Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge

by Over the Edge

  Lightning splintered the sky, and thunder applauded. Milo read while I fidgeted.

  'This brugmansia is a nasty shit,' he said, peering at the pages. 'Any number of ways to hit someone with it - tea, soup, food, cigarettes.'

  'Some preparations can be absorbed through the skin,' I said. 'There's a section later on about poultices.'

  'Wonderful. And Auntie's an expert on it.' He frowned and slapped his hand on the table hard enough for the mug to dance. 'Paying a quack to blitz a kid's mind. Very cold. Do you think at some level he understood what was going on? All that talk about zombies?'

  'God only knows.'

  'Jesus, Alex, I hate family stuff. Pure shit, and the richer the family, the worse it smells. At least the poor folk do it honestly - get pissed at each other, grab the Remington off the rack, and blast away. These upper-crust assholes don't even have the guts to act out their own passions. Probably delegate their bowel movements. "Grimes, take a shit, please. " "Yes, madam. " ' He shook his head and took a long swallow of coffee.

  'Besides lacking sublety,' I said, 'blasting away with the Remington gets you caught.'

  He looked up.

  'Yeah, I know. There's still no solid evidence. Rub it in.'

  'They looked everywhere for the book?'

  'No,' he growled. 'We used volunteers from the Braille Institute, let them tap around the deck for a coupla minutes with their little white canes, and called it a day. What do you think?'

  'Excuse me, Sergeant.'

  'Hmmph,' he mumbled, and returned to the book, humming off key: 'Rainy days and Mondays always bring me down.'

  'It's Thursday.'

  'Whatever.'

  I went into the kitchen to get another cup of coffee. Sitting on the window ledge and drinking, I waited for a

  lull in the downpour. When none came, I put on my raincoat anyway, stuck an old cowboy hat on my head, and went down to the garden to check the koi.

  The gravel around the pond had loosened, and the azaleas drooped defeatedly. But the water level was a good six inches from overflowing, and the fish seemed to be enjoying themselves, careening playfully in the turbulence, pecking at the rain-packed surface of the water, creating kinetic rainbows that sparkled through the gloom. When they saw me, they raced forward and slurped at the moss rock, bumping and grinding in a frenzy of fat, wet polychrome bodies. I took some pellets out of the feed canister and tossed them in.

  'Bon appetit, fellows.' I crossed the garden to take a look under the house: muddy but intact, just a bit of erosion. Some of the sandbags had got wet.

  I dragged them out of the rain and had started to stack them when I heard Milo call:

  'Phone, Alex.'

  After scraping my shoes off, I climbed back up to the terrace. He was holding the receiver with one hand, the monograph with the other.

  'Some guy who claims he's your broker. Very fast talker.'

  I took the phone.

  'Hello, Alex? Lou. Anything you want to tell me about the Bitter Canyon bonds, yet?'

  I glanced over at Milo. He sat hunched, chin in hand, immersed in a chapter on rites and spells.

  'Not yet. Give me a couple - '

  'No sweat, Alex. I already unloaded it. After we spoke, I went digging and found a slight trickle oozing out of Beverly Hills. No big block sales, just a few odd lots here and there, but there's definitely been some quiet selling. Might mean nothing, but then again, it might. In any event, I'm out.'

  'Lou, I -'

  'Don't worry, Alex. I sold at a good premium and made a tasty short-term capital gain. My clients are pleased, and

  my charisma remains unscathed. If it crashes, I'll look like Nicodemus; if not, we still did okay. So thank you, Doctor.'

  'For what?'

  'Information. I know you couldn't say anything, but nuance was enough. The market runs on it.'

  'If you say so. Glad to help.'

  'Listen, I'm fuelling up The Incentive and heading down your way en route to Cabo San Lucas. Going to be looking for white sea bass and the late albacore run, plus there's a rumour the tutuava have returned. I'll be docked at Marina Del Rey for a couple of days, tying up some loose ends with a client. How about I call you and we take lunch?'

  'Sure, Lou,' I said absently. 'That would be great. Listen, can I ask you a technical question - '

  'That's what I'm here for.'

  'Not about finance. About boats.'

  Milo stopped reading.

  'If you're looking to buy, I know someone who's got a very clean thirty-foot Boston whaler. Probate situation - '

  'Not in the market,' I said, then looked out at the downpour. 'Yet.'

  'What then?'

  'Lou, if you wanted to hide something on a boat, where would you put it?'

  ' Depends on the boat. The Incentive's got all sorts of nooks and crannies, all that teak. If there's enough woodwork, you could hollow out a compartment virtually anywhere.'

  'No, I mean so even the pros couldn't find it.'

  'The pros?'

  'The police.'

  Milo looked up and stared at me.

  'Alex,' said Cestare, 'what the devil are you up to?'

  'I'm not up to anything. Consider it a theoretical question.'

  He gave a low whistle.

  'In some circuitous way this is related to Bitter Canyon, isn't it?'

  'It could be.'

  Silence.

  'How big a thing are you trying to hide?'

  'Say, five inches by eight.'

  'How thick?'

  'An inch.'

  'That small, huh? For a minute you had me worried you were getting into something felonious. Cocaine transport, et cetera. But even coke wouldn't be worth smuggling in such a small quantity... unless, of course, it were a private stash and you - '

  'Lou,' I said patiently, 'I'm not a dope smuggler. Now where would you hide - '

  'A five-by-eight-by-one thing? Let's see, have you tried the sea strainer?'

  'What's that?'

  'In a motorised boat - we are talking about a stinkpot, aren't we?'

  I held my hand over the speaker and asked Milo:

  'Radovic's boat motorised?'

  He nodded.

  'Yes.'

  'In a motorised boat, seawater is used to keep the engine cool. The sea strainer is basically a duct that runs through the boat, carrying the water to the engine and keeping it free of debris. You've got hatches on both ends. If I really didn't want something to be found, I'd use the one in the hull. You'd have to swim underwater to stash it. Is this thing perishable?'

  'Yes.'

  'Can you use it in the kitchen? Animal, vegetable, mineral?'

  I laughed.

  'Anyway,' he said, 'I'd wrap it in something to protect it, unscrew the strainer hatch, stick the thing in, close it up, and forget about it. Sound like what you're after?'

  'Could be. Thanks, Lou.'

  'Think nothing of it. We're a full-service brokerage house. Oh, one more thing, Alex.'

  'What's that?'

  'Brandon says hello. You've convinced him he's an executive.'

  'Hello back to Brandon.'

  I hung up. Milo stood over me.

  'So?' he said.

  'Do you know a good frogman?'

  The wind came in hard, cold gusts separated by ominous moments of frigid silence. The strongest blasts bent the masts of the smaller sailboats, causing them to whipsaw and dance. The air was a gumbo of bilge, gasoline, and sweet coastal air, lightly salted.

  'This is supposed to blow over by evening,' said Milo, drawing his yellow slicker tight and hugging himself. His pale face had pinkened in the chill, and his eyes were red and watery. The slicker made him look like a big school kid. 'We can wait. You don't have to do it now.'

  The man in the wet suit looked out at the marina. Cinder skies had turned the water a deep, angry grey. Grey flecked with frothy white. Shark-fin waves threw off mottled highlights of pea green as they climbed, peaked, and rolled to sudden
collapse. The man watched it for a while, white-lashed eyes compressed to a squint, young, freckled face stolid and still.

  'S'okay, Sarge,' he said. 'I've seen worse.' He rubbed his hands together, checked his tanks, inspected the tool bag hanging from his weight bag, and stepped to the flimsy aluminium rail. Another diver climbed out of the cabin and flippered over. His face was equally young: shelf-chin, grey eyes, pug of a nose. 'Ready, Steve?' he asked. The first man grinned and said, 'Let's do it.' They pushed their masks down, climbed over the rail, held on, and curled their bodies, as sleek and black as bull seals. Without a word they went over, piercing the skin of the water and disappearing.

  'Pacific Division rookies,' said Milo. 'Macho surfers.' We were standing on the bow of Radovic's boat, a fifteen-year-old Chris Craft labelled Sweet Vengeance in chipped gilt script, its fibreglass dull and scarred, its sloping deck caked with fish scales, grime, and black algae and badly in need of repair. The deck fixtures had been dismantled. Some hadn't been replaced. A fisherman's chair lay on its side. Several bolts had rolled into a comer. A rotting ribbon of kelp floated in a deepening pool of muddy water.

  The door to the cabin had been left open, revealing a cramped interior made claustrophobic by jumbled clots of clothing and stacks of cartons. The boat had been taken apart.

  'Looks as if the Braille people were thorough,' I said.

  'Oh, yeah,' said Milo. 'Dogs and all.' He pulled out a handkerchief, blew his nose, and looked down at the water. Suddenly a face slap of wind whipped up the waves, and the boat lurched. Both of us grabbed the rail for support. The deck was slimy-slick, and I had to struggle to keep standing. Milo's feet slid out from under him, and his knees gave way. A fall looked inevitable, but he stiffened, put his weight on his heels, and fought to remain upright. When the wind died down, he was swearing and his face had started to turn green.

  'Terra firma,' he said weakly. 'Before I heave my chowder.'

  We walked off the boat gingerly and waited on the dock, wet but stable. Milo breathed deeply and stared out at the angry harbour. Forty-foot craft bobbled like bathtub toys. His complexion remained pallid, tinted with olive.

  'You okay?'

  He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled, and shook his head.

  'Motion sickness. Had it since I was a kid. Lost my sea legs the moment we climbed aboard. That last roll was the final straw.'

  'What about Dramamine?'

  'Dramamine makes it worse.'

  'There are patches you can stick behind your ear. Laced with scopolamine.'

  'Very funny.'

  'No, I'm serious. Anticholinergics are great gastric relaxants. It's one of their legitimate uses.'

  'I'll pass.'

  A moment later:

  'Are those patches prescription or over-the-counter?'

  'Prescription. But you can get anticholinergics over the counter, if that's what you're asking - sleep remedies and decongestants.'

  'Could you hoard enough over-the-counter stuff to poison someone?'

  'I doubt it. There are other ingredients in the pills, many of them in much higher concentrations. Like adrenaline in decongestants. Too much of it, and the heart gives out. A hoard with enough anticholinergic to cause psychosis would be so loaded with adrenaline it would kill the victim first. And even if you knew enough chemistry to extract what you wanted, it wouldn't give you the desired effect. Jamey showed a progression of symptoms that varied over time: He was drowsy when that was called for, agitated on cue. We're talking about a manufactured psychosis, Milo. Custom-tailored to fit the needs of the poisoner. Unadulterated atropine or scopolamine couldn't be counted on to give you that much control. If he was poisoned, it was with weird stuff. In combinations.'

  ' Designer drugs.'

  'Exactly.'

  He turned up his collar and began rocking on his heels. I noticed that his colour had returned: the power of intellectual distraction. After several silent minutes he said:

  'I'm going back to the car, try County again. The resident I spoke to sounded sharp, but I want to connect with the head guy.'

  He walked away with long, purposeful strides, leaving me alone on the wharf. A hundred feet away was a marine filling station with a minimarket just beyond the pumps. I bought bad coffee and a glazed doughnut, stepped under an awning, and sipped and ate as I watched a big sparkling yacht fill its tanks. Twenty minutes later Milo returned, notepad in hand. He looked at Sweet Vengeance.

  'Nothing.'

  'Not yet. How's Jamey doing?'

  'Still stuporous. It was a serious concussion. There doesn't seem to be any major brain damage, but it's too early to tell. Vis-a-vis poisoning, the Woodwork's still at the lab, should be back in a couple of hours. I asked them to rush it, but apparently it takes time for technical reasons. The guy in charge - neurologist named Platt, sounds very on top of things - was pretty sceptical about the whole idea of atropine psychosis. Said the few cases he'd seen were Parkinson's patients, and even those were rare because they use different drugs now. He'd never heard of its being done deliberately. But he also said that if the tests do come out positive, they've got something that can pull him out of it relatively quickly.'

  He raised the notepad, shielded it from the rain, and read:

  'Antilirium. It unblocks the damage done by atropine and cleans up the nerve endings. But it's strong stuff in its own right, and the kid's pretty beat-up to risk it without chemical confirmation. For now, they're putting him on unofficial detox. The only visitors have been Souza and the aunt and uncle; Mainwaring hasn't been there for four or five days. They're trying to keep an eye out without letting on and haven't seen anything fishy, but if the stuffs that absorbable, Platt admitted it could be slipping in anyway. He said the best they can do in the meantime is log meticulously and keep taking blood. He's handling all the kid's medication personally.'

  He looked at his watch. 'What's it been, forty minutes?'

  'Closer to half an hour.'

  'Ugly out there. They say sharks like this kind of weather. Gets the predatory juices flowing.'

  'They had enough air for at least an hour. More, if they're as experienced as they seemed.'

  'Oh, they're experienced all right. Hansen - the one with the big chin - moonlights as a scuba instructor. Steve Pepper was an all-Hawaii surfing champion. I'm glad they did it, but they're still nuts to go out there.' He pushed a shock of hair out of his face. 'The impetuousness of youth, huh? I think I had it once but can't remember that far back. Speaking of which, can your little friend Jennifer be counted on to keep quiet about all this?'

  'Absolutely. It started out for her as an intellectual lark combined with real compassion for Jamey, but when reality sank in, she was pretty scared.'

  'Hope she stays that way. Because if it turns out to be poisoning, we are dealing with heavy-duty evil.'

  'I impressed that on her.'

  The surface of the water broke with a splash. One head, then another, appeared. Masks were pushed back; mouths, thrown open.

  'Yo! Sarge!'

  'We got it, sir!'

  The divers hoisted themselves on deck, pulled off their flippers, and leaped nimbly off the boat. Hansen handed something to Milo.

  'The hull hatch was soldered shut,' he said, 'so we had to pry it off, which took awhile 'cause one of the screwdrivers snapped. But once we did, it was a piece of cake. Steve stuck his hand in, and bingo. It was wedged about six inches up, positioned so the strainer was still open. Looks like the plastic kept it dry.'

  Milo inspected the package in his hands. The book appeared intact, swaddled in layers of clear Teflon bags that had been heatsealed. The word Diary, scrawled in lavender, was visible through the plastic.

  'Excellent work, gentlemen. I'm going to notify your watch commander. In writing.'

  Both men grinned.

  'Anytime, Sarge,' said Pepper, teeth chattering. Hansen slapped him on the back.

  'Now go get warmed up.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  They
jogged off.

  'Come on,' said Milo. 'I want the lab to look at this. Then we'll find a quiet place to read.'

  A BORED-looking desk sergeant opened the door of the interrogation room and told Milo he had a call. He left to take it, and I picked up the black book and started to read.

  What Old Man Skaggs had believed to be poetry was, in fact, a collection of impressionistic jottings, Black Jack Cadmus's version of a journal. The entries varied from incomplete sentences to several pages of inspired prose; on some days he'd written nothing. The handwriting was expansive and backslanted, so ornate as to verge on the calligraphic.