Rage

by Jonathan Kellerman

“I’m not ordained so you can just call me Drew.”

  “Didn’t finish seminary?”

  “Chose not to,” said Daney. “Same for Cherish. We both got involved in youth work and decided that was our calling. I don’t regret it. A pulpit is usually more about internal politics than good works.”

  “Youth work,” said Milo, “as in foster care.”

  “Foster care, homeschooling, coaching, counseling. I work with several nonprofits— the meeting in Sylmar.” He looked at his watch. “Better cut to the chase. This is probably nothing but I feel it’s my duty to tell you.”

  He finished his doughnut, wiped crumbs from his lap. “Six months ago, Rand was transferred to Camarillo, awaiting discharge. Thursday night my wife and I drove up and brought him home. He looked as if he’d landed on another planet.”

  “Disoriented,” I said, using his wife’s term.

  “More than that. Stunned. Think about it, Doctor. Eight years of extreme structure— his entire adolescence spent behind bars— and now he’s released to a strange new world. We fed him dinner, showed him his room, and he went straight to bed. All we had was a converted service porch, but I tell you, that boy looked grateful to be in a small space again. The next morning, I was up at six-thirty as usual, went to check on him. His bed was empty, made up neat as a pin. I found him outside, sitting on the front steps. He looked worse than the previous night. Dark circles under his eyes. Really jumpy. I asked him what was wrong and he just stared at our front gate, which was wide open. I told him everything would be okay, he needed to give himself time. That only made him more agitated— he started shaking his head, really fast. Then he covered his face with his hands.”

  Daney demonstrated. “It was as if he was hiding from something. Playing ostrich. I pried his fingers loose and asked him what was wrong. He didn’t answer and I told him it was important for him to let his feelings out. Finally, he told me someone was watching him. That caught me off-guard but I tried not to show it. I asked him who. He said he didn’t know but he’d heard sounds at night— someone moving around outside his window. The property’s small and neither my wife nor I had heard anything. I asked him what time. He said during the night, he didn’t have a watch. Then he said he heard it again early morning— right after sunrise— got up and found the gate open and saw a truck driving away fast. We always close the gate, but it’s just a pull-latch and sometimes if it’s not shut tight, the wind blows it open. So I didn’t consider that any big deal.”

  “What kind of truck?” said Milo.

  “He said a dark pickup. I didn’t push him because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. It just didn’t seem that important.”

  Milo said, “You doubted his credibility.”

  “It’s not a matter of credibility,” said Daney. “Dr. Delaware, you tested Rand. Have you told the detective how severely learning disabled he was?”

  I nodded.

  “Now, combine that with the challenge of reentry.”

  I said, “Had you known him to fantasize about things that didn’t exist?”

  “Like a hallucination?” said Daney. “No. That’s not what happened Friday. It was more . . . exaggerating normal events. I figured he’d heard a bird or a squirrel.”

  “Now you’re not sure,” said Milo.

  “In view of what happened,” said Daney, “I’d be foolish not to wonder.”

  “Anything happen between Friday and Saturday night?”

  “He didn’t say anything more about being watched or the dark truck and I didn’t bring it up,” said Daney. “He took a walk and came back and said he’d been by a construction site and was going to go back in the afternoon to talk to the boss.”

  “What time was the first walk?” said Milo.

  “We eat early . . . maybe eight, eight-thirty a.m.”

  “What kind of job was he looking for?”

  “Anything, I guess. He had no real skills.”

  “C.Y.A. rehabilitation,” I said.

  Daney’s husky shoulders bunched. “Don’t get me started.”

  Milo said, “Sir, your wife says Rand left at five p.m. to meet the supervisor. But the site closes down by noon.”

  “I guess Rand was misinformed, Detective. Or someone misled him.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “People like Rand tend to be misled.” He consulted his watch again and stood. “Sorry, I need to get going.”

  “One more question,” said Milo. “I’m going to be contacting Rand’s family. Any idea where to start?”

  “Don’t bother to start,” said Daney. “There’s no one. His grandmother died several years ago. Complications of heart disease. I was the one who informed Rand.”

  “How’d he react?”

  “Just what you’d imagine. He was extremely upset.” He glanced at his Jeep. “I don’t know if any of this was useful, but I thought I should tell you.”

  Milo said, “I appreciate it, sir. You didn’t want your wife to know because . . .”

  “No sense upsetting her. Even if it was relevant, it would have nothing to do with her.”

  “Is there anything else that might help me, sir?” said Milo.

  Daney jammed his hand in his pocket. Looked at the Jeep again. Ran a hand across the steel needles of his beard. “This is . . . ticklish. I really don’t know if I should be bringing it up.”

  “Bring what up, sir?”

  “Rand was found far from home, so I was thinking, maybe that truck . . . what if someone did take him for a ride?” He tried to tug at an eighth-inch beard hair, finally managed to pincer one between his fingernails, pulled, stretched his cheek.

  “A dark pickup,” said Milo. “That ring any bells?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Daney. “It does, but I’m really not comfortable . . . I know this is a murder investigation, but if you could be discreet . . .”

  “About what?”

  “Quoting me as the source,” said Daney. He bit his lip. “There’s a whole lot of history here.”

  “Something to do with eight years ago?”

  Daney pulled at his cheek again. Created a lopsided frown.

  “I’ll be as discreet as possible, sir,” said Milo.

  “I know you will . . .” Daney turned as a truck loaded with bags of fertilizer drove onto the lot. Dark blue. A stick-on sign said Hernandez Landscaping. Two mustachioed guys in dusty jeans and baseball caps got out and entered the doughnut stand.

  Daney said, “See what I mean, pickups are all over. I’m sure it’s no big deal.”

  “Give it a shot, anyway, Mr. Daney. For Rand’s sake.”

  Daney sighed. “Okay . . .” Another sigh. “Barnett Malley— Kristal Malley’s father drives a dark pickup. Or at least he used to.”

  “Eight years ago?” said Milo.

  “No, no, more recently. Two years ago. That’s when I ran into him at a True Value hardware store not far from here. I was buying parts to fix a garbage disposal and he was loading up on tools. I noticed him right away but he didn’t see me. I tried to avoid him but we encountered each other at the register. I let him go ahead of me, watched him leave and get into his truck. A black pickup.”

  “You two talk?” said Milo.

  “I wanted to,” said Daney. “Wanted to tell him I could never really understand his pain but that I’d prayed for his daughter. Wanted to let him know that just because I’d reached out to Troy and Rand didn’t mean I didn’t understand his tragedy. But he gave me a look that said ‘Don’t go there.’ ”

  He hugged himself.

  “Hostile,” I said.

  “More than that, Doctor.”

  “How much more?” said Milo.

  “His eyes,” said Daney. “Pure hatred.”

  * * *

  We watched the white Jeep drive off.

  Milo said, “Barnett Malley. It has now officially gotten messy. So how would an ambush fit the time frame— and the call to you an hour and a half after he left the D
aneys’?”

  “Rand could’ve lied to the Daneys about going to the construction site.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he had a meeting before the one with me and didn’t want them to know about it. With Barnett Malley.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I told you he sounded troubled. If guilt was weighing him down and he was trying to prove he was a good person, who better to ask for forgiveness than Malley?”

  “Daney said he was freaked out by being watched.”

  “But the next morning he looked better. Maybe he’d somehow made contact with Malley, decided to take positive action. State law requires notification of victims’ families when a felon’s released, so Malley would’ve known Rand was out. What if Malley kept an eye on Rand, confronted him face-to-face during Rand’s first trip to the site at eight a.m.? They agreed to meet later and Rand invented the appointment with the construction supervisor as cover.”

  “Not an ambush,” he said. “He gets in Malley’s truck voluntarily, then it goes bad.”

  “Rand was impressionable, not very smart, eager for absolution. If Malley came across friendly— forgiving— Rand would’ve been eager to buy it.”

  “Okay, let’s think this through. Rand hooks up with Malley around five p.m., Malley drives him into the city, drops him off at the mall, and Rand calls you to set up another meeting? Why, Alex?”

  First time using the victim’s first name. Some kind of transition had taken place.

  I said, “Don’t know. Unless, Rand and Malley had made peace and Rand decided to keep the process going.”

  He rubbed his face vigorously, as if washing without water. “Not much of a peace if Malley shot him. What, Malley dropped him off, then picked him up again?”

  “Maybe Malley had more to talk about.”

  “The two of them rode around together schmoozing about the bad old days, Malley decided to off him rather than let him eat pizza with you? Even if we can explain all that, the big question remains: If this is all about payback, why would Malley wait eight years?”

  “Maybe he was willing to wait for both boys to get out but a C.Y.A. gangbanger beat him to Troy.”

  “So he bides his time on Rand.” He drank coffee. “According to Daney, Malley was still heated up two years ago.”

  “Malley wanted the death penalty,” I said. “Some wounds never heal.”

  “Theory, theory, theory. So, now what? I intrude on a couple who lost their kid in the worst possible way because hubby gave Daney a dirty look two years ago and he drives a black pickup?”

  “It could be touchy,” I said.

  “It could require some serious psychological sensitivity.”

  I took a bite of Danish. A few minutes ago it had tasted great. Now it was deep-fried dust.

  “Do I have to spell it out, Alex? I’d rather you do it and I’ll watch.”

  “You’re not worried my presence will disrupt?”

  “The defense saw you as pro-prosecution, so maybe the Malleys will remember you fondly for the same reason.”

  “No reason for them to remember me at all,” I said. “Never met them.”

  “Really?”

  “There was no reason to.” Funny how defensive that sounded.

  “Well,” he said, “now there’s a reason.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Milo phoned DMV for current licenses and registrations on Barnett and Lara Malley.

  Nothing for her. Barnett Melton Malley had a Soledad Canyon address, out in Antelope Valley.

  “The birth date fits,” he said. “One vehicle, a ten-year-old Ford pickup. Black at the time of registration.”

  “Soledad’s forty, fifty miles from Van Nuys,” I said. “After what they went through, I can see them wanting to get out of the city. Rural area like that, Lara would need to drive, so why isn’t she licensed?”

  “They’re not living together and she moved out of state?”

  “A tragedy like that can drive people apart.”

  “I can think of a giant wedge,” he said. “Kristal was snatched from under her nose. Maybe hubby blamed her.”

  “Or,” I said, “she blamed herself.”

  As we returned to the city, Sean Binchy called in. Van Nuys Division had no record of any call from the Daneys about Rand’s disappearance.

  “No big surprise,” said Milo. “He wasn’t officially missing, so it wasn’t filed.”

  “What’s the current status of your felonious friend theory?”

  “Have I abandoned it completely because Barnett Malley owns a black truck? Like Daney said, plenty of pickups in the Valley. But Malley had good reason to hate Rand. I’d be an idiot to ignore him.”

  “When were you planning on visiting him?”

  “I was thinking tomorrow,” he said. “Late enough to avoid the morning rush but early enough not to get tied up coming back. First, I’m gonna try to find out where he works. If I get lucky and it’s somewhere closer, I’ll call you.”

  He scribbled in his notepad, returned it to his pocket. “Or even luckier, some mitigating factor will emerge. Like an ironclad alibi for Malley.”

  “You don’t want it to be him,” I said.

  “Hey,” he said. “How about lunch? I’m thinking tandoori lamb.”

  * * *

  We stopped at the station first, where he cleared his messages and ran Barnett Malley through NCIC and the other criminal databases and came up empty. Same for Lara Malley.

  I stayed on my feet, expecting we’d soon leave for Café Moghul. But he just sat there, eyes closed, passing the phone from one hand to the other until he called the Hall of Records downtown and asked for a clerk who owed him a favor. It took awhile to get through but once he connected, the conversation was brief. When he hung up, he looked weary.

  “Lara Malley’s deceased. Seven years ago, suicide by firearm. Women are shooting themselves more, nowadays, but back then it was a little unusual, right? Pills were the ladies’ choice.”

  “Not always, if the ladies were serious,” I said.

  “Mommy cashes in a year after Kristal’s murder. Enough time to see life wasn’t getting any better. The Malleys ever get any therapy, Alex?”

  “Don’t know.”

  He began punching his computer keyboard as if it was a sparring partner, logged onto the state firearms registration file. Squinted and stared and copied something down and drew his lips back in a strange, hollow smile that made me glad I wasn’t his enemy.

  “Mr. Barnett Melton Malley has amassed quite an arsenal. Thirteen shotguns, rifles, and handguns, including a couple of thirty-eights.”

  “Maybe he lives alone in a secluded area. He’d have more reason than most to be vigilant.”

  “Who says he lives alone?”

  “Same answer,” I said. “If he started a new family, he’d want to protect it.”

  “Angry, bitter guy,” he said. “Loses his entire family to violence, moves out to the boonies with a stash of firepower heavy enough to outfit a militia. Maybe he’s in a militia— one of those survivalist yahoos. Am I overreaching if I use the term ‘high risk’?”

  “If he intended to murder someone, why would he register his weapons?”

  “Who says he registered all of them?” He fumbled in a desk drawer, pulled out a wooden-tipped cigar, rolled it between his palms.

  “The way Rand was shot,” he said. “Contact wound, left side of the head, the killer at approximately the same height. Taken by surprise like you suggested. That conjure up an image?”

  “The killer was sitting to his left,” I said. “Close to him. As in the driver’s seat of a vehicle.”

  He pointed the cigar at me. “That’s the channel that switched on in my head. In terms of premeditation, maybe Malley didn’t think it out. Maybe he started out wanting to talk to Rand. To confront the guy who’d ruined his life. We both know victims’ families sometimes crave that.”

  I said, “Malley had eight years
for that, but perhaps Rand’s release triggered old memories.”

  “Malley picks him up, drops him off, drives around and finds out he’s still got unfinished business with Rand. They drive up somewhere in the hills and something goes wrong.”

  “Rand wasn’t articulate. He said the wrong thing to Malley and triggered big-time rage.”

  “ ‘I’m a good person,’ ” he said.