Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge

by Over the Edge

  that his nose was an inch from Mainwaring's. The psychiatrist tried to pull away but was stopped by the back of the armchair.

  'Okay,' said the detective, 'let's go with that for a minute. Let's say you were fooled.'

  'It's humiliating, but it's tr - '

  'You think that kind of ignorance is gonna buy you bliss?' snarled Milo. 'You just admitted you figured it out after you spoke to Delaware. You've known about it for over a week! Why the hell didn't you say anything? How could you let that kid continue to go through that kind of suffering?' He waved his notepad in Mainwaring's face. 'Intense suffering, bleak and terrifying, a goddamn private hell? Why didn't you stop it!'

  'I - I was going to. Took the time off to formulate - to plan how to go about it.'

  'Oh, Jesus, more bullshit,' said Milo disgustedly. 'How much did they pay you, Guy?'

  'Nothing!'

  'Bullshit.'

  The door to the hallway opened, and a woman stepped into the room. Young, dark, conspicuously voluptuous in a flame red turtleneck and tight jeans. Brassy brown eyes shielded by long black lashes. The sculpted cheekbones and full dark lips of a young Sophia Loren.

  'It's not bullshit,' she said.

  'Andrea!' said Mainwaring, with suddenly renewed vigour. 'Stay out of it. I insist!'

  'I can't, darling. Not anymore.'

  She walked over to the armchair, stood next to the psychiatrist, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers uncurled, and Mainwaring shuddered.

  'He's not a coward,' she said. 'Far from it. He's trying to protect me. I'm Andrea Vann, Sergeant. I'm the one they paid off.'

  Milo's interrogation of her was as rough as any I've seen him do. She took it unflinchingly, sitting on the edge of the sofa, straight-backed and stoic, hands folded motionless in

  her lap. Every time Mainwaring triad to intervene on her behalf, she silenced him with a steely smile. Eventually he gave up and withdrew to brooding silence.

  'Run that by me again,' demanded the detective. 'Someone leaves five thousand dollars in cash in your apartment along with a note telling you there'll be another five if you leave your post on a certain night, and you don't ask questions.'

  'That's right.'

  'That kind of thing's an everyday occurrence for you.'

  'Far from it. It was unreal, like winning the lottery. The first good luck I've had in years. It bothered me that someone had broken into my place, and I knew the money was dirty; but I was dirt poor and tired of it. So I took it, changed my lock, and didn't raise a peep.'

  'And tore up the note.'

  'Tore it up and flushed it down the toilet.'

  'Very convenient.'

  She said nothing.

  'Remember anything about the handwriting?' asked Milo.

  'It was typed.'

  'What about the paper?'

  She shook her head.

  'The only paper I was looking at was green. Fifty-dollar bills. Two packages of fifty each. I counted it twice.'

  'I bet you did. Did you ever stop counting long enough to wonder why someone wanted you off the ward that night?'

  'Of course I did. But I forced myself to stop wondering.'

  Milo turned to Mainwaring.

  'What would you call that, Guy? Repression? Denial?'

  'I was greedy,' said Vann. 'Okay? I saw dollar signs and blocked everything else out. Turned my brain off. Is that what you want to hear?'

  'What I want to hear is the truth.'

  'Which is exactly what I've been giving you.'

  'Right,' said Milo, and busied himself with note taking. She shrugged and asked if she could smoke.

  'No. When did you decide to switch your brain back to on:

  'After Jamey was arrested for murder. I realised then that I'd got myself into something big. I got scared - really scared. I handled it by insulting myself calm.'

  'What?'

  'I kept telling myself I was an idiot to let anxiety get in the way of good fortune. Over and over, like hypnosis, until I calmed down. I wanted the second five thousand, felt I deserved it."

  'Sure, why not? Honest wages for an honest night's work.'

  'Now look here,' said Mainwaring. 'You - '

  'It's all right, Guy,' said Vann. 'He can't make it any worse than it is.'

  Milo crooked a thumb at Mainwaring.

  How long have you and he had a thing going?'

  'Almost a year. Next Tuesday's our anniversary.'

  'Happy anniversary. Marriage plans?'

  She and the psychiatrist exchanged meaningful looks. His eyes were wet.

  'There were.'

  'Then why all the pissing and moaning about poverty? Soon you would have been a doctor's wife. Until then he could have loaned you money.'

  'Guy's as broke as I am.' She scanned the shabby room. 'Do you think he'd be living like this if he weren't?'

  Milo turned to Mainwaring.

  'That true? And don't bullshit me, I can check out your finances in an afternoon.'

  'Go ahead. There's nothing to check. I'm bloody busted.'

  'Bad investments?'

  The psychiatrist smiled bitterly.

  'The worst. A rotten marriage.'

  'His wife's an evil bitch,' spat Andrea Vann. 'Cleaned out their joint accounts, attached his earnings, took the children and every stick of furniture, and rented a twelve room mansion in Redondo Beach - five thousand dollars

  a month plus utilities. Then she filed a deposition full of vicious lies, claimed he was an unfit father, and had his visitation cut off. He has to undergo a full psychiatric evaluation in order to see his children!'

  'Had,' corrected Mainwaring. 'The matter's moot now, Andy.'

  She turned on him.

  'Don't be so goddamned defeatist, Guy! We've messed things up, but we haven't killed anyone!'

  He withered under the heat of her words, gnawed at a knuckle, and stared at the carpet.

  'Let's get back on track,' said Milo. 'You say the second five thousand came a week later.'

  'Five days,' she said. 'Same as the other two times you asked. The story won't change in the retelling because it's true.'

  'And Guy, here, knew nothing about it.'

  'Absolutely nothing. I didn't want to get him involved, didn't want to jeopardise his custody fight. My plan was to put away the money for a nest egg, so that we could start fresh. I was going to surprise him with it after we were married.'

  'The Mustang part of that nest egg?'

  She hung her head.

  'How much did it cost?'

  'Two thousand down, the rest on payments.'

  Milo pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  'This your loan contract?'

  'Yes. How did - '

  'You registered it in your own name but told the dealer you were Pat Demeter. Gave a Barstow address. How many of those payments did you plan on making?'

  She looked up defiantly, eyes the colour and heat of mulled cider.

  'All right, Sergeant, you've made your point. I'm a lying bimbo with the ethics of a - '

  'Who's Pat Demeter?'

  'My ex-husband! A snake. Beat me and stole every penny I owned and shoveled it up his nose. Tried to turn

  me into a coke whore and threatened to maim Sean when I refused. I'm not telling you this to get your sympathy, Sergeant. But don't waste any on him either. When they come to him to collect for that car, it won't even start to make up for what he did to me!'

  'Demeter's your married name?' asked Milo dispassionately.

  'Yes. The first thing I did after the divorce was change my name back. Didn't want anything to remind me of that scum.'

  'Where's your son?'

  She stared at him hatefully.

  'You're a sweet soul, aren't you, Sergeant Sturgis?'

  'Where is he?'

  'With my parents.'

  'Where with your parents?'

  'In Visalia - yes, I know you can get the address. They're good people. Don't drag them
into this.'

  ' Why'd you send him away?'

  'I was scared.'

  'Because Cadmus had been arrested.'

  'No. There's more if you'd just let me get it out!'

  'Go on.'

  She caught her breath.

  'It was after the second payoff arrived. Whoever brought it got into the apartment again. Through the new lock - a dead bolt, supposed to be burglarproof. They put the money on the lid of the toilet bowl, left the door wide open. It felt... contemptuous. As if someone wanted to let me know how expendable I was. I drove straight to Sean's school, picked him up and took him to a friend's, went back to the apartment, and packed - '

  'By yourself?'

  'Yes. There wasn't much.' She waited for another question.

  'Keep going,' said Milo.

  'I waited until after dark to put the stuff in the car. Just as I was about to drive away, these two guys appeared out of nowhere, on both sides of the car, yanking on the door

  handles, saying they wanted to talk to me, trying to force their way in. I barely got it locked in time.'

  'What did they look like?'

  'Scuzzy. Outlaw bikers. I know the type because there are lots of them around Barstow, and during the few times in his life that Pat worked, he pumped gas at a station where they used to hang out.'

  'Recognise these two?'

  'No.'

  'What did they look like?'

  'The one on the passenger side was fat and bearded. The one close to me was a hairy animal. Unshaven, big moustache. Big hands - at least they looked big pressed against the glass. Weird, dead eyes.'

  'Eye colour? Tattoos? Distinguishing marks?'

  'No idea. It was dark, and all I could think about was getting out of there. They were pounding the glass, rocking the car, snarling. I tried to back out, but they'd parked their chopper up against my rear bumper. It was a big bike and I was afraid I'd get jammed up and be trapped. So I screamed and leaned on the horn, and Mrs. Cromarty -the landlady - came out. The hairy one had a hammer; he was about to smash the window in. But Mrs. Cromarty kept shouting, "What's going on?" and coming closer. That scared them off. The minute they were gone I got out of there. Drove around for hours before I was sure I hadn't been followed, finally picked up Sean, and came here to Guy's.'

  'Who was absolutely shocked by the whole thing.'

  'As a matter of fact, yes. When he told you he'd been fooled, he was being truthful. It was only after I told him about the money that he started to suspect something. We're not saints, Sergeant, but we're not the people you're after.'

  'And who might those be?'

  'The family, of course. They're the ones who hired that Surtees cow to give him the poison.'

  'How do you know she did it?'

  'She had daily access to him.'

  'So did others. Including you and Guy.'

  'We didn't do it. We had no reason to.'

  'Poverty's a hell of a motivator.'

  'If we'd been paid off, why would we stick around?'

  Milo didn't answer.

  'Sergeant,' said Andrea Vann, 'there was no logical reason for Marthe Surtees to be there. She was weird, poorly-trained. Guy accepted the family's story about wanting one-on-one care, because people in that situation are highly stressed and he was being compassionate but-'

  The detective wheeled on Mainwaring:

  'How much did they pay you to let her in?'

  'Two thousand.'

  'Cash?'

  'Yes.'

  'The uncle give it you directly?'

  'Through the lawyer, Souza.'

  'These people are filthy rich,' said Vann. 'Their type runs the world by manipulating people. Can't you see that they manipulated us?'

  Milo scowled.

  'So now you're victims, right?'

  She tried to lock eyes with him but gave up and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Milo let her light up and began pacing the room. From outside came the sweet, liquid tones of a steel-drum symphony - raindrops dancing coyly on hollow stucco walls. When he talked again, it was to Mainwaring.

  'Way I see it, Guy, you're in the crapper, ready to be flushed. If you've lied about not participating, I guarantee I'll find out and bust you for attempted murder and accessory to murder. But even if you're telling me the truth, you're up to your neck in malpractice and whatever else they charge doctors with who allow their patients to be poisoned. Hope you know how to whittle or work a cash register or something, 'cause practising medicine sure as hell isn't in your future. Not to mention fatherhood.'

  'Bastard!' hissed Vann.

  'Same goes for you. said Milo. 'No more RN; bye-bye. Mustang. And if old Pat ever had designs on getting custody of little Sean, he'll have his chance real soon.'

  She choked back a cry of rage.

  'Damn you, keep her out of this!' shouted Mainwaring.

  Milo smiled.

  'Now how the hell can I do that, Guy, when she put herself right in it?'

  Mainwaring looked at Vann, and what little composure he had gave way. His mouth began to tremble, and the tears that had pooled in his eyes overflowed and trickled down his unshaved cheeks. She ran to him and held him, and he began to sob. It was a pathetic scene that made me want to disappear. I looked at my friend to see if it had affected him and thought I noticed something - a flicker of empathy arcing across the ravaged terrain of his face. But it didn't last - if it had ever existed.

  He observed them with clinical detachment, sternly watched them share their misery, before saying:

  'On the other hand, maybe there is something I can do.'

  They broke apart and gazed at him in supplication.

  'I'm not talking salvation, you understand. Just a little damage control. Cooperation traded for sealed records. And I'm not guaranteeing I can pull it off, gotta clear it with the brass. Plus, even if we do strike a deal, I doubt you could stay in California. Understand?'

  Dumb nods.

  'But if you help me get what I want, I'll do my damnedest to keep things quiet enough for you to start up somewhere else. You want to talk it over, that's okay.'

  'We don't,' said Andrea Vann. 'Just tell us what you want.'

  Milo smiled paternally.

  'Now that,' he said, 'is what I call a positive attitude.'

  IT WAS a small, sad room filled with bored, sweating men, and by nightfall the air had soured.

  Whitehead dozed in a grubby blue armchair, shoeless, mouth agape, a disc of chewed gum wadded on the wall behind his head. Cash sat on a plastic-topped end table, next to a lamp, its shade half shredded, its base a headless golden female torso, extravagantly bosomed and freckled with white where the paint had chipped off the plaster. He smoked a cigarette down to the butt and added it to the pile in the gold scallop ashtray.

  Milo hunched on the edge of the bed, at the foot end, drinking a Diet Coke and reading his notes. I sat cross-legged at the head, my back to the gold-flocked wall, trying, without much success, to get into the latest issue of Consulting and Clinical Psych.

  At first glance the bed seemed the natural place to settle: a California king-sized water mattress covered with a luridly turquoise velveteen spread, so expansive that it virtually filled the room But the other detectives had taken care to keep their distance throughout the hours of waiting

  The video equipment was set up on a sticky wood-grain vanity table. Before it sat a technical sergeant named Ginzburg, bald, moustached, with a bull neck and shoulders to match. Having checked and double-checked every switch and knob, he contented himself with cold coffee and a book of mathematical puzzles. The trash can overflowed with empty styrofoam cups, taco sauce containers, crumpled napkins, and wax paper greased to translucence. A half-eaten burrito stiffened next to the video monitor.

  Displayed on the screen was the room next door: the Scheherezade Suite of the Studio Love Palace. The suite was no more than a room, set up identically to the one we were in, with the exception that the bed was covered in scarlet satin - upon
which lay a grey man. But that kind of hyperbole seemed appropriate in a palace that was no more than a peeling motor court, a sordid little retreat just off Ventura, in the east end of Studio City, a forgotten finger of the Valley that reaches into the cookie jar called Hollywood. The sign on the roof advertised ADULT MOVIES and EROTIC MASSAGE, the former exemplified by a peep-show channel on the TV, the latter by a vibrator gizmo attached to the bed. Both were coin-operated; both had been tried by Cash and found lacking ('Call this a massage? 'Bout as energetic as a hand job from a corpse' and; 'Look at that, Cal. The guy's a stone junkie, and she's got scars and a twat you could drive a truck through. Couldn't pay me to fuck her by proxy').