Rage

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Empty,” said Milo. “No, I take that back . . .”

  He got down on the ground, stuck his arm in, brought out a dusty wooden case.

  Smith & Wesson label inside the lid. The bottom was foam with a form-fitted indentation. Revolver-shaped indentation.

  His gloved finger prodded the foam. “Wonder who got lucky first.”

  * * *

  We left the property, now cordoned by tape. Judy Weisvogel stood by the side of the cube talking softly to Valerie. The girl twirled her hair and rocked from foot to foot. Weisvogel took a tissue and dabbed Valerie’s eyes. As I passed, Valerie’s eyes met mine and narrowed with contempt. She flipped me off. Judy Weisvogel frowned and drew her away.

  What would Allison think about my technique?

  What did I think?

  I drove away, staying focused on a plastic baby bracelet.

  Milo said, “Looks like you made a fan, back there.”

  “She’s resentful Cherish entered the room. Furious at me for prying the information out of her. Another violation of her turf.”

  “Turf. Like a little wife. Sick.”

  “It’s going to take a long time for her to realize what he did to her.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Your job’s tougher than mine.”

  * * *

  I got on the freeway and pushed the Seville hard. “I think you’re clear on the search. Cherish definitely wanted someone to find the souvenirs. She left the box out for Wascomb, hoping he’d open it. Knew that even if he didn’t pry, he’d eventually call the authorities and the truth would come out.”

  “Don’t think the truth means that much to her, Alex. She abandons those kids and splits with all her clothes. Maybe with the money and the gun, too, unless Drew got there first. Which, upon reflection, he probably did. Bad guy like that, his nose for trouble would be good. For all we know, he’s already partying at Caesar’s Palace, has himself a new identity.”

  “Valerie said he was called away to moonlight. At a church. You could try to find out all the places he worked, see if his whereabouts can be traced. If the call was righteous.”

  “If?” he said.

  “There’s the other possibility,” I said. “Cherish got the money and the gun. And Cherish has a boyfriend.”

  * * *

  The drive to Soledad Canyon took forty minutes. I parked a ways up the road and we walked toward the campground. Milo unsnapped his gun but kept it holstered.

  No ravens, no hawks, no sign of any life in a grimy gray sky flat as flannel. Despite my heavy foot, the drive had been tedious, marked by heavy stretches of silence, the gravel pits, scrap yards, and cookie-cutter houses set into dusty tracts that seemed more depressing today. Developers would chew up the desert for as long as they were allowed. Families would move in and have babies who’d grow into adolescents. Bored teens would chafe at the heat and the quiet and days that ran into each other like a tape loop. Too much of nothing would breed trouble. People like Milo would never be out of business.

  Neither would people like me.

  As we neared the entrance to Mountain View Sojourn, Milo stopped, got on the phone, checked to see if the BOLO had snared Drew Daney’s Jeep.

  “Nothing.” He seemed almost comforted by failure.

  * * *

  Business was slow at the campsite. Two RVs in the lot, the generator silent. That and a fresh coating of dust and the apathetic sky gave the place a desolate feel.

  No sign of Bunny MacIntyre. We headed straight through the trees.

  Barnett Malley’s black truck was parked exactly where it had been, in front of the cedar cabin.

  Windows rolled up.

  Milo’s gun was out. He motioned me to stay back, proceeded slowly. Looked into the truck from all sides. Continued toward the cabin’s front door.

  Knock knock.

  No “Who’s there?”

  The welcome mat was in place, covered by dry leaves and bird crap. Milo disappeared behind the south side of the cabin, same as he’d done the first time. Returned and tried the front door. It swung open. He went in. Called out, “C’mon.”

  * * *

  Rustic, wood-paneled space, rubbed clean and smelling of Lysol. As vacant as Drew Daney’s hiding hole.

  Except for the piano. Chipped, brown Gulbransen upright, sheet music held in place on the rack with a clothespin.

  Floyd Cramer’s “Last Date” on top. Beneath that: Country Songs for Easy Playing. “Desperado” by the Eagles. “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” by Warren Zevon.

  Empty gun rack on the wall. Through the disinfectant came the smell of male sweat and old clothes and machine oil.

  A voice behind us said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!”

  Bunny MacIntyre stood in the doorway. Her auburn perm was wrapped in an orange scarf and she wore a blue-checked western shirt tucked into straight-leg jeans. A necklace encircled her wattled neck. Silver and turquoise, peace symbol dangling from the central stone.

  Barnett Malley had worn it the day we’d tried to talk to him.

  MacIntyre took in Milo’s gun and said, “Pfft. Put that stupid thing away.”

  Milo obliged.

  She said, “I asked you a question.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a vacancy, ma’am.”

  “And it’s gonna stay that way.”

  “Shucks, ma’am. And here I was thinking about country living.”

  “Then do it somewheres else. This is my place. Gonna be a painting studio,” said MacIntyre. “Shoulda done it a long time ago. Now you leave right now, you don’t have my permission to trespass. Go on.”

  Dismissing wave.

  Still smiling, Milo strode up to her quickly. When he was a foot away, the smile was gone and his face had darkened.

  MacIntyre stood her ground but it took effort.

  Milo said, “When did Malley leave and where did he go? And no bullshit.”

  MacIntyre’s pink lashes fluttered. “You don’t scare me,” she said, but strain thinned her smoker’s voice.

  “Don’t want to scare anyone, ma’am, but I will cuff you and haul you in for obstructing justice if you give me any more lip.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  He spun her around, brought her arm behind her. Gingerly. Regret weakened his eyes.

  A look that said An old woman. This is what it’s come to.

  Bunny MacIntyre howled. “You damned bully! What do you want from me?”

  Her voice was all strain, an octave higher. Milo released her arm, spun her back so she faced him.

  “The truth.”

  She rubbed her wrist. “Big brave guy. I’m filing a complaint.”

  “I’m sure it was a thrill having him here,” said Milo. “Younger guy, I’m not judging. But now he’s gone— with a woman his own age— and things out in the real world have grown ugly, so it’s time to toss the May-December fantasies and help me get to the truth.”

  Bunny MacIntyre gaped. Smiled. Slapped her flank and roared with laughter.

  When her breathing finally slowed, she said, “You thought he was my boy toy? Man, are you stupid!” More laughter.

  “You’re covering for him,” said Milo. “All for a platonic relationship?”

  MacIntyre laughed herself hoarse. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! He’s family, you dolt. My sister’s son. She died of cancer and so did Barnett’s father. And despite what the government claims you’ll never convince me it wasn’t because of all that radiation.”

  “Los Alamos.”

  She blinked. “Let me tell you, they got all kinds of crazy things going on there. Few years back there was a huge fire, burned thousands of acres black but spared the lab. That sound logical? Supposedly it was set on purpose by some Smokey Bear types to control forest fires and the winds blew it out of control.” She snorted. “Tell it to the marines.”

  “Barnett’s your nephew.”

  “Last I heard, that’s what you call a sister’s son. I’m all he’s got
left, mister. He’s an orphan, get it? I was willing to take him in from the beginning but he didn’t want a handout so I sent him over to Gilbert Grass. When Gilbert retired, I told him I could really use the help. Which was true. Is helping family illegal now?”

  “He’s got a sister in Ohio.”

  MacIntyre pursed her lips. “That one. Married a banker, rich snob. She always looked down on Barnett ’cause he wasn’t much for schooling. Not stupid, don’t go thinking he was stupid. He had trouble reading but give him a pump to fix, or something to build, and he’d do it in a flash.”

  “Good for him. Now where is he?”

  “He’s a good boy,” said MacIntyre. “Why don’t you just leave him alone?”

  “Where is he, ma’am?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Ms. MacIntyre— ”

  “You deaf?” She rubbed her wrist some more. “You can pull a Rodney King from today till tomorrow but I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

  “He left without a word?”

  “He left thanking me for everything I’d done, said it was time to go. I didn’t ask questions because I don’t like to ask questions and Barnett doesn’t like to answer them. He’s been through enough. The man’s a vegetarian, that tell you something?”

  “He likes animals.”

  “He’s peaceful.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “His truck’s here.”

  “Gee,” said MacIntyre, “Sherlock Holmes must’ve put on a few pounds.”

  “What’s he using for wheels?”

  Silence.

  “Ma’am?”

  “He’s got another one.”

  “Another truck?” said Milo. “It’s not registered.”

  “It’s registered to me.”

  “Then it’s your responsibility, not his.”

  “Suppose so.”

  “What kind?”

  MacIntyre didn’t answer.

  “Something happens,” said Milo, “the liability is yours. And if it’s registered, all I have to do is make a call.”

  She twisted her mouth.

  “If it’s not,” he said, “you’re in trouble.”

  “Haven’t gotten around to it yet. It was Gilbert’s, I bought it from his widow.”

  “What make?”

  “Also a Ford.”

  “Color?”

  “Also black.”

  “Where does Barnett keep it?”

  “Somewhere in Santa Clarita and don’t ask me where ’cause I don’t know.”

  “Auto-storage facility?”

  “One of those customizer places. He’s having work done on it. Souping up the engine, big tires, you know— boy stuff. Don’t you think he’s entitled to have some boy fun?”

  “Is he traveling alone?”

  “You just said he had a girl.”

  “Did you know it before I told you?” said Milo.

  “He mentioned he had a friend, but that’s it, don’t know her name.”

  “Never met her?”

  “No, but she’s good for Barnett and that’s all I care about.”

  “How do you know she’s good for him?”

  “He’s started getting a little happy.”

  CHAPTER 44

  We headed back to the road and Milo did another BOLO check as I started up the Seville. Shook his head. “Now I’m manhandling crones.”

  “She’ll survive.”

  “Thanks for the support,” he said. “Where’s your sensitive side?”

  “Dormant. Want me to head over to Santa Clarita, find the garage that worked on Barnett’s other truck?”

  “Too much work for too little payoff. Malley and Cherish are already out on the open road. The question is which road.”

  “There’s also the matter of Cherish’s Toyota.”

  “You think they’re traveling separately? You heard MacIntyre. Barnett’s happy.”

  “It would take more than romance to bring joy into his life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe he refused to cooperate with you because he had his own plan. The word ‘closure’ should be dropped from the English language, but a guy in his position might figure getting some sort of satisfaction could ease his pain. And Cherish could help him.”

  “Payback,” he said.

  “That’s another word for it.”

  * * *

  By the time I made it back to the Valley, the sun was starting to drop. I drove straight to the park where Kristal Malley had been murdered, hoping for simple bloody symmetry. Instead of Drew’s body we found only a scrubby, sad space pocked with trash.

  Milo had his little penlight out and he washed the skinny beam over the same public lavatories described in Sue Kramer’s police report, the same Dumpster, now reeking of waste.

  The same swings, where a pair of young killers had sat smoking and drinking beer.

  No kids here, tonight. No people at all. Off in the distance, the crumbling, flat-roofed units of 415 City were top-lit harshly, security bulbs spanking the darkness. A police siren howled, then dopplered to silence. Shouts and laughter and drumbeats filtered through the night. The air was heavy and oppressive and dangerous, like hands around a throat.

  Milo pocketed the penlight. “Nice try. They could be anywhere. Maybe Cherish really did want to go to Vegas.”

  I said, “Where exactly was Lara found?”

  He sat down on one of the swings. The chain howled in protest. Phoning Sue Kramer, he asked her the same question, listened intently. Made some notes and hung up and handed them to me. “For what it’s worth.”

  * * *

  The Sepulveda Basin Wildlife Reserve is 225 acres of what passes for natural habitat in L.A. Created by a dam filled with undrinkable water and army-engineered flood-drainage channels, and planted with native vegetation, the refuge is sandwiched between two freeways yet motion-picture gorgeous. Birds love it and a couple hundred species migrate in and out. People are welcome with qualifications. No hunting, no fishing, no bikes, no feeding the ducks. No straying off the well-marked paths.

  Following Sue Kramer’s directions, I entered on Balboa Boulevard, just below Birmingham High School, cruised a treeless stretch of road. A short while later, the L.A. River appeared, an empty, graffiti-marred trough in this drought-plagued winter.

  Milo said, “She parked right there.” Pointing to a spot bordering the river, half-hidden by an initial planting of eucalyptus.

  No sign of any vehicles.

  I kept driving.

  He said, “Where now?”

  “Maybe nowhere.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Got anything better to do?”

  Continuing south to Burbank, I hooked a left and traversed the southern border of the reserve. Lots of trees here. Signs pointed toward the dam. No more birds than we’d seen in Soledad Canyon. Maybe they knew something.

  We both saw it at the same time.

  White Jeep, on the far end of a small parking lot on Burbank.

  The only vehicle in the lot. Signs said legal parking had ended an hour ago.

  Milo said, “Right out in the open. Take that and stick it in your BOLO. Where are the parking nazis when you need them?”

  I pulled behind the Jeep.

  He said, “Sitting right here and no one notices.”

  I said, “There’s your invitation to search.”

  * * *

  Out came another set of plastic gloves. How many did he carry? He walked around the Jeep, checked the underbody, then the windows. The doors were locked and the interior was empty. Clear view of the rear storage area through the hatchback window. Nothing.

  Milo said, “In the mood for a hike?”

  * * *

  A dirt trail capped the top of the dam. Thicker trees— more eucalyptus, gnarled sycamore, wild oak that enjoyed the drought, evergreens that didn’t. Plenty of opportunity to exit at paved paths feeding to Burbank and Victor
y but we stayed on the dirt. Twenty yards in, the planting thickened even further and the trail blackened and Milo’s penlight cast a sickly beam that died three feet in front of us.