Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “You left burglar tools behind,” I said. “Did you need them to get in, or were you just setting it up as another East Side burglary?”

  He tried to mask his surprise with a slow, languid smile. “My, my, we have been busy. No, I had a key. One keeps looking for home sweet home. The big Brady Bunch in the sky …”

  “Stoumen and Lerner,” I said. “Did they meet with you?”

  “No,” he said, suddenly angry again. “Stoumen’s excuse was that he was retired. Another flunky shutting me out, did I want to speak to the doctor on call—you people really don’t know how to delegate authority properly. And Lerner made an appointment but didn’t show up, the rude bastard.”

  The unreliability Harrison had spoken of: it had affected his work—missed appointments.

  “So you tracked them down at conferences—how’d you get hold of the membership lists?”

  “Some of us are thorough—Mrs. Lyndon would have liked me, too—what a kindly old bag, all that midwestern salt-of-the-earth friendliness. Research is such fun, maybe I’ll visit her in person someday.”

  “Did Meredith help you get the lists?” I said. “Was she doing publicity for the conventions?”

  Pursed lips. Tense brow. The hand wavered. “Meredith … ah, yes, dear Meredith. She’s been a great help—now, stop asking stupid questions and get down on your knees—keep those hands up—keep them up!”

  Moving as slowly as I could, I got off the couch and kneeled, trying to keep a fix on the gun.

  Silence, then another impact that shook the glass.

  “The dog’s definitely chops and steaks,” he said.

  The gun touched the crown of my head. He ruffled my hair with the barrel and I knew he was remembering.

  The weapon pressed down on me, harder, as if boring into my skull. All I could see were his shoes, the bottoms of his jeans. A grout seam between two marble tiles.

  “Say you’re sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Louder.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Personalize it—“I’m sorry, Andrew.’ ”

  “I’m sorry, Andrew.”

  “More sincerity.”

  “I’m sorry, Andrew.”

  He made me repeat it six times, then he sighed. “I guess that’s as good as it’s going to get. How are you feeling right now?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  Chuckle. “I’ll bet you have—stand up slowly—slowly. Slo-o-o-wly. Keep those hands up—hands on head—Simon says.”

  He stepped back, the gun trained on my head. Behind me was the couch. Chairs all around. An upholstered prison, nowhere to go … a run for it would be suicide, leaving Robin to deal with his frustration.…

  The dog throwing himself, harder …

  I was upright now. He stepped closer. We came face-to-face. Licorice and rage, lowering the gun and pushing it against my navel. Then up at my throat. Then down again.

  Playing.

  Choreography.

  “I see it,” he said. “Behind your eyes—the fear—you know where you’re going, don’t you?”

  I said nothing.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Straight to hell. One-way ticket.”

  The gun nudged my groin. Moved up to my throat again. Pressed against my heart. Back down to my crotch.

  Taking on a rhythm—the musician in him … moving his hips.

  I was altered …

  Groin. Heart. Groin.

  He poked my crotch and laughed. When he raised the gun again, I exploded, chopping the gun wrist with my right hand as I stabbed at his eye with the stiffened fingertips of my left.

  The gun fired as he lost balance.

  He landed on his side, the gun still laced between his fingers. I stomped on his wrist. His free hand was clamped over his face. When he pulled it free and grabbed at my leg, his eye was shut, bleeding.

  I stomped again and again. He roared with pain. The gun hand was limp, but the weapon remained entangled. He struggled to lift it and aim. I dropped my knee full force on his arm, got hold of the hand, tugging, twisting, finally freeing the automatic.

  My turn to aim. My hands were numb. I had trouble bending my fingers around the trigger. He slid across the carpet on his back, kicking out randomly, holding his eye. Blood ran over his hand. His escape was blocked by a sofa. Flailing and kicking—he looked at me.

  No—behind me.

  He screamed, “Do it!” as I ducked and wheeled, facing the hallway.

  The smaller gun in my face. A woman’s hand behind it. Red nails. Coburg shouting, “Do it! Do it! Do it!” Starting to get up.

  I dropped to the floor just as the little gun went off.

  More gunshots. Hollow pops, softer than the black pistol’s thunder.

  Coburg on me. We rolled. I struck out with the black gun and caught the side of his head. He fell back, soundlessly, landed on his back. Not moving.

  Where was the silver gun? Arcing toward me again from across the room. Two red-nailed hands starting to squeeze.

  I dove behind the couch.

  Pop! The fabric puckered and gobbets of stuffing flew inches from my face.

  I pressed myself flush to the marble.

  Pop! Pop, pop!

  Heavy breathing—gasping—but whose I couldn’t tell.

  Pop!

  A dull noise from my back, then the windchime song of shattered glass. Scampering feet.

  A small, black blur raced past me toward Meredith.

  Hooking my arm around the couch, I fired the big black automatic blindly, trying to aim well above dog level. The recoil drove me backward. Something crashed.

  Barks and growls and female screams.

  I scuttled to the opposite side of the couch, squeezed the trigger, waited for return fire.

  More screams. Footsteps. Human. Getting distant.

  I hazarded a look around the couch, saw her heading for the front door, silver gun dangling like a purse.

  Coburg still down.

  Where was the dog?

  Meredith was almost at the door now. The bolt was thrown—she was having trouble with it.

  I rushed her, pointing the black gun, feeling the trigger’s heavy action start to give.

  Swift justice.

  Screaming “Stop!” I fired into a wall.

  She obeyed. Held onto the silver gun.

  “Drop it, drop it!”

  The gun fell to the floor and skidded away.

  She said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to—he made me.”

  “Turn around.”

  She did. I yanked off her mask.

  Her face was trembling, but she tossed her hair in a gesture more suited for a teenager.

  Blond hair.

  My hand was still compressing the trigger. I forced myself not to move.

  Jean Jeffers said, “He made me,” and glanced at Coburg. He remained openmouthed and inert, and her eyes died. She tried tears.

  “You rescued me,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “What’d you do with Robin?”

  “She’s fine—I promise. She’s in there—go see.”

  “Step out in front of me.”

  “Sure, but this is silly, Alex. He made me—he’s crazy—we’re on the same side, Alex.”

  Another look at Coburg.

  His chest wasn’t moving.

  Keeping the black gun on Jeffers, I stooped and pocketed the silver one. Maintaining a clear view of her, I managed to pull a large, upholstered chair over the bottom half of Coburg’s body. Not worth much, but it would have to do for the moment.

  I walked Jeffers back to the bedroom. The door was closed. The dog stood on his hind legs, scratching at it, gouging the paint. An acetone stink came from the other side. Familiar …

  “Open it,” I said.

  She did.

  Robin was spreadeagled on the bed, hands and feet tied to the posts with nylon fishing line, duct tape over her mouth, a ban
dana over her eyes. On the nightstand were the spool of line, scissors, nail polish, a box of tissues, and Robin’s manicure set.

  Nail polish remover—the acetone.

  A used emery board. Jeffers had passed the time by doing her nails.

  She said, “Let me free her, right now.”

  I pocketed the scissors and let her, using her hands. She worked clumsily, the dog up on the bed, growling at her, circling Robin, licking Robin’s face. Specks of blood dappled his fur. Diamond glints of broken glass … Robin sat up and rubbed her wrists and looked at me, stunned.

  I motioned her off the bed and gave her the silver gun. Shoved Jeffers down on it, belly down, hands behind her back.

  “Did she hurt you?” I said.

  Jeffers said, “Of course I didn’t.”

  Robin shook her head.

  Jeffers’ red nails were so fresh they still looked wet.

  She said, “Can we please—”

  Robin tied her up quickly. Then we returned to the living room. Coburg’s head where I’d hit him was huge, soft, eggplant-purple. He was starting to move a bit but hadn’t regained consciousness.

  Robin trussed him expertly, those good, strong hands.

  The dog was at my feet, panting. I got down and inspected him. He licked my hands. Licked the gun.

  Superficial cuts, no sign he was suffering. Robin picked the glass out of his fur and lifted him, kissing him, cradling him like a baby.

  I picked up the phone.

  CHAPTER

  33

  Three days later, I waited for Milo at a place named Angela’s, across the street from the West L.A. stationhouse. The front was a coffee shop. In back was a cocktail lounge where detectives, lawyers, bailbondsmen, and felons drank and worked on their lung tumors.

  I took a booth at the rear of the lounge, drinking coffee and trying to concentrate on the morning paper. Nothing yet on the “bad love” murders, orders of the brass till it got sorted out. Coburg was in the hospital, and Milo had been virtually sequestered with Jean Jeffers at the county jail.

  When he showed up, fifteen minutes late, a woman was with him, thirties, black. The two of them stood in the doorway of the lounge, outlined by hazy gray light.

  Adeline Potthurst, the social worker I’d seen on film, Dorsey Hewitt’s knife up against her throat.

  She looked older and heavier. A big white purse was clutched in front of her, like a fig leaf.

  Milo said something to her. She glanced over at me and replied. A bit more conversation, then they shook hands and she left.

  He came over and slid into the booth. “Remember her? She’s talking to me.”

  “She have anything interesting to say?”

  He smiled, lit up a cigar, and added to the pollution. “Oh, yeah.”

  Before he could elaborate, a waitress arrived and took his Diet Coke order.

  When she left, he said, “Lots happening. I’ve got New York records placing Coburg in Manhattan during all the East Side break-ins up till the day after Rosenblatt’s death: busted for shoplifting, he was arrested in Times Square two days before the first burglary, went to court the day he shoved Rosenblatt out the window, but his attorney got a continuance. Records listed his address as some dive near Times Square.”

  “So he celebrated with murder.”

  He nodded grimly. “Jivin’ Jean finally opened up—her attorney convinced her to sell out Coburg for a reduced plea to accessory. Names, dates, places, she’s puttin’ on a good show.”

  “What’s her connection to de Bosch?”

  “She says none,” he said. “Claims the revenge thing was all Coburg’s game, she didn’t really know what he was up to. She says she met him at a mental health convention—advocacy for the homeless. Struck up a conversation at the bar and found they had lots in common.”

  “Social worker encounters public interest lawyer,” I said. “A couple of idealists, huh?”

  “God help us.” He loosened his tie.

  “Coburg probably went to lots of conventions. With his phony law degree and his public-interest persona, he would have fit right in. Meanwhile, he’s looking for de Bosch disciples. And trying to undo his past. Symbolically. All those years he spent in institutions. Now he’s in the power role, hobnobbing with therapists. He was like a little kid, thinking magically. Pretending he could make it all go away.”

  “We’re still trying to unravel his travel schedule, place him and Jeffers together at least once: Acapulco, the week Mitchell Lerner was killed. Jeffers admits going along for the weekend—she presented a paper—but claims to know nothing about Lerner. She also admits using her position to get Coburg shrink mailing lists, but says she thought he just wanted to use them in order to advertise the law center.”

  “How does she explain trussing up Robin and taking potshots at me?”

  He grinned. “What do you think?”

  “The Devil made her do it.”

  “You bet. As their relationship developed, Coburg began to dominate her psychologically and physically. She’d started to have some suspicions about him, but was too afraid to back away from him.”

  “Does physically mean sexually?”

  “She says there was some of that, but mostly she claims he used mind control, threats, and intimidation to get into her head. Kind of a mini-Manson thing: poor, vulnerable woman taken in by psychopathic Svengali. She says the night he announced he was going to get you, she didn’t want any part of it. But Coburg threatened to tell her husband the two of them had been screwing for five years, and when that didn’t work, he flat out said he’d kill her.”

  “How does she explain being so vulnerable?”

  “Because she’d been abused as a kid. She says that was what drew her to Coburg—their mutual experiences. At first, their relationship was platonic. Lunch, talking about work, Coburg helping some of her clients out of legal jams, she helping him get social services for his. Eventually, it got more personal, but still no sex. Then one day, Coburg took her to his apartment, cooked lunch, had a heart to heart and told her all the shit he’d been through as a kid. She told him she had, too, and they ended up having this big emotional scene—cathartic, she called it. Then they went to bed and the whole relationship started taking another turn.”

  “Five years,” I said. “That’s when the murders began.… Who does she say abused her?”

  “Daddy. She’s free and easy with the ugly details, but it’ll be impossible to verify—both parents and her only sibling, a brother, are dead.”

  “Natural causes?”

  “We’re looking into it.”

  “Convenient,” I said. “Everyone’s a victim. I guess she could be telling the truth about being abused. First time I met her she told me violating a child’s trust was the lowest, she could never work with abuse cases. Then again, she could have been toying with me—she and Coburg got off on playing games.”

  “Even if it’s true, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s a psychopathic witch. Couple of goddamn psychopaths—there’s your two pathologies scenario.”

  “The bond between them couldn’t be that deep. It didn’t take long for her to sell him out.”

  “Honor among scumbags.” His drink came and he cooled his hands on the glass.

  I said, “So what about Becky? What does Jean say the link was between her and Coburg?”

  “She claims to have no idea what his motive was, there.” He smiled. “And guess what? He didn’t have one, other than making Jean happy.”

  “Becky was Jean’s thing?”

  “You bet. And that’s what I’m gonna get her on. All her cooperation on the other murders isn’t going to help her there, because I’ve got independent info on a motive: Becky and Dick Jeffers were having an affair. For six months.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “From the newly talkative Ms. Adeline Potthurst. Adeline saw Becky and Dick Jeffers together, sneaking off during a Christmas party at the center. Kissing passionately,
his hand up her skirt.”

  “Not very discreet.”

  “Apparently Becky and Dick weren’t—he used to come by to pick up Jean and end up talking to Becky, body language all over the place. The affair was semipublic knowledge at the center—I checked it out with some of the other workers and they confirm it.”

  “Meaning Jean knew.”

  “Jean knew because Dickie told her. I had a chat with him this morning—guy’s a basket case—and he admitted everything. Six months of illicit passion. Said he was planning to leave Jean for Becky, and he let Jean know it.”

  “How’d she react?”

  “Calmly. They had a nice chat and she told him she loved him, was committed to him, please give it some thought, let’s get some counseling, et cetera.”

  “Did they?”

  “No. A month later, Becky’s dead. And there’s no reason for anyone to make a connection—a nut hacking her up. The way I see it, it’s just like you said: Jean and Coburg searched for a nut who could be manipulated to hack her up and came up with Hewitt—both of them had ties to him.”

  “What was Jeffers’ tie?”

  “She was his therapist before transferring him to Becky—supposedly because of a heavy workload.”

  “She told me Becky was the only therapist he had.”

  “Adeline says no, Jeffers definitely treated him. And Mary Chin, Jeffers’ secretary, confirms it. Twice-a-week sessions, sometimes more, for at least three or four months before Becky took over. We can’t find any therapy notes—no doubt Jeffers destroyed them—but that only makes it look worse for her.”

  I said, “She made a point of telling me she didn’t do therapy anymore—another mind game … why didn’t the fact that she was working with Hewitt ever come out after Becky’s murder?”

  The hand went over his face. “We didn’t ask, and no one volunteered. Why would they? Everyone saw it as psycho kills girl. And we killed the psycho. No one suspected a damn thing—none of the staffers at the center or Dick Jeffers. He’s pretty freaked out now. Coming to grips with the monster he’s been living with. Says he’s willing to testify against her—whether or not he sticks with that remains to be seen.”