrench yielding blood, hair, and cranial bone matching that of assault victim Sandra Burdette, the handle additionally yielding latent fingerprints consistent with those of suspect T. Nobach.

  2. Additional latent fingerprints consistent with those of suspect T. Nobach on the edge of a dresser and a bathroom counter in Unit C-418, the latter admixed with blood from victim Burdette.

  A. Supplementary data: eyewitness identification of suspect T. Nobach by victim Burdette as the man who assaulted her from behind when she attempted to leave an argument she’d had regarding his relationship with her daughter, attempted homicide victim Amanda Burdette.

  B. Related supplementary data obtained at 12345 Wilshire Boulevard, Unit 24, PH1, former primary residence of suspect T. Nobach: latent fingerprints from a used hypodermic syringe containing traces of heroin and fentanyl matching Suspect T. Nobach’s fingerprints and found near the unconscious form of attempted homicide victim A. Burdette, subsequently revived by LAPD Lieutenant Detective Milo Bernard Sturgis.

  Unit B-425

  Two glassine envelopes containing heroin laced with fentanyl. The proportion of fentanyl consistent with that found in the system of homicide victims Susan Koster and Michael Lotz and attempted homicide victim Amanda Burdette.

  Three glassine envelopes containing powdered cocaine.

  A bottle containing five benzodiazepam tablets, the label authorizing prescription of 50 tablets issued to Michael Lotz, prescribing physician Manuel Licht, M.D., The East Venice Community Clinic.

  An acoustic guitar labeled King-Tone internally, manufactured seven years ago in South Korea. Five of six metal strings intact, the A-string missing and consistent with a ligature used in the homicide of victim Susan Koster.

  One roll of 200 adhesive-backed decal-type stickers with the word “Thirsty” printed in black ink. Match to similar decals found on twelve textbooks belonging to attempted homicide victim A. Burdette.

  Four color photographs of what appears to be a young deceased white female, subsequently identified as Cassandra Booker, manner of death previously registered as undetermined and subsequently altered to homicide. The images placed in an envelope embossed with suspect Nobach’s name on the flap, along with a page of handwritten doggerel credited to suspect Nobach by himself, the cursive writing subsequently matched to samples from suspect Nobach’s checkbook. The young pass quickly. But never slickly. Dully naïve, they take their leave. Leaving no mark but a tiny little prick-ly.

  Four color photographs of what appears to be a middle-aged, deceased white male, subsequently identified as homicide victim Michael Lot
z. Similar envelope to Booker, another page of doggerel. He lives in a hole, the humanoid mole. No more than a prole, a step above the dole. Was there even a soul?

  Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, subsequently identified as homicide victim Susan Koster. Similar envelope to Booker and Lotz. More extensive doggerel.

  Ooh, the shape. The curves, the swoops. The nape. She swings she prances. Pretends she dances. Playing a role. Riding the pole. Ceding her hole. Without resistance. Though there was assistance! Ah, the allure of the page. Believing she was sage. Not filth in a cage.

  Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, thin, long blond hair, as yet unidentified. Placed in an unmarked envelope along with a postcard depicting the Honolulu Hilton, Oahu, Hawaii.

  Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, thin, short brunette hair, as yet unidentified. Placed in an unmarked envelope along with a postcard depicting the Lord Byron Hotel, Rome, Italy.

  I finished reading, poured myself a double Chivas, sat back, and thought.

  For all the probative value of the drugs, the prints, the guitar, and the bad verse, the piece of evidence I found most interesting had never made it to the murder book.

  A collection of correspondence, including room measurement charts and bills of sale, exchanged over a two-year period between “Dr. Thurston Nobach, Esq.,” and Smythe-Sheetley Booksellers, 65 Cambria Lane, London SW2V 5PS.

  The company’s motto:

  DECORATIVE, VINTAGE VOLUMES PURVEYED BY THE METRE.

  CHAPTER

  50

  Within ten days, the swelling that had ballooned my left cheek subsided. Three days after that, I got a call from Brearely Burdette.

  “I heard you got socked in the jaw, Dr. Delaware. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. How’s everyone doing?”

  “Sandy’s still in the hospital. She’s got three skull fractures and will probably have headaches for a while but they say she’ll be basically okay. They think. Amanda…you know, she’s Amanda. Will told me he asked you to treat her but you said you couldn’t and referred her to another therapist. That was probably a good idea. I wouldn’t want her for a patient.”

  No sense getting into ethics. I said, “That’s true.” I’d just heard from the psychologist I recommended, Michelle Tessler. (“Obviously not a short-termer, Alex. At least she’s honest. You might say to a fault, but that beats digging through layers of bullshit.”)

  “Anyway,” said Brearely, “I’m glad you’re okay and I’m calling to invite you to lunch with me and Garrett. To express our thanks.”

  “That’s lovely but unnecessary.”

  “That’s exactly what Lieutenant Sturgis said—though he said ‘kind’ not ‘lovely.’ But I convinced him and he convinced Detective Binchy. So I said he should convince you, too, but he said you’re your own person, he’s got no influence.”

  “You’re meeting with them?”

  She laughed. “Not a meeting, we’re having lunch with them and we’d really like you to be there.”

  I hesitated.

  “Puh-leeze, Dr. Delaware? It would mean so so much.”

  “When and where, Brearely?”

  “Tomorrow, The Shack in Malibu. Do you know it?”

  “I do.”

  “Great! One o’clock, I hope that’s not too short notice, if it is we’ll change it.”

  I checked my calendar. “It’s fine.”

  “Awesome. I knew I could pull it off!”

  * * *

  —

  Gorgeous day in Malibu. When isn’t it? Excepting fires, sewage leaks, fatal accidents, and other human assaults on Divine Intention.

  The Shack was twenty-eight miles north of Sunset on the land side of PCH. I’d passed it but had never been there.

  A quick turn off the highway took the Seville up a dirt mound to a clearing. Weathered redwood picnic tables were scattered in front of a white clapboard former bait stand.

  I’d gotten stuck in a traffic snarl just south of the Colony—from the length of the SUV motorcade, a politician coming to rattle a tin cup at celebrities—and by the time I arrived Milo had finished two of four cardboard containers of fried shrimp, each with a side of curly fries. Sean sat next to him, working on an oversized soft-tortilla mahi-mahi taco.

  Facing them sat the newlyweds, holding hands behind paper plates of barely touched grilled snapper and steamed vegetables. Overdressed for the setting: Garrett, still stubble-bearded, in a vanilla-colored linen suit and a black T-shirt, the woman once known as Baby in a flowing red silk dress that exposed just a hint of cleavage.

  The red was a couple of tones deeper than the scarlet sheath Susie Koster had worn to her death. As far as I recalled, bride and groom had never seen a full shot of her. At the most a ribbon of red at the bottom of the headshot.

  So no sense interpreting.

  On the other hand, maybe Brearely had caught enough color to start thinking. Or just feeling.

  When it came to the human urge to process horror by undoing, redoing, distorting, or simply pretending, you never knew.

  Everyone greeted me.

  Milo said, “Order at the counter.”

  Brearely said, “Oh, I’ll do that for you, Doctor. What do you want?”

  I said, “It’s fine,” and climbed to the shack. A sunburned couple in front of me took a while to decode their lunch desires before the kid behind the counter yelled, “Next!”

  I ordered a taco like Sean’s and an iced-tea. A sign said, Pay Here, so I held out cash.

  The kid shook his head. “Dude in the suit took care of it, got his plastic numbers. Fill your own drink. When the grub’s ready, someone’ll bring it to you.”

  I returned to the table with a number on a metal stand and the tea.

  “What’d you get?” said Milo, drawing carton number three near.

  I pointed to Sean’s plate.

  Sean smiled and flashed the V-sign. Not his usual everything’s-great grin; a shallow, obligatory uplift of lips. He was back on the job, doing desk work. Still talking in a rasp and wearing turtlenecks, today’s bright green.

  I sat to his left, at the short end of the table. He reached over and squeezed my hand. Held on, finally let go. Eventually, we’d talk about what happened.

  “So,” said Garrett. “We’re really glad you all agreed to come. We really want to thank you. Not that the other detectives weren’t great, but you were at…you were there when it happened.”

  Brearely said, “We had to thank you. For saving our wedding.”

  Milo and Sean and I stared at her.

  “I don’t mean literally, guys. Spiritually, that’s more important.” Touching her heart. “You did your wonderful detective work and proved it had nothing to do with us. That we didn’t do anything wrong, none of our friends did. Even though some people said we did.”

  Milo said, “Who?”

  Garrett said, “Idiot trolls on Facebook and Twitter.”

  “They trolled us because of the theme,” said Brearely. “Saints and Sinners. What did they call it, honey?”

  “They accused us of minimalizing sin, reducing it to a joke,” said Garrett. “As if trying to lighten things up was some sort of moral failing.”

  His wife looked up at him lovingly.

  I said, “That’s pretty stupid, not to mention tacky.”

  “Anonymous makes it easy,” rasped Sean.

  Milo said, “Want us to track them down and slam ’em in jail?”

  Brearely’s eyes widened.

  “He’s kidding,” said Garrett. “Right?”

  Milo said, “Well…yeah, just fooling. Sorry if it scared you, Brearely.”

  “Don’t be,” said Brearely. “You have a
right to joke. Your job, it’s so serious, I don’t know how you do it. That’s why we wanted to do something nice for you. Even though it’s just lunch. But we figured getting away from all the horrible stuff you see and coming out here would be like…healing.”

  Milo said, “I rarely pair ‘just’ with lunch.”

  Brearely said, “Huh?”

  Garrett cued her with a laugh.

  “Oh. Ha—look, here’s your food, Doctor.”

  * * *

  —

  We ate and listened, for a while, to the meld of the ocean across the highway and roaring traffic before Garrett said, “We feel as if you vindicated us. That’s helped clear our heads and allowed us to move forward and for that we’ll always be grateful. We’re also inviting you to next year. On our anniversary, we’re going to throw a party. Nothing like the wedding. Just a party. If we can afford it, maybe someplace near here, Brears loves the ocean.”

  Brearely said, “I do and my mom knows places.” She turned to her husband and cuffed his arm lightly. “I hope it’s nothing like the wedding. Just kidding.”

  Garrett gave a well-practiced smile. With luck, he’d be doing it for years. “So, if you can make it, around a year from now.”

  Brearely said, “We’ll send you all e-vites. Way before, so you can arrange. Okay?”

  Sean looked at Milo. Milo looked at me.

  I said, “Sounds like fun.”

  “Great!” said Brearely, springing up and going around the table kissing each of us on the cheek. Sean blushed. Milo worked hard not to smile.

  “So that’s it,” said Garrett, standing. “You guys eat, it’s all paid for. We weren’t really hungry, we just wanted to make sure you got good lunches.”

  Before we could thank him, he took his wife’s hand and led her down the dirt mound. The two of them kept going until they reached the shoulder of the highway, then stopped and looked both ways.