Self-Defense

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “DA Bleichert?” he said, scanning my consultant’s badge.

  I pointed at the glass.

  “They in the middle of something?”

  “Just finishing up.”

  He looked through the one-way. Bleichert was still reading. App and MacIlhenny sat in silence.

  “Hmm,” said the deputy. Then he knocked.

  “Yeah?” said Bleichert, annoyed.

  The deputy went in. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’ve got an urgent message.”

  Bleichert was annoyed. “From who? I’m busy.”

  “A Detective Sturgis.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He said to tell you in private, sir.”

  “Okay, hold on.” To MacIlhenny and App: “One sec.”

  He came out of the room, closed the door, and tapped his foot. “Okay, what’s so damned urgent?”

  The deputy looked at me.

  Bleichert walked to a far corner well away from me. The deputy followed and whispered something in his ear.

  As he listened, Bleichert’s sour face lightened. “I’ll be damned!”

  “Everything okay with Lucy?” I said.

  Bleichert ignored me. To the deputy: “You’re sure?”

  “That’s what the man said.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Hour or so.”

  “And this is definitely confirmed?”

  “That’s what he said, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned—unreal . . . goddammit . . . okay, thanks.”

  The deputy left and Bleichert stood thinking. Then he returned to the interrogation room.

  “So,” said App, “can we start the paperwork?”

  “Sure,” said Bleichert. “We’ve got lots of paperwork.” Big smile.

  App said, “I eat a high-carbohydrate, low-fat diet.”

  “Good for you.” Hard voice.

  MacIlhenny said, “Stan?”

  Bleichert opened his jacket and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Bit of a new development, gentlemen. I’ve just been informed that Mr. Lowell passed away this afternoon: massive stroke. So all deals are null and void and we’ll be filing that confession as evidence against Mr. App.”

  App went white as his sweater.

  MacIlhenny shoved his bulk out of the chair, charged forward, waving his hands as if warding off hornets. “Now, see here—”

  Bleichert whistled and collected his papers.

  “This is unconscionab—”

  “Not at all, Land. We negotiated in good faith. You yourself said so. No accounting for acts of God. Guess God didn’t approve of the deal.”

  MacIlhenny tottered with rage. “Now you just—”

  “No you just, Land. All bets are off and this stays on the record.”

  Waving the confession.

  “Always put it in writing,” said Bleichert, grinning. “I learned that watching The People’s Court.”

  CHAPTER

  48

  No funeral.

  Cremation took place at the mortician’s college across the street from the county morgue. The ashes sat on a shelf until Ken came forward and picked up the urn. He asked Lucy if she wanted to accompany him when he tossed it off the Malibu pier. She said she’d pass.

  She was experiencing a grief of sorts.

  “I guess he didn’t have a good life,” she said. The ocean was blue and lazy. Yesterday a sea lion had walked out of the surf, ignoring Spike’s rage and begging for food before waddling back in. Today, no signs of life on the beach, not even birds.

  “No, he didn’t,” I said.

  “I guess I should feel sorry for him—I wish I could feel something other than relief.”

  “Right now, relief makes sense.”

  “Yes . . . the way he spoke to me. After his words, Graydon-Jones’s gun seemed almost silly. That’s how I got the courage.”

  She stared at the water. “I suppose he was a prisoner as much as anyone. Fate, biology, whatever. . . . I’m a part of him—genetically.”

  “That troubles you?”

  “I suppose I’m worried some of him is in me. If I ever have kids . . .”

  “If you ever have kids, they’ll be great.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because you’re a kind, caring person. He elevated selfishness to an art form, Lucy. No one would ever accuse you of being selfish. You almost lost your life because you’re not selfish.”

  “Whatever. . . . So, I guess it’s over.”

  My acquiescent smile was a lie. Her mourning of Puck had been cut short prematurely. I still didn’t understand why she’d put her head in the oven. Still didn’t know if the Bogettes or anyone else were out to get her. Maybe, with the dream out of her head, we could find the missing pieces.

  “So,” she said, touching her purse. “Guess I really don’t have anything to talk about right now.”

  “Tired?”

  “Very.”

  “Why don’t you go home and catch up on your rest.”

  “Think I will—only thing is, Ken wants to go places and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “What kinds of places?”

  “Palm Springs, San Diego . . . Driving around. He’s a nice guy, but—”

  “But you want to be alone,” I said.

  “I don’t want to reject him, but—this is terrible, I know—but sometimes he’s cloying.”

  “Wanting too much too fast?”

  “What should I do?”

  “Explain to him that you need some time alone. He should understand.”

  “Yes,” she said. “He should.”

  Milo called later that day. “Thought I’d give you some bits and pieces. Lowell’s Mercedes was left in the long-term lot at Burbank Airport, so Ms. Nova probably flew the coop.”

  “Can’t blame her.”

  “We’re lifting prints from the house tomorrow, see if we can find out who she is. We can live without her testimony, but it wouldn’t hurt to have it so we can add an assault-with-intent-to-kill to Graydon-Jones’s trouble. We did locate Doris Reingold at her son’s in Tacoma; police up there are watching her till she comes down next week. And Gwen Shea’s lawyer called to let us know Tom phoned her from Mexico. Hanging out with his buddy—midlife crisis, casting off responsibilities. Supposedly, he begged Gwen for forgiveness, promised to fly back tomorrow. All three of them are being treated as material witnesses, no charges. The major good news is that Graydon-Jones is sticking to his guns on App—asshole finally figured out you can’t share a sleeping bag with a cobra. App’s lawyer is screaming and yelling, trying to void App’s confession; the DA says there’s a better-than-even chance it’ll be ruled admissible. Major good news number two is that the feds are finishing up their bookkeeping on Mr. A, and he’s got close to twenty mil in assets that can be snatched. So all in all he’s in trouble.”

  “Still in prison?”

  “Languishing.”

  “No pesto and arugula?”

  “Oh, sure. And for dessert, they can move him into general pop. Find him a four-hundred-pound roommate named Bubba, see what cooks up then.”

  CHAPTER

  49

  The next day I received a package from Englewood, New Jersey. Inside was a blue binder containing two hundred neatly typed photocopied pages. Taped to the front cover was a piece of white stationery with Winston Mullins, M.D. on the letterhead.

  A handwritten note read:

  This is Darnel’s book. Hope you like it, W.M.

  I read half. Clunky in places, but talent and grace shone through in others. The story line: a young man, half white, half black, makes his way through the academic and literary worlds, trying to define his identity through a series of jobs and sexual dalliances. Expletives, but no violence. The bride in question: art.

  I put the binder down and called Lucy. No one home.

  She probably hadn’t the heart to disappoint Ken.

  Or maybe she’d held her resolve and h
ad gone away for some solitude.

  Either way, I’d wait. We had our work laid out for us.

  That evening, as I was playing guitar and waiting for Robin and Spike to come home, my service called in with an emergency message from Wendy Embrey.

  Now what?

  “Dr. Delaware?”

  “Sure, put her on.”

  Click.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Wendy.”

  “How’s Lucretia?”

  “Fine, but—”

  “You’ve seen her recently?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “This may be nothing, but I just got off the phone with a woman I think you should talk to. I know there are two sides to every story, especially with this kind of thing, but after listening to what she said, I strongly advise you to call her.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  She told me. “I reached her through her father—he’s the head of the real estate company. I was trying to collect—not important. Anyway, I gave her your name, said you might call.”

  “Just in case I can’t reach her, give me a summary of what she told you.”

  She did. “Which might explain a few things.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling cold. “It might.”

  I hung up and punched numbers frantically.

  Then I scrawled a note to Robin and ran out to the Seville.

  Lights shone from the second story of the house on Rockingham Avenue. Ken’s Taurus was in the driveway, but no one answered the bell.

  I ran around to the side gate. Locked. I climbed over.

  He was out on the terrace, slumped in a chair, head down. Half a vodka bottle on the table, along with a glass full of melting ice.

  When I got ten feet away, he looked up groggily. Then, as if a button had been pushed, he sat up mechanically.

  “Doctor.”

  “Evening, Ken.”

  He looked at the bottle and pushed it away. “Little nightcap. Evening cap.”

  His voice wasn’t slurred, but the words were coming out too carefully. His hair was mussed, his glen plaid button-down shirt wrinkled.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Just dropped by to see how Lucy’s doing.”

  “Oh . . . she’s not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Dunno, out.”

  “Out driving?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He sat up straighter, tried to finger-comb his hair.

  “Any idea when she’ll be back?”

  “Nope, sorry. I’ll be sure to tell her you stopped by. Everything okay?”

  “Well,” I said, sitting. “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here.”

  He moved his chair back. The wrought iron grated on the flagstone. He looked up at the second story.

  “You’re sure she’s not here, Ken?”

  “Of course.” His faced changed, turning piggish.

  Suddenly, his hand moved toward the bottle. Mine got there first and put it out of reach.

  “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know what this is about, but I’m bushed, doc. All this crap we’ve been going through, a guy deserves some R and R, right?”

  “We? You and Lucy?”

  “Exactly. I don’t know what your problem is, but maybe you’d better get out of here and come back when you have an appointment.”

  “Are you making her appointments now, Ken?”

  “No, she—listen.” He stood and smoothed his pants and smiled. “I know Lucy likes you, but this is my place, and I want some privacy. So . . .” Crooking a finger at the gate.

  “Your place?” I said. “Thought it was the company’s.”

  “That’s right. Now—”

  “I just spoke to your second ex-wife, Kelly. She told me you haven’t worked for the company for over a year. She told me the company belongs to her father, and that since the divorce you’ve been persona non grata there. That’s why the company’s insurance doesn’t cover you. That’s why you’ve got an answering machine instead of a secretary. She also told me you stole computer records and that’s how you get addresses of places to crash. Along with lots of other things.”

  “Oh, boy,” he said, backing toward the doors to the house. “It’s a divorce case. You believe her, you’re as stupid as she is.”

  “I know,” I said. “There are two sides to every story, but Kelly says there are court records that document your drinking and your violence. Not just to her. You beat up your first wife too. And she says it’s also public record that you threatened your father-in-law and tried to run him down with your car. That you put your older girl, Jessica, in the hospital with a broken jaw.”

  “An accident. She—” He shook his head.

  “Got in the way? Of what, your fist? Same way Kelly did when you ruptured her spleen? All accidents, Ken?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. They’re all accident-prone; runs in the family.”

  “Ken, where’s Lucy? Is she locked in her room because you convinced her she needed to be for her own safety?”

  He slumped. Gave me a helpless look. Then he grabbed the glass and threw it at me. I ducked but there was no need, he was way off.

  “Get the hell off my property!”

  “Or what? You’ll call the police? Lucy’s up there and I’m going to get her.”

  He spread his arms and blocked the door. “Don’t mess with me, asshole. You have no idea.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. That’s the point, I know exactly what you’re capable of. After your father-in-law fired you, you started flying down here. Not to get to know Lucy and Puck but to get rid of them. So you could have total access to the trust fund. Lucy’s share of the interest is twelve thousand a year. At a conservative five percent return, that means a principal of almost a quarter million. Times four sibs is a million bucks. You contacted Puck first, learned about his heroin habit, and fed it. Learned from him about Lucy’s sleep patterns and her daily routines. The way she came home, ate dinner, and nodded off watching PBS with a glass of apple juice. You started harassing her with hang-up calls. Stole a key to her apartment from Puck, checked it out, fooled with her underwear—that was the fun part.”

  He cursed.

  “A few days later, you let yourself in and put something in the juice—something with short-term effects. She mentioned feeling drugged a couple of times. After she went under, you came back, turned on the oven, and stuck her head in. Then you played hero. Waiting long enough for the sedative to wear off, calling the paramedics and driving her to the hospital. Adding the note and the rat shit a few days later just in case her anxiety level wasn’t high enough. The plan was to get her out of there and under your control, and Milo and I played into it perfectly. Though if we hadn’t, I imagine you would have found a way to volunteer. Instant family, huh?”

  He pressed himself against the doors. Planting his feet. Fists clenching and unclenching, sweating alcohol and his gingery cologne.

  “You couldn’t kill her outright,” I said, “because two young sibs dying that close together, all that money at stake, might have tipped someone off. Like Milo. The key was to get close to Lucy so you could choose the time and make it look like an accident—poor sleepwalking girl takes a tumble down the stairs. Puck made it easy for you with his addiction. He never went to New Mexico. By the time you made that call imitating his voice, he was dead. You didn’t even have to be a good mimic. Embrey didn’t know what he sounded like. And when you called your father to tell him Lucy had tried to commit suicide, you spoke to his assistant. But Lucy couldn’t stop worrying about Puck, so you went with her and discovered the body—Mr. Hero again. Puck never stood you up. He showed for that appointment, though I’ll bet it wasn’t dinner, it was a dope gift. Unusually strong stuff. He was probably shooting up before you closed the door, dead a few seconds later. How’m I doing so far?”

  “Okay,” he said, fighting to sound cool. “I think you’re a little confused, but come on in, we’ll talk about it.”
<
br />   “Two sibs down, one to go? Did Jo really fall off that mountain or was that your maiden voyage in family planning?”

  He shook his head as if I were being silly. Then, twisting the handle, he hurled himself through the door and tried to slam it on me. I pushed. His weight worked in his favor but his middle was exposed through the door crack, and I shot my fist forward and knocked the wind out of him. My follow-up didn’t land solidly because he’d stumbled and fallen back. Forcing the door open, I dove on top of him, pinning him.

  A woman behind me said, “Get up, you idiot, or I’ll kill you.”

  Stunned, I obeyed. Ken came up swinging and I warded off his clumsy drunken blows.

  “Turn around.”

  A slender form, orange-lit by a chandelier dimmed low. Holding an automatic a lot bigger than the one Graydon-Jones had brought to the pit. Looking comfortable with it as she came closer.

  “Stand still, asshole,” said Nova.

  Ken took a blind swing at my head. I pushed his hand away, and he fought to regain his balance.

  Nova said, “Cut it out. Don’t waste your energy.”

  He said, “Goddamn asshole.”

  “Later. Clean yourself up. Look at you, you’re a mess.”

  He wiped his lip.

  “Fix your shirt.”

  He stuffed it into his waistband.

  She had clear authority. The kind that imprints early? The scars . . . young for a face lift. But not for patching old injuries?

  “Clean yourself up,” she said. “Take an upper, then come back and give me a hand.”

  He complied.

  “Big sis?” I said. “Hi, Jo.”

  Silence. That same smug smile I’d seen at Sanctum.

  “One pair against the other,” I said. “What are we talking about here? Going for the gold in sibling rivalry?”

  She chuckled. “You have no idea.”

  “Must have been tough,” I said. “Daddy leaving your mother for their mother. Then she got so depressed, she escaped to Europe and left you behind. With him, of all people. You and Ken end up locked in a dinky little cabin while the other two get to stay in the big house.”

  “Free psychoanalysis,” she said. “Sit down on that couch—on your hands, keep your butt on your hands.”