Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  No one certifies friendliness.

  Milo tried to slide open the glass. No give. Pressure on the door was no more successful.

  Each of the four chairs was occupied and our entry caused the quartet of “arrivals” to stir. Nearest to me was a black man in his seventies with so little upper body that his belt rested just below his pectorals. Next to him sat a corpulent white man with frizzy red hair, wearing a stained orange tank top and greasy brown shorts that exposed pink limbs crusted with scabs. A muscular young black man in exercise togs had pushed himself as far as possible from those two, which wasn’t far at all. Tucked in the corner, a small, skinny white girl with jaundiced eyes and enough facial pierces to make a minimally empathic person wince, hunched tight, with both feet on her chair.

  Milo rapped the glass twice.

  When no one responded, he added a loud knuckle drumroll.

  The older black man said, “They don’t like that.”

  No answer from the other side of the glass but I could make out movement.

  Milo knocked hard. His hand was only an inch from the glass when it slid open. A white-uniformed, pudding-faced brunette in her forties said, “Can’t you read—”

  Milo’s badge turned her anger to reluctant civility. “How may I help you, Officer?”

  “By buzzing us in.”

  “Sir, we’re extremely busy—”

  “So are we.”

  “Sir, I’ll need authorization—”

  “From your boss? Unfortunately, she’s not here.” Milo leaned in closer, lowered his voice just above whisper. Four heads behind us craned. “And how do I know that?”

  The pudding-faced woman stared.

  As he leaned forward, the quartet did the same. He whispered: “Matter of fact, we’re here about your boss.”

  “Dr. Connie? I don’t—”

  He showed her his card again, tapped his finger near Homicide. She gasped and slapped a hand over one breast and said, “Omigod. No!”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  The older black man said, “Look like someone up and tight.”

  The pudding-faced woman said, “Everyone leave, your appointments are canceled.”

  Face-Pierce said, “Hey, what the fuck?”

  Pudding glared at her. “You heard me. We’ll call you to reschedule.”

  The muscular black man said, “In case you don’t realize it, some of us work.”

  Pudding shouted, “Go! Leave! Out!”

  The waiting room emptied amid a chorus of curses. Face-Pierce was the last to exit and she gave the door a kick that caused it to rattle.

  The pudding-faced woman—E. Broadbent, per her tag—jabbed the rim of her desk and set off a hiss. The internal door swung open.

  Con-Bio’s nerve center was puny: Broadbent’s desk and a smaller workstation, unoccupied. A hallway that led to a door marked Laboratory and tagged with a hazardous material sticker. A metal chair and table were positioned against the corridor’s left wall. Atop the table sat a metal bin holding a phlebotomy kit: disposable syringes, amber rubber tourniquets, cotton swabs, bandages. Directly across from the puncture station was a door marked Lavatory/Urine and Stool Depository.

  E. Broadbent said, “Now what are you trying to tell me?”

  Milo said, “Unfortunately, Dr. Sykes is deceased.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Dear God. When?”

  “Last night. When did you last speak to her?”

  “Yesterday. It was just another working day. I left at six, she was still here.”

  “Were you curious when she didn’t show up this morning?”

  “No,” said E. Broadbent. “That wasn’t unusual. Dr. Connie doesn’t see patients. We don’t have patients—do you understand what we’re about?”

  I said, “You analyze biologic samples.”

  “We test for diseases, including conditions other labs can’t handle. Exotic tropical things. Uncommon toxins. As well as sexually transmitted diseases.”

  “If they’re not patients, what are they?”

  “We refer to them as sample donors.”

  Milo said, “Stains on a slide.”

  “Well …”

  “So Dr. Sykes’s hours were irregular.”

  “Not really,” said E. Broadbent. “It’s not like she was gallivanting, for the most part she was here and she’s almost always the last to leave. What I’m trying to get at is she had her own schedule so if she didn’t come in it wasn’t something anyone would question.” She exhaled. “I can’t believe this. What happened?”

  “How about we talk in her office? We’d like to see it, anyway.”

  “There is no office.”

  “Where does she do her thing?”

  Frowning, she marched up the hall and unlocked the lab door.

  That revealed the bulk of the building’s floor space, a wide, windowless area filled with stainless-steel tables, microscopes, centrifuges, a mass of things that bubbled and whirred and flashed digital readouts.

  One person working, a white-coated, safety-goggled Indian man twirling dials in between gazes into a binocular microscope. Our presence didn’t stop him.

  E. Broadbent said, “Sajit?”

  He waved, continued analyzing.

  She pointed to the nearest table. Cleared of medical gizmos, it bore a laptop and a pair of reading glasses.

  “That’s where she works.”

  I said, “She conducted all her business there?”

  “You bet. Dr. Connie is—was—” She paused to suck in air. “This is so … I forgot what I was saying …”

  “Dr. Connie was …”

  “Okay, yes, she was efficient. There was no need for frills—who did this to her?”

  Milo said, “We don’t know.”

  “Well,” said E. Broadbent, “maybe I do. But you can’t use my name on any report, I refuse to be connected to any more of it.”

  Milo said, “Any more of what?”

  “I’m serious, sir. I will not get involved.”

  “Fair enough,” he lied. “Who do you suspect?”

  She looked at Sajit. “Let’s go outside.”

  We followed her through the waiting room out to the parking area. A glance at Connie Sykes’s unoccupied parking space caused tears to flow down her cheeks. Brushing them away, she quickened her pace, stopped at the high wall that backed the lot.

  Removing a pack of Virginia Slims from her uniform pocket, she lit up, inhaled greedily. “I mean it, you can’t quote me.” Another deep intake of carcinogens. “Okay … God, this is so … Dr. Connie was embroiled in a legal matter with her sister. Who just happens to be a nutcase and a drug addict. So it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Milo said, “What kind of legal matter?”

  “Custody. Dr. Connie’s niece. The sister’s the mother but in name only. She has no sense of personal responsibility—she’s also a criminal, I’m talking lowlife. The one smart thing she did was the child—a girl, her name is Rambla, she’s just a baby, really—she gave her to Dr. Connie when she went traipsing all over the country with some drug-addict musicians. Dr. Connie raised her like she was her own and the poor little thing finally had a chance at a decent life.”

  Smoking some more, she squared her shoulders. “Everything was going along fine. Dr. Connie had a space set up next to my desk. She provided the best for her. Top-quality baby food, organic milk, you name it. She’d bring her in and that child would sleep peacefully in that crib, just loving her life. We’d give her toys and love and she’d giggle and then Dr. Connie would come out and play with her in between samples, sometimes she’d take her for a stroller walk. She was a well-behaved baby, Dr. Connie was talking about finding the best preschool, a really first-rate place, this baby had it made in the shade and then what happens? She comes back. All of a sudden, she’s changed her mind, is taking the baby back. She thinks she can do that, after Dr. Connie invested all
that energy. Like sure, I’m just your babysitter, feel free to waltz in and out.”

  I said, “So what happened?”

  “What happened? A scene happened.”

  “A scene here?”

  “Oh, yes, you bet. The baby’s napping away and she comes and barges her way in and disrupts everything.”

  “The baby’s mother.”

  “In name only,” said E. Broadbent. “It should be about character not just dropping them out the chute. There’s a license to drive, why not for that?”

  I said, “Something to certify fitness.”

  “You bet. If I had kids, I’d want to make sure I was qualified.”

  “How’d the sister barge her way in?”

  “By being sneaky,” she said. “She lurked to the side where we couldn’t see her then waited until we buzzed in a sample donor and ran in. And mind you, she went straight for the baby, didn’t care that the baby was fast asleep. Just ran past me and snatched that little thing up and tried to make her escape. Not quite. I stood there and blocked her but then the look on her face, sirs—I’m talking crazy. For the life of me I thought she’d … do something. With the baby in her hands. I didn’t want any problems so I stepped aside and meanwhile Dr. Connie came out of the lab and the two of them had a to-do.”

  “Did it get physical?”

  “No, but it could’ve if that one had her way.”

  “She threatened Dr. Connie?”

  “Her whole demeanor was enraged. Dr. Connie tried to convince her rationally. She wouldn’t listen. So of course, Dr. Connie tried to take the baby. And she held on even tighter, began screaming—it was ugly, let me tell you. We had a full waiting room, standing room only, donors hearing the commotion. So what could Dr. Connie do? She stepped aside. Then she called a lawyer. And that’s why I’m telling you you have to check that crazy lady out.”

  “Dr. Connie must’ve been pretty upset.”

  “Upset and angry,” said E. Broadbent. “That someone could be so selfish.”

  “So she sued.”

  “It cost her a fortune but she had her principles.”

  “Was the case resolved?”

  She frowned. “They brought in experts—the other side. They brought in sleazy hired guns. One of those psychiatrists who already had his mind made up because she flirted with him. Dr. Connie was so frustrated, she tried everything. The judge was a fool. Her lawyer was a fool.”

  “So she lost.”

  “For the time being.”

  “She planned to re-file?”

  “She talked about it. So that’s why I’m telling you: The only person crazy enough to do something this crazy was her. You want a name, I’ll give it to you: Cherie.” She spelled it. “Cherie Sykes, she’s been in prison, I’m sure you people have records on her. The baby is Rambla. I can only imagine what her life is now.”

  Milo copied in his pad. Convincing prop; E. Broadbent nodded approvingly.

  “Ma’am, this information you have about the sister’s past, did it come from Dr. Sykes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you ever have the opportunity to observe Cherie Sykes prior to the confrontation?”

  “No reason I would,” said E. Broadbent. “Dr. Sykes is—was”—two nicotine hits—“a brilliant woman. A pathologist. The other one? An addict.”

  “Anything else, ma’am?”

  “I don’t think you need anything else. Got your work cut out for you.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  I drove out of the lot, paused at Laurel Canyon. “Which way for steak?”

  Milo said, “No way.” Long pause. “Two sides to every story.”

  “Doesn’t mean more than one’s right.” I headed south toward the city.

  “That cuts both ways, Alex. Yeah, she’s biased, but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”

  “She’s wrong about a few things.”

  “Oh,” he said. “That. You’re absolutely certain Ms. Cher-ree didn’t flirt with you?”

  I glared at him.

  “Just kidding. And despite any bullshit Connie might’ve handed Broadbent, her observation says plenty: No love lost between the sisters and now one sister is dead. Even if I accept your assessment that Ree doesn’t have it in her, she could have a friend who does. Like the kid’s da-da. Maybe that’s why she didn’t let on who he was, he’s a badass with anger-control issues, she’s stuck in a court battle, can’t afford to weaken her case. Unfortunately for Connie, Daddy decided to emerge from the shadows to protect his little nuclear family.”

  “There was plenty of time to do that before the lawsuit. Would’ve spared Ree the expense and the stress.”

  “Ounce of prevention?” He thought about that all the way to Moorpark. “Maybe Daddy was indisposed until recently.”

  “Incarcerated?”

  “It happens once in a while. And his being locked up would give Ree even more reason to not identify him. I’m gonna learn more about her social life. Does that mean she’s at the top of my list? She’s sure edging up against your loyal patient Efren. Now, kindly chauffeur me back to 310. Regards to Robin and the pooch.”

  Code for Don’t call me I’ll call you.

  He shut his eyes, slumped, allowed his lips to slacken.

  I said, “You’re really not hungry.”

  “Only for the truth.”

  I dropped him back at the station, drove a block, phoned Ree Sykes. No answer, no voice mail.

  The drive to her apartment took nearly an hour. As I transitioned from the Westside to Hollywood, blue skies faded to the gray of wet tissue paper, washed with clots of phlegmy yellow where the sun fought to poke through.

  Hollywood Boulevard teemed with junkies, tweakers and offseason tourists clogging the sidewalks that fronted shlock-shops, fast-food outlets, and piercing parlors. Pedestrians stepped off curbs with no mind to vehicular threat. Rounding out the mix were odd individuals dressed like film characters jostling for attention and spare change. A black-and-white cruised in the slow lane but the officers inside were distracted by their own conversation.

  Turning off onto Ree’s street lowered but didn’t kill the street noise. A distant steam drill chewed up asphalt and dislodged some small hairs from my inner ear. Someone shouted in Spanish. A truck used its Jake brake and the resulting sound was the biggest rattlesnake in the universe hissing a warning.

  I found a space near Ree’s ten-plex. The door to her apartment was closed and her blinds were drawn. I knocked. A female voice shouted, “Yeah? What?”

  Tough, annoyed. None of the gentleness I’d observed. Had that been an act? Had I made up my mind prematurely?

  “It’s Dr. Delaware.”

  The door opened. A woman, not Ree Sykes, said, “Doctor who?”

  Midthirties, short, and flat-chested, she wore a brown T-shirt, camo cargo pants, pink-soled lace-up boots the color of blanched asparagus. Black spiky hair evoked a cockscomb. A hexagonal plug protruded midway between her lower lip and her assertive little shelf of a chin.

  I repeated my name.

  “I heard you. No one’s sick, Doc.”

  “I’m here to see Cherie Sykes.”

  “Then you’re out of luck. She bailed.”

  “Moved out?”

  “Hmm. Yeah, that’s another way to put it—hey, are you really a bill collector or some kind of repo dude? ’Cause she left her shitty furniture here and now I got to store it for sixty days. You help me find her, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  I gave her my card.

  She said, “Anyone can print one of these,” but appeared convinced. “Psychologist? She’s got mental problems?”

  “The court appointed me to consult on a lawsuit she was involved in.”

  “Her sister trying to steal her kid? That was actually real?”

  “You had your doubts?”

  “She’s a hippie flake, I took anything she told me with a grain of sustainable granola. She was always late with the rent.
Last time I talked to her about it she said she’d forgotten because she was tied up in court. Cried a little, like that’s supposed to soften me up. So what do you want with her?”

  “Follow-up.”

  “The case ended? Who won?”

  “She did.”

  Laughter. “Sister was an even bigger loser, huh? Talk about an evil bitch, hassling your own sister for a rug-rat. I mean, you want a kid, have it yourself. Meanwhile Miss Woodstock Flashback owes me for this month and she’s bailed, so I’d be totally appreciative if the court system actually did something for a taxpaying citizen and informed me where the hell I can find her.”

  “You’re the manager?”

  “I’m the owner, dude. What, I don’t look like landed gentry?”

  Reaching into one of the cargo pockets, she produced a card of her own. Same vegetative green as her boots. Outsized silver lettering.

  DEE N. MARTOLO

  REAL ESTATE INVESTMENTS

  A P.O.B. that told you nothing about its location.

  “Pleased to meet you, Dee.” I extended a hand.

  She pretended not to notice, looked back into the apartment. “Jo-Jo?”

  An older Asian man stuck his head out. Swiffer broom in his hand.

  “Take five.”

  His look was uncomprehending.

  “Take a break, J. Be back in ten minutes.”

  The man smiled and left, taking his broom with him.

  Dee Martolo said, “Yeah, this palace is mine. Courtesy Olea europaea. That’s olive trees—ever hear of Martolo Oil? Don’t lie, you didn’t. We have groves in Stockton but we don’t brand our own. We send it to fancy supermarkets and they put their own labels on and jack up the price. Great-Grandpa planted the groves, Grandpa made it a business, et cetera.”

  “Interesting—”

  “Think so? Then you’ve obviously never been to Stockton. Actually, the rest of the family agrees with you. I yawn when they start discussing fertilizer so they pay me to stay away by saddling me with Grandpa’s cache of ‘original Hollywood real estate.’ Meaning this dump and a bunch like it. Anyway, where can I find Chelsea Morning?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Then why are we wasting my time?”