Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Andrew Coburg.”

  “Back there.” Making a small, meaningless movement with his head. “But I think he’s with someone.”

  “Which desk?” I said.

  He put the phone down, swiveled, and pointed to a station in the center of the room. Drapes drawn. Dirty sneakers and an inch of hairy shin below the hem of the muslin.

  “Okay if I wait?”

  “Sure. You an attorney?”

  “No.”

  “Sure, wait.” He picked up the phone and began dialing laboriously. Someone must have answered, because he said, “Yeah, hi, it’s Hank, over at H.I. Yeah, me too—yeah.” Laughter. “Listen, what about that nolo we talked about? Go and check—yeah, I think so. Yeah.”

  I stood against the partition and read the posters. One featured a bald eagle on crutches and said HEAL OUR SYSTEM. Another was printed in Spanish—something to do with immigraciÓn and liberaciÓn.

  The sharp-faced man started talking in lawyer’s jargon, jabbing the air with a pen and laughing intermittently. He was still on the phone when the curtains at Andrew Coburg’s station parted. An emaciated man wearing a filthy cableknit sweater and cutoff shorts got up. He was bearded and had matted hair, and my chest tightened when I saw him because he could have been Dorsey Hewitt’s brother. Then I realized I was seeing the brotherhood of poverty and madness.

  He and Coburg shook hands and he left, eyes half closed. As he passed me I backed away from the stench. He passed close to the man named Hank, too, but the lawyer didn’t notice, kept talking and laughing.

  Coburg was still standing. He wiped his hands on his pants, yawned and stretched. Early thirties, six one, two hundred. Pear shaped, fair haired, arms slightly too short for his long-waisted body. His hair was brass colored, worn full at the sides with no sideburns. He had a soft face, fine features, and rosy cheeks, had probably been a beautiful baby.

  He wore a chambray work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, loosened paisley tie five years too narrow, rumpled khakis, saddle shoes. The laces on one shoe were untied.

  Stretching again, he sat, picked up his phone, and began dialing. Most of the other lawyers were on the phone now. The room sounded like a giant switchboard.

  I walked over to him. His eyebrows rose as I sat down, but he didn’t show any signs of annoyance. Probably used to walk-ins.

  He said, “Listen, gotta go,” into the phone. “What’s that? Fine—I accept that, just as long as we have a clear understanding, okay? What?… No, I’ve got someone here. Okay. Bye. Cheers.”

  He hung up and said, “Hi, how can I help you?” in a pleasant voice. His tie was clipped with an unusual bit of jewelry: red guitar pick glued to a silver bar.

  I told him who I was and that I was trying to locate any friends of Dorsey Hewitt.

  “Dorsey. One of my triumphs,” he said, all the pleasantness gone. He sat back, crossed his legs. “So what paper do you work for?”

  “I’m a psychologist. Just like I said.”

  He smiled. “Really?”

  I smiled back. “Scout’s honor.”

  “And a police consultant, too.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t mind if I see some ID, do you?”

  I showed him my psych license, my med school faculty card, and my old LAPD consultant’s tag.

  “The police,” he said, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Is that a problem for you?”

  “In what way?”

  “Working with the police mentality? All that intolerance—the authoritarianism.”

  “Not really,” I said. “Police officers vary, like anyone else.”

  “That hasn’t been my experience,” he said. There was a jar of licorice sticks near his typewriter. He took one and held out the container.

  “No, thanks.”

  “High blood pressure?”

  “No.”

  “Licorice raises it,” he said, chewing. “Mine tends to be low. I’m not saying they’re intrinsically bad—the police. I’m sure most of them start out as okay human beings. But the job corrupts—too much power, too little accountability.”

  “I guess the same could be said for doctors and lawyers.”

  He smiled again. “That’s no comfort.” The smile stayed on his face, but it began to look out of place. “So. Why does a police consultant need to know anything about Dorsey’s friends?”

  I gave him the same explanation I’d offered Jean Jeffers.

  Midway through, his phone rang. He picked it up, said, “What? Okay, sure.… Hi, Bill, what is it? What? What? You’ve got to be kidding! No walkie, no talkie—I mean it. This is a bullsquat misdemeanor we’re talking abou—I don’t care what else he’s—okay, you do that. Good idea. Go ahead. Talk to him and get back to me. Bye.”

  He put the phone down. “Where were we? Oh, yeah, harassment. What kind?”

  “I don’t know all the details.”

  He pulled his head back and squinted. His neck was thick, but soft. His short arms folded over his abdomen and didn’t move. “Cops ask you to consult but don’t let you in on the details? Typical. I wouldn’t take the gig.”

  Not seeing any way out of it, I said, “Someone’s been sending people harassing tapes with what may be Hewitt’s voice on them—screaming ‘bad love’—the same thing he screamed after he murdered Becky Basille.”

  Coburg thought for a minute. “So? Someone taped him off the TV. No shortage of strange souls out there. Keeps both of us busy.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But the police think it’s worth looking into.”

  “Who’s getting these tapes?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Must be someone important for the cops to go to all this trouble.”

  I shrugged. “You could ask them.” I recited Milo’s name and number. He didn’t bother to write it down.

  Taking another licorice stick from the jar, he said, “Tapes. So what’s the big deal?”

  “The police are wondering if Hewitt might have had a close friend—someone influenced by what he did. Someone with the same dangerous tendencies.”

  “Influenced?” He looked puzzled. “What, some kind of harassment club? Street people going after the good citizenry?”

  “Hewitt wasn’t exactly harmless.”

  He began twisting the licorice stick. “Actually, he was. He was surprisingly harmless when he took his medicine. On one of his good days, you might have met him and found him a nice guy.”

  “Was he off his medicine when he committed the murder?”

  “That’s what the coroner says. Too much alcohol, not enough Thorazine. Given the biochemistry, he must have stopped eating pills a week or so before.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? I doubt it was a conscious decision—“hmm, guess I won’t take my meds this morning and let’s see how the day goes.’ More likely he ran out, tried to get a refill, and ran into such a hassle he gave up. Then, as he got crazier and crazier, he probably forgot all about the pills and why he was taking them in the first place. Happens all the time to people at the bottom. Every detail of daily living’s a struggle for them, but they’re expected to remember appointments, fill out forms, wait in line, follow a schedule.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve been to the center. Wondered how the patients coped.”

  “Not well is how they cope. Even when they play by the rules they get turned away—mean old Mr. Recession. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a sick person without money to get help in this city?”

  “Sure do,” I said. “I spent ten years at Western Pediatric Medical Center.”

  “Over in Hollywood?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay,” he said, “so you do know. Not that I’m glossing over what Dorsey did—that poor girl, every attorney’s nightmare, I still lose sleep thinking about it. But he was a victim, too—as sappy and knee-jerk as that sounds. He should have bee
n taken care of, not forced to fend for himself.”

  “Institutionalized?”

  His eyes turned angry. I noticed their color for the first time: very pale brown, almost tan.

  “Taken care of. Not jailed—oh, hell, even jail wouldn’t have been bad if that would have meant treatment. But it never does.”

  “Had he been psychotic for a long time?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t someone you just sat down and had a chat with—so tell me your life history, pal. Most of the time he was somewhere else.”

  “Where was he from, originally?”

  “Oklahoma, I think. But he’d been in L.A. for years.”

  “Living on the street?”

  “Since he was a kid.”

  “Any family?”

  “None that I know of.”

  He took hold of the licorice, touched it to his lip, and used his other hand to caress his tie. Somewhere else, himself.

  When he touched his phone I knew he was ready to break off the conversation.

  “What kind of music do you play?” I glanced at the guitar-pick clasp.

  “What? Oh, this? I just noodle around on weekends.”

  “Me, too. I worked my way through college playing guitar.”

  “Yeah? Guess lots of guys did.” He pulled the front end of the tie down and looked at the ceiling. I felt his interest continue to slip.

  “What do you do mostly, electric or acoustic?”

  “Lately I’ve been getting into electric.” Smile. “So what’s this? Gaining rapport with the subject? Got to hand it to you. At least you didn’t get into the usual police-prosecutor rap—guilt-tripping me for what Dorsey did, asking me how can I live with myself defending scum.”

  “That’s because I don’t have a problem with that,” I said. “It’s a good system and you’re an important part of it—and no, I’m not patronizing you.”

  He held out his hands. “Whoa.”

  I smiled.

  “Actually, it’s an okay system,” he said. “I’ll bet if you met the Founding Fathers, you wouldn’t think they were such great guys. Slaveowners, fat cats, and they sure didn’t think much of women and kids.”

  The phone rang again. He took the call while gnawing on the remains of the licorice, talking lawyerese, bartering some defendant’s future, never raising his voice.

  When he hung up, he said, “We try to make the system work for the people the Founding Fathers didn’t care about.”

  “Who funds you?”

  “Grants, donations—interested in contributing?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He grinned. “Sure you will. Either way, we’ll get by—bad salaries, no expense accounts. That’s why most of these people’ll be gone by next year—soon as they start thinking home equity and German cars.”

  “What about you?”

  He laughed. “Me? I’m a veteran. Five years and thriving. Because it’s a heck of a lot more satisfying than drawing up wills or defending polluters.”

  He turned serious, looked away from me.

  “Sure it gets ugly,” he said, as if responding to a question. “What Dorsey did was as ugly as it gets.” Eye flicker. “Jesus, what a … it was a tragedy. How else can you put it? A goddamn stupid tragedy. I know I couldn’t have done anything differently, but it shouldn’t have happened—it just stinks, but what can you do when society keeps lowering itself to the brutal denominator? Dorsey’d never shown me any signs of violence. Nothing. I was serious when I said you would have liked him. Most of the time he was pleasant—soft-spoken, passive. One of my easier clients, actually. A little paranoid, but it was always low key, he never got aggressive with it.”

  “What kind of delusions did he have?”

  “The usual. Voices in his head telling him to do stuff—cross the street six times one day, drink tomato juice the next—I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Did the voices make him angry?”

  “They annoyed him, but no, I wouldn’t call it anger. It was as if he accepted the voices as being a part of him. I see that a lot in the long-timers. They’re used to it, deal with it. Nothing aggressive or hostile, that’s for sure.”

  “As long as he took his medication.”

  “I assumed he was taking it because he was always okay with me.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “I wouldn’t call it knowing. I did some basic legal stuff for him.”

  “When did you first meet him?”

  He looked up at the ductwork again. “Let’s see … it would have to be around a year ago.”

  “Walk-in?”

  “No, he was referred by the court.”

  “What kind of theft were you defending him on?”

  Smile. “Cops didn’t tell you?”

  “I don’t get involved in more than I need to.”

  “Smart. Theft is an overstatement. He lifted a bottle of gin from a liquor store, and a couple of sticks of beef jerky. Did it in plain sight of the clerk and got busted. I’m sure he didn’t even mean it. Clerk nearly broke his arm restraining him.”

  “What defense were you planning?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Plea bargain.”

  “What else? He had no prior record other than petty stuff. The way the jails are crowded it would have been a slam-dunk.”

  He sat up and inserted five fingers into his thick hair. Massaging his scalp, he said, “Gritz.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s a name. Gritz.”

  “As in hominy?”

  “With a ‘z.’ The closest I can come to someone who might be called Dorsey’s friend.”

  “First name or last?”

  “Don’t know. He came by here a couple of times with Dorsey. Another homeless guy. The only reason I know his name is because I noticed him hanging around over there”—pointing to the partition—“asked Dorsey who he was and Dorsey said “Gritz.’ First thing I said was what you just did: “As in hominy?’ That went right over Dorsey’s head, and I tried to explain it. Spelled ‘grits’, told him what they were, asked him if it was a last name or a first name. He said no, it was a name and it was spelled with a ‘z.’ He spelled it for me. Really slowly—he always talked slow. ‘G-R-I-T-Z.’ Like it was profound. For all I know he was making it up.”

  “Did he tend to do that?”

  “He was schizophrenic—what do you think?”

  “Did he ever mention the term ‘bad love’ to you?”

  He shook his head. “First time I heard about that was from the police. Asking me why Dorsey had screamed it—as if I’d know.”

  Pushing himself away from the desk, he wheeled back in his chair, then sat up. “And that’s about all she wrote.”

  “Can you describe this Gritz fellow?”

  He thought. “It was a while ago … about the same age as Dorsey—though with street people you can’t really tell. Shorter than Dorsey, I think.” He looked at his watch. “There’s a call I’ve got to make.”

  I got up and thanked him for his time.

  He waved it off and picked up the phone.

  “Any idea where this Gritz might be located?” I said, as he dialed.

  “Nope.”

  “Where did Dorsey hang out?”

  “Wherever he could—and I’m not being flip. When it was warm, he liked to go down by the beach—Pacific Palisades Park, all up and down the beaches on PCH. When it cooled down, I was able to get him into a shelter or an SRO a couple of times, but he actually preferred sleeping outdoors—lots of times he bunked down in Little Calcutta.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Freeway overpass, West L.A.”

  “Which freeway?”

  “San Diego, just past Sepulveda. Never saw it?”

  I shook my head.

  He shook his, too, smiled, and put down the phone. “The invisible city … there used to be these little hovels there called Komfy Kort—built God knows when, for Mexican worke
rs doing the day-labor pickup thing on Sawtelle.”

  “Those I remember,” I said.

  “Did you happen to notice they’re not there anymore? City tore them down a few years ago and the street people moved onto the property. Nothing to tear down with them, so what could the city do but keep chasing them out? And what with voodoo economics taking hold, that became too expensive. So the city let them stay.”

  “Little Calcutta.”

  “Yeah, it’s a great little suburb—you look like a West Side kind of guy—live anywhere near there?”

  “Not that far.”

  “Go by and take a look, if you can spare the time. See who your neighbors are.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  I drove east to the overpass Coburg had described. The freeway formed a concrete ceiling over a fenced dirt lot, an arcing canopy of surprising grace supported by columns that would have challenged Samson. The shade it cast was cool and gray. Even with my windows closed I could hear the roar of unseen cars.

  The lot was empty and the dirt looked fresh. No tents or bedrolls, no signs of habitation.

  I pulled over across the street, in front of a self-storage facility the size of an army base, and idled the Seville.

  Little Calcutta. The fresh dirt suggested a bulldozer party. Maybe the city had finally cleared it.

  I drove farther, slowly, past Exposition Boulevard. The west side of the street was lined with apartment buildings, the freeway concealed by ivied slopes. A few more empty spots peeked behind the usual chain link. A couple of overturned shopping carts made me stop and peer into the shadows.

  Nothing.

  I cruised several more blocks, until the freeway twisted out of sight. Then I turned around.

  As I neared Exposition again, I spied something shiny and huge—a white-metal mountain, some sort of factory or plant. Giant canisters, duodenal twists of pipe, five-story ladders, valves that hinted at monstrous pressure.

  Running parallel to the machine works was a blackened length of railroad track. Bordering the rails was a desert-pale table of sand.

  Twenty years in L.A., and I’d never noticed it before.