Rage

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “On Saturday?”

  “Guess the site’s open.”

  “Verify that, Sean.”

  “You bet.”

  “What time did he leave for this alleged meeting?” said Milo.

  “Five p.m.”

  “Guy takes a short walk at five, doesn’t come home all night, and they’re not concerned?”

  “They were concerned,” said Binchy. “At seven p.m., they called Van Nuys Division to report him missing, but since he was an adult and not enough time had passed, it wasn’t filed as an official M.P.”

  “A convicted murderer wandering around didn’t bother anyone?”

  “I don’t know if they mentioned that to Van Nuys.”

  “Find out if they did, Sean.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I said, “Who was he living with?”

  “Some people who take in troubled kids,” said Binchy.

  “Duchay was an adult,” said Milo.

  “Then it’s troubled people, Loot. They’re ministers, or something.”

  “The Daneys?” I said.

  “You know them?”

  “They were involved with Rand’s case years ago.”

  “Back when he killed that little girl,” said Binchy. No rancor in his voice. Every time I’d seen him, his demeanor had been exactly the same: pleasant, unruffled, uncluttered with self-doubt. Maybe still waters did run deep. Or God on your side was the ultimate soul balm.

  “Involved how?” said Milo.

  “Spiritual advisers,” I said. “They were seminary students.”

  Binchy said, “Everyone could use some of that.”

  “Didn’t seem to help Duchay,” said Milo.

  “Not in this world.” Binchy smiled briefly.

  I said, “Both of them were murdered.”

  “Both of who, Doc?”

  “Rand and Troy Turner.”

  “Didn’t know about Turner,” said Milo. “When did that happen?”

  “A month after he was in custody.”

  “So we’re talking eight years in between. What happened to him?”

  I described Troy’s ambush of a Vato Loco, the gang-vengeance theory, the way he’d been hung in the utility closet. “Don’t know if it was ever solved.”

  “A month in and he’s thinking he’s a tough guy,” he said. “No impulse control . . . yeah, sounds like your basic prison hit. Were he and Duchay in the same facility?”

  “No.”

  “Lucky for Duchay. If he’d been seen as Turner’s buddy, he would’ve been next.”

  “Duchay didn’t get away clean in prison. Coroner said there were old knife scars on his body.”

  Milo said, “But he was alive until last night. Big and tough enough to defend himself.”

  “Or he learned to avoid trouble,” I said. “He got early release for good behavior.”

  “That means he didn’t rape or shank anyone in front of a guard.”

  Silence.

  Binchy said, “I’ll follow up on what exactly Van Nuys was told, Loot. Enjoy your trip to New York, Doctor.”

  After he left, Milo jammed some papers into his attaché case and the two of us descended the stairs to the back of the station. We walked a couple of blocks to where I’d parked the Seville.

  He said, “Guys like Turner and Duchay attract bad stuff.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Rand makes it through eight years of the C.Y.A., gets out, and three days later he’s dead.”

  “Your feeling this, huh?”

  “You aren’t?”

  “I pick and choose when I bleed.”

  I opened the car door.

  He said, “What’s really getting to you, Alex?”

  “He was a stupid, impressionable kid who lost his parents in infancy, probably suffered brain damage as a baby, got raised by a grandmother who resented him, was ignored by the school system.”

  “He also killed a two-year-old. At that point, my sympathies shift.”

  “I can understand that,” I said.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let it eat at you. Go have fun in La Manzana Grande.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “What if I’m relevant to the case?”

  “You’re not. Good-bye.”

  * * *

  I drove home thinking about Rand Duchay’s last moments. Perhaps a temple shot meant he’d been looking straight ahead, hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe he’d experienced no final fireburst of terror and pain.

  I pictured him lying facedown in some cold, dark place, beyond knowing or caring. Eight-year-old TV images flew into my head. Barnett and Lara Malley exiting the courtroom. She, sobbing. He, tight-lipped, smoldering. So rigid with anger he’d come close to striking a cameraman.

  Demanding the death penalty.

  Now both murderers of his daughter were gone. Would he find comfort in that?

  Had he played a role in it?

  No, that was trite and illogical. Revenge was a dish best eaten cold, but eight years between deaths was arctic. Milo was right. Damaged boys like Turner and Duchay did attract violence. In a sense, what had happened was the predictable termination of two wasted lives.

  Three.

  * * *

  I checked my overnight bag, packed the toothbrush I’d forgotten, and put the house in relative order. Logging onto a weather site, I learned I’d be arriving tomorrow in the midst of a snowstorm.

  Low: fifteen, high: twenty-nine. I pictured white skies and sidewalks, the flicker of Manhattan lights in our window as Allison and I holed up in a nice warm suite with butler service.

  Why had Rand called me?

  The phone rang. Allison said, “Thank God, I caught you. Alex, you won’t believe this.”

  Strain in her voice. My first thought was something had happened to her grandmother.

  “What’s up?”

  “Gram’s friend, the one who was coming from St. Louis, suffered a stroke this morning. We just got the call. Gram’s taking it hard. Alex, I’m so sorry, but I can’t leave her.”

  “Of course not.”

  “She’ll be fine, I know she will, she always is— is your ticket refundable? I’ve already called the hotel and canceled. I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, sounding calm. No act, I was relieved that I wouldn’t be going. What did that say about me?

  “. . . despite the situation, I’m going to try to get out of the two-week extension, Alex. One week, tops, then I’ll call my cousin Wesley and ask him to do a shift. He’s a chem prof at Barnard on sabbatical in Boston, so his hours are flexible. It’s only fair, right?”

  “Right.”

  She paused for a breath. “You’re not too upset?”

  “I’d love to see you but things happen.”

  “They do . . . it’s freezing, anyway.”

  “Fifteen to twenty-nine in New York.”

  “You looked it up,” she said. “You were all prepared to go. Boo hoo.”

  “Boo hoo hoo,” I said.

  “The suite had a fireplace. Dammit.”

  “When you come back we’ll light mine.”

  “In seventy-degree weather?”

  “I’ll buy some ice and sprinkle it around.”

  She laughed. “That’s some picture . . . I’ll get back as soon as I can. One week, tops . . . uh oh, there’s Gram calling me again, what now? She wants more tea . . . sorry, Alex, talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You sound a little distracted.”

  “Just disappointed,” I lied. “Everything will work out.”

  “Nothing like optimism,” she said. “With all you see, how do you manage that?”

  Allison had been widowed in her twenties. Her basic disposition was a good deal sunnier than mine. But I was a be
tter faker.

  “It’s a good way to live,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Monday night, I reached Milo at his house. It was just after ten and his voice was thick with scotch and fatigue.

  “It’s one a.m. in New York, dude.”

  “I’m still on Pacific Standard.”

  “What happened?”

  “Allison’s grandmother needed her.” I filled him in.

  “Sorry about that. What’s on your mind?”

  “Just checking in,” I said.

  “On Duchay? Turns out weekends at the construction site are for cleanup, but the supervisor said he’d never met Duchay. So either the story was bogus or Duchay was confused. Other than that, zippo to report. My working theory was that Duchay hooked up with some C.Y.A. bad guy buddy in order to do something bad. They got into conflict and the buddy did him.”

  “What makes you think he was planning anything?”

  “Because eight years in lockup is a Ph.D. in bad. The reason I figured a buddy was because Duchay’s pattern was criminal collaboration.”

  “One crime’s a pattern?”

  “When it’s a crime like his. And you need to consider this, Alex: The plan may have involved you. As in target.”

  “Some theory,” I said.

  “Step back and try to be objective,” he said. “A convicted thrill murderer phones you out of the blue, says he wants to talk about his crime but won’t give details. If it was really some confession-absolution deal, why wait eight years? He could’ve written you a letter. And why you? He had spiritual advisers— do-gooders who’d love to grant him absolution. The whole thing smells, Alex. He lured you out.”

  “Why would he want to hurt me?”

  “Because you were part of the system that sent him away for eight years. And his knife wounds say it wasn’t a vacation. Nine sticks, Alex, and three had gone deep. There were scars on his liver and one of his kidneys.”

  Margaret Sieff— the woman Rand had called “Gram”— had been clear about my allegiance.

  Randolph’s laywer said you weren’t necessarily on our side.

  Maybe she’d transmitted that to Rand. Or Lauritz Montez had. He’d seen me as a prosecution tool, had gone along with Sydney Weider’s petition to keep me away from the boys.

  Milo said, “Does your silence indicate I’m making sense?”

  “Anything’s possible,” I said. “But he didn’t sound hostile over the phone.”

  “I know, just troubled.”

  “Back when I evaluated him there was no hostility, Milo. He was meek, cooperative. Unlike Troy, he never tried to manipulate me.”

  “He had eight years to stew, Alex. And don’t forget: He cooperated and still got sent to hell. You know what C.Y.A.’s like. No more status offenders and mischief makers. This year there were six murders in the system.”

  “Liver scars,” I said.

  “Even with that, most people would think Duchay got off easy for what he did. But try telling that to the guy who went through it. I’m thinking one very bitter twenty-one-year-old ex-con. Maybe he had plans to pay lots of people back and you were first on the list.”

  “Why do you have doubts about him hooking up with a prison buddy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said it was your working theory.”

  “Lord, I’m being parsed,” he said. “No, I haven’t abandoned the basic premise. I just haven’t come up with any buddies Duchay met in lockup yet. C.Y.A guy I spoke to said he had no gang affiliations, was ‘socially isolated.’ ”

  “Any disciplinary problems on his record?”

  “Quiet, compliant.”

  “Good behavior,” I said.

  “Yada yada.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “Talk to people who knew him, try to get a fix on his movements that day. I had Sean hit every store on Westwood for three blocks north of Pico to see if anyone spotted Duchay lurking around. Nada. Same for the Westside Pavilion, so if he went in there, he didn’t make an impression. Tomorrow morning I visit Reverend and Mrs. Andrew Daney.”

  “Reverend and Reverend,” I said. “They were both studying to be ministers.”

  “Whatever. I talked to her— Cherish, there’s a name for you. She sounded pretty broken up. All those good intentions blown to bits.”

  “Why’d you take the case on, big guy?”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t care much for the victim.”

  “Who I like or don’t like has nothing to do with it,” he said. “And I am deeply hurt by your intimations to the contrary.”

  “Yada freaking yada,” I said. “Seriously, you can pick and choose. Why this one?”

  “I picked it to make sure you’re not in continuing danger.”

  “I appreciate that but— ”

  “A simple thanks will suffice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Try to enjoy the sunshine until Dr. Gwynn returns.”

  “What time are you seeing the Daneys tomorrow?”

  “Not your problem,” he said. “Sleep in.”

  “Should I drive?”

  “Alex, these people were advocates for the boys. That could make you not their favorite person.”

  “My report wasn’t a factor in the decision to certify them as juveniles. Which, I should point out, is exactly what their lawyers were asking for. There’s no logical reason for me to be targeted.”

  “Strangling and beating a two-year-old wasn’t logical.”

  “What time?” I said.

  “The appointment’s for eleven.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  * * *

  I picked him up at the station at ten-thirty and took the Sepulveda Pass out to the Valley. He said nothing as we crossed Sunset and passed the spot where Rand Duchay’s body had been found.

  I said, “Wonder how he got from the Valley into the city.”

  “Sean’s checking the buses. Probably a waste of time. Like so much of what we do.”

  * * *

  The Galton Street address where Drew and Cherish Daney advised spiritually was in a blue-collar Van Nuys neighborhood, a few blocks from the 405. The sky was the color of newspaper pulp. Freeway noise was a constant rebuke.

  The property was fenced with redwood tongue-and-groove but the gate was open and we entered. A boxy, pale-blue bungalow sat at the front of the eighth-acre lot. At the rear were two smaller outbuildings, one a converted garage painted a matching blue, the other, set slightly back, an unpainted cement block cube. The free space was mostly pavement, broken by a few beds of draft-friendly plants edged with lava rock.

  Cherish Daney sat in a lawn chair to the left of the main house, reading in full sun. When she saw us she shut the book and stood. I got close enough to read the title: Life’s Lessons: Coping with Grief. A piece of tissue paper extended from between the pages.

  Her hair was still white-blond and long, but the teased-up bulk and side-wings of eight years ago had been traded for bangs and simplicity. She had on a white, sleeveless top over blue slacks and gray shoes, the same silver chain and crucifix she’d worn that day at the jail. Most people put on weight as they get older but she had reduced to a hard, dry leanness. Still a young woman— mid-thirties was my guess— but fat’s a good wrinkle filler and her face had collected some tributaries.

  The same sun-bronzed complexion, the same pretty features. Noticeable curve to her back, as if her spine had bowed under some terrible weight.

  She smiled without opening her mouth. Red-rimmed eyes. If she recognized me, she didn’t say so. When Milo gave her his card, she glanced at it and nodded.

  “Thanks for seeing us, Reverend.”

  “Sure,” she said. A screen door slammed and the three of us turned toward the sound.

  A girl, fifteen or sixteen, had come out of the main house and stood on the front steps holding what looked to be a school workbook.