The Murder Book

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The restaurant was compact and dark, with a copper-topped bar and a half dozen tables set with white linen. The walls were raised walnut panels, the ceiling repousse tin. Inoffensive music on low volume competed with low conversation among three white-aproned waiters old enough to be my father. I couldn't help but think of the Left Bank bistro where Robin had told me of her plans.

  I buttoned my jacket and allowed my eyes to acclimate. The sole patron was a dark-haired woman at a center table peering into a glass of burgundy. She wore a form-fitted, whiskey-colored tweed jacket over a cream silk blouse, a long, oatmeal-colored skirt with a slit up the side, beige calfskin boots with substantial heels. A big leather bag sat on the chair next to her. She looked up as I approached and gave a tentative smile.

  "Dr. Gwynn? Alex Delaware."

  "Allison." She placed her bag on the floor and held out a slender white hand. We shook, and I sat.

  She was a long-stemmed beauty out of John Singer Sargent. Ivory face, soft but assertive cheekbones highlighted with blush, a wide strong mouth shaded coral. Huge, judiciously lined deep blue eyes under strong, arching brows studied me. Warm scrutiny, no intrusiveness; her patients would appreciate that. Her hair was a sheet of true black that hung midway down her back. Circling one wrist was a diamond tennis bracelet; the other sported a gold watch. Baroque pearls dotted each earlobe, and a gold link cameo necklace rested on her breastbone.

  Her hand returned to her wineglass. Good manicure, French-tipped nails left just long enough to avoid frivolousness. I knew she was thirty-six or -seven but despite the tailored clothes, the baubles, the cosmetics, she looked ten years younger.

  "Thanks for your time," I said.

  "I wasn't sure if you were a punctual person," she said, "so I ordered for myself. I only have an hour till class." Same gentle voice as over the phone. She waved, and one of the ancient waiters tore himself away from the staff confab, brought a menu, and hovered.

  "What do you recommend?" I asked.

  "The entrecôte is great. I like it rare and bloody, but they've got a pretty good selection of more virtuous stuff if you're not into red meat."

  The waiter tapped his foot. "What're you drinking, sir? We've got a good selection of microbrews." I'd expected a Gallic accent, but his drawl was pure California— surfer boy grown old— and I found myself musing about a future where grandmothers would be named Amber and Heather and Tawny and Misty.

  "Grolsch," I said. "And I'll have the entrecôte, medium rare."

  He left and Allison Gwynn smoothed already-smooth hair and twirled her wineglass. She avoided my eyes.

  "What kind of work do you do at St. Agnes?" I said.

  "You know the place."

  "I know of it."

  "Just some volunteer work," she said. "Mostly helping the staff cope. Do you still work in oncology?"

  "No, not for a while."

  She nodded. "It can be tough." She drank some wine.

  "Where do you teach?" I said.

  "The U., adult extension. This quarter I'm doing Personality Theory and Human Relations."

  "All that and a practice. Sounds like a busy schedule," I said.

  "I'm a workaholic," she said, with sudden cheer. "Hyperactivity channeled in a socially appropriate manner."

  My beer arrived. We both drank. I was about to get down to substance, when she said, "The girl you described. Would that be Caroline Cossack?"

  I put down my mug. "You knew Caroline?"

  "So it was her."

  "How did you know?"

  "From your description."

  "She stood out?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "What can you tell me about her?"

  "Not much, I'm afraid. She stood out because of how they labeled her. There was a pink tab on her chart, the only one I'd seen. And I'd seen most of the charts, was a gofer that summer, running errands, picking up and delivering files. They used a color-coding system to alert the staff if a kid had a medical problem. Yellow for juvenile diabetes, blue for asthma, that kind of thing. Caroline Cossack's tab was pink and when I asked someone what that meant, they said it was a behavioral warning. High risk for acting out. That and your saying it might be a police case helped me put it together."

  "So Caroline was high risk for violence."

  "Someone thought so, back then."

  "What specifically were they worried about?" I said.

  "I don't know. She never did anything wrong during the month I was there."

  "But she was the only one labeled like that."

  "Yes," she said. "There weren't a lot of kids, period. Maybe thirty. Back then Achievement House was exactly what it is today: a repository for rich kids who fail to perform to their parents' expectations. Chronically truant, drug-abusing, noncompliant, children of the dream."

  I thought: Take away the dream and you had Janie and Melinda.

  "But," she went on, "they were basically harmless kids. Other than the obvious sneaky doping and drinking, nothing seriously antisocial went on that I saw."

  "Harmless kids locked up," I said.

  "It wasn't that draconian," she said. "More carrot than stick. High-priced baby-sitting. They locked the doors at night, but it didn't feel like a prison."

  "What else can you tell me about Caroline?"

  "She didn't seem scary, at all. I recall her as quiet and passive. That's why the behavioral warning surprised me."

  She licked her lips, moved her wineglass aside. "That's really all I can tell you. I was a student volunteer, fresh out of high school, didn't ask questions." Her face tilted to the left. The enormous blue eyes didn't blink. "Bringing up that place is . . . not the most fun thing I've done all week. Larry told you about my experience there with Larner."

  I nodded.

  "If the same thing happened today," she said, "you can bet I'd be a lot more proactive. Probably page Gloria Allred, close that place down, and walk away with a settlement. But I'm not blaming myself for how I handled it. So . . . have you worked with the police for a while?"

  "A few years."

  "Do you find it difficult?"

  "Difficult in what way?" I said.

  "All the authoritarian personalities, for starts."

  "Mostly, I deal with one detective," I said. "He's a good friend."

  "Oh," she said. "So you find it fulfilling."

  "It can be."

  "What aspect?"

  "Trying to explain the unexplainable."

  One of her hands covered the other. Jewelry everywhere else, but no rings on her fingers. Why had I noticed that?

  I said, "If you don't mind, I have a few more questions about Caroline."

  She grinned. "Go ahead."

  "Did you have much personal contact with her?"

  "Nothing direct, but I was allowed to sit in on some therapy groups, and she was in one of them. General purpose rap session. The leader tried to draw her out, but Caroline never talked, would just stare at the floor and pretend not to hear. I could tell she was taking it in, though. When she got upset, her facial muscles twitched."

  "What upset her?"

  "Any personal probing."

  "What was she like physically?" I said.

  "All this interest twenty years later?" she said. "You can't tell me what she did?"

  "She may have done nothing," I said. "Sorry to be evasive, but this is all very preliminary." Unofficial, too. "A lot of my work is random archaeology."

  Both her hands cupped her wineglass. "No gory details? Aw shucks." She laughed, showed perfect teeth. "I'm not sure I'd really want to know, anyway. Okay, Caroline, physically . . . this is all through the perspective of my seventeen-year-old eyes. She was short, kind of mousy . . . a little chubby— unkempt. Stringy hair . . . mousy brown, she wore it to here." She leveled a hand at her own shoulder. "It always looked unwashed. She had acne . . . what else? She had a defeated posture, as if something heavy sat on her shoulders. The kids were allowed to dress any way they wanted, but Caroline always wore the
same shapeless dresses— old lady's housedresses. I wonder where she found them."

  "Dressing down," I said. "She sounds depressed."

  "Definitely."

  "Did she hang around with the other kids?"

  "No, she was a loner. Shleppy, withdrawn. I guess today I'd look at her and be thinking schizoid."

  "But they saw her as potentially aggressive."

  "They did."

  "How'd she spend her time?"

  "Mostly she sat in her room by herself, dragged herself to meals, returned alone. When I'd pass her in the hall, I'd smile and say hello. But I kept my distance because of the pink tab. A couple of times I think she nodded back, but mostly she shuffled on, keeping her eyes down."

  "Was she medicated?"

  "I never read her chart. Now that I think about it, it's possible."

  "The group leader who tried to draw her out. Do you remember a name?"

  "Jody Lavery," she said. "She was a clinical social worker— very nice to me when I had my problem with Larner. Years later I ran into her at a convention, and we ended up becoming friends, did some cross-referring. But forget about talking to her. She died two years ago. And she and I never talked about Caroline. Caroline was more of a nonentity than an entity. If not for the pink tab, I probably wouldn't have paid her any attention, at all. In fact, the only—"

  "Sir, madam," said the waiter. Our dishes were set in place, and we cut into our steaks.

  "Excellent," I said, after the first bite.

  "Glad you like it." She speared a french fry.

  "You were about to say something."

  "Was I?"

  "You were talking about Caroline not being memorable. Then you said 'In fact, the only— ' "

  "Hmm— oh yes, I was saying the only person I ever saw her talk to was one of the maintenance men. Willie something . . . a black guy . . . Willie Burns. I remember his name because it was the same as Robert Burns and I recall thinking there was nothing Scottish about him."

  "He paid special attention to Caroline?"

  "I suppose you could say that. Once or twice I came across him and Caroline chatting in the hall, and they moved apart very quickly and Willie resumed working. And one time I did see Willie coming out of Caroline's room, carrying a mop and broom. When he saw me, he said she'd been sick, he was cleaning up. Volunteering an explanation. It was kind of furtive. Whatever the situation, Burns didn't stick around long. One week, he was there, then he was gone and Caroline went back to being alone."

  "A week," I said.

  "It seemed like a short period."

  "Do you remember what month this was?"

  "Had to be August. I was only there during August."

  Janie Ingalls had been murdered in early June.

  "How old was Willy Burns?"

  "Not much older than Caroline— maybe twenty, twenty-one. I thought it was nice, someone paying attention to her. Do you know something about him?"

  I shook my head. "You didn't read the chart, but did you ever hear why Caroline was sent to Achievement House?"

  "I assumed the same reason every other kid was: unable to jump high hurdles. I know that world, Alex. Grew up in Beverly Hills, my dad was an assistant attorney general. I thought I wanted something simple, would never return to California."

  "Larry said you went to Penn for grad school."

  "Went to Penn and loved it. Then I spent a couple of years at Ann Arbor, came back to Penn and took an assistant professorship. If it had been up to me, I'd have stayed back East. But I married a Wharton guy and he got a fantastic job offer at Union Oil here in L.A. and all of a sudden we were living in a condo on the Wilshire Corridor and I was cramming for the California boards."

  "Sounds like things have worked out," I said.

  She'd speared steak on her fork and dipped it in bearnaise. The meat remained suspended for a moment, then she placed the fork down on her plate. "Life was rolling along quite nicely, then three summers ago, my father woke up at 4 A.M. with chest pains and my mom called us in a panic. Grant— my husband— and I rushed over and the three of us took Dad to the hospital and while they were working him up, Grant wandered off. I was so caught up supporting Mom and waiting for the verdict on Dad that I didn't pay much attention. Finally, just as they told us Dad was fine— gastric reflux— and we could take him home, Grant showed up and from the look on his face, I knew something was wrong. We didn't talk until after we dropped Mom and Dad off. Then he told me he hadn't been feeling well for a while— bad stomachaches. He'd figured it was job stress, kept thinking the pain would go away, was eating antacids like candy, hadn't wanted to alarm me. But then the pain got unbearable. So while we were at the hospital, he got hold of a doctor he knew— a Penn golfing buddy— and had x rays taken. And they found spots all over. A rare bile-duct tumor that had spread. Five weeks later, I was the mourning widow, living back with Mom and Dad."

  "I'm sorry."

  She nudged her plate away. "It's rude of me to unload like this." Another tentative smile. "I'll blame it on your being too good a listener."

  Without thinking, I reached out and patted her hand. She squeezed my fingers, then spider-walked away, took hold of her wineglass, drank while staring past me.

  I took a healthy swallow of beer.

  "Want to hear something funny?" she said. "Tonight I'm lecturing about post-traumatic stress. Listen, Alex, it's been nice meeting you, and good luck with whatever you're trying to do, but I've really got to run."

  She summoned the waiter, and, over her objections, I paid the check. She removed a gold compact and lipstick from her bag, freshened her mouth, touched a long, black eyelash, checked her face in the mirror. We got up from the table. I'd figured her for tall, but in three-inch heels she wasn't more than five-five. Another little looker. Just like Robin.

  We left the restaurant together. Her car was a ten-year-old black Jaguar XJS convertible that she stepped into with agility and revved hard. I watched her drive away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the road.

  CHAPTER 16

  Two new names:

  Michael Larner.

  Willie Burns.

  Perhaps both were irrelevant, but I drove south into Cheviot Hills, located Achievement House on a cul-de-sac just east of Motor and south of Palms, idled the Seville across the street.

  The building was an undistinguished two-story box next to an open parking lot, pale blue in the moonlight, surrounded by white iron fencing. The front façade was windowless. Glass doors blocked entry to what was probably an interior courtyard. Half a dozen cars sat in the lot under high-voltage lighting, but the building was dark and there was no signage I could see from this distance. Wondering if I had the right location, I got out and crossed the street and peered through the fence slats.

  Tiny white numbers verified the address. Tiny white letters, nearly invisible in the darkness spelled out:

  Achievement House. Private Property.

  I squinted to get a look at what was behind the glass doors, but the courtyard— if that's what it was— was unlit, and all I made out was reflection. The street was far from quiet; traffic from Motor intruded in bursts, and the more distant rumble of the freeway thrummed nonstop. I got back in the car, drove to the U., returned to the Research Library, got my itchy hands on that old friend, the periodicals index.

  Nothing on Willie Burns, which was no surprise. How many janitors made the news? But Michael Larner's name popped up twelve times during the past two decades.

  Two citations were dated from Larner's tenure as director of Achievement House: coverage of fund-raising events, no photos, no quotes. Then nothing for the next three years, until Larner popped up as official spokesman for Maxwell Films, demeaning the character of an actress sued by the film company for breach of contract. No follow-up on how that case resolved and a year later, Larner had made another occupational change: an "independent producer" inking a deal with the very same actress for a sci-fi epic— a movie I'd never heard of.

 
The Industry. Given Larner's sexual aggressiveness, it was either that or politics.

  The next four citations caught my eye because of Larner's new affiliation: director of operations for Cossack Development.

  These were brief items from the business section of the Times. Larner's job seemed to be lobbying council members for Garvey and Bob's development deals.

  Caroline Cossack shunted to Achievement House soon after Janie Ingalls's murder. Not the kind of kid Achievement House accepted but a few years later, the director was working for the Cossack family.