Milo stood out on the terrace, hands in his pockets, wearing a yellow golf shirt with two wide horizontal green stripes, tan chinos, and high-top basketball shoes that had once been white. His black hair was longer than I'd ever seen it, the forelock completely hiding the brow, the sideburns nearly at jaw level. His pocked, lumpy face was flecked with three days' worth of patchy beard and his green eyes seemed filmed over the normally startling hue dulled to the color of very old grass.
He said, "The good news is at least now you lock it. The bad news is you open it without checking to see who the hell's out there."
"What makes you think I didn't check?" I said, standing aside and letting him in.
"Latency of response from final footstep to latch-turn. Powers of detection." He tapped his temple and headed straight for the kitchen.
"Good morning, Detective. Leisure becomes you.
He grunted and didn't break step.
I said, "What's up?"
"What should be up?" he called back, face already in the fridge.
Another bona fide random drop-in. They were growing more frequent.
Terminal doldrums.
Halfway into his punishment six months' suspension from the force without pay. The most the department could hand out short of canning him. The department hoping he'd learn to enjoy civilian life and never come back. The department deluding itself.
He scrounged for a while, found rye bread, lox spread, and milk, located a knife and a plate, and began preparing himself some breakfast.
"What are you staring at?" he said. "Never seen a guy cook before?"
I went to get dressed. When I came back he was standing at the counter, eating spread on toast and drinking milk out of the carton.
He'd put on more weight his belly approached sumo-status, meloning the nylon shirt.
"Got a busy day planned?" he said. "Thought we might go down to Rancho and shoot some golf balls."
"Didn't know you golfed."
"I don't. But a guy needs a hobby, right?"
"Sorry, I'm working this morning."
"Oh, yeah? Need me to leave?"
"No, not patients. I'm doing some writing."
"Ahh," he said, giving a dismissing wave. "I meant real work."
"It's real work for me."
"What, the old blockaroo?"
I nodded.
He said, "Want me to do it for you?"
"Do what?"
"Write your paper.
"Right."
"No, I'm serious. Scribbling always came easy for me. That's why I went as far as the master's God knows it wasn't all the academic shit they shoved at me. Not much flair to my prose, but it was... workmanlike, if a bitpeaestrian. In the words of my former academic adviser."
He crunched toast. Crumbs cascaded down his shirtfront. He made no effort to brush them ofo I said, "Thanks, Milo, but I'm not ready for aghostwriter yet." I went to make coffee.
"Whatsamatter?" he said with a full mouth. "Don't trust me?"
"This is scientific writing. The Hate shooting for a psych journal."
"So?"
"So we're talking dry. Maybe a hundred pages of dry."
"Big deal," he said. "No worse than your basic homicide file."
He used a crescent of rye crust to tick his fingers: "Roman Numeral One: Synopsis of Crime. Roman Numeral Two: Chronological Narrative.
Roman Numeral Three: Victim Information. Roman "I get the point."
He shoved the crust in his mouth. "The key to excellent report writing," he said between chews, "is to take every bit of passion out of it. Use an extra heaping portion of superfluously extraneous tautological redundancies in order to make it mind-numbingly boring.
So that when one's superior officers read it, they zone out and start skimming and maybe don't notice the fact that one has been spinning one's wheels since the body turned up and hasn't solved a goddam thing.
Now tell me, is that so different from what you're doing?"
I laughed. "Up till now I've been telling myself I was after the truth. Thanks for setting me straight."
"No problem. It's my job."
"Speaking of job, how'd it go downtown?"
He gave a very long, very dark look. "More of the same. Desk jockeys with smiting faces. This time they brought in the department shrink."
"Thought you refused counseling."
"They got around it by calling it a stress evaluation. Terms of the penalty read the small print."
He shook his head. "All those greasy-faced fuckers talking real softly and slowly, as if I was senile. Inquiring about my adjustment.
My stress level. Sharing their concern. Ever notice how people who talk about sharing never really do? They were also careful to let me know that all my medical bills had been picked up by the department therefore the department had received copies of all my lab tests and there was some concern over my cholesterol level, triglycerides, whatever. Was I really feeling up to returning to active duty?"
He scowled. "What a bunch of princes, huh? I smiled back and said it was funny how they never gave a shit about my stress level or triglycerides when I was out there doing the job."
"How'd they react to that bit of charm?"
"More smiles, then this greasy silence you could deep-fry potatoes in.
Mind-tripping. No doubt the asshole shrink prepped them-no offense.
But that's the military mind: Destroy the individual."
He looked at the milk carton, said, "Ah, low-fat. That's good.
Here's to triglycerides."
I filled the coffee-maker carafe with water, spooned Kenyan into the hatch.
"Give the assholes one thing," he said. "They're getting more assertive. This time they came right out and talked pension. Dollars and cents. Actuarial tables, how much more it added up to when you threw in the interest I could earn if I invested wisely. How nice life could be with what I had coming after fourteen years. When I didn't slaver and snap, they dropped the carrot and picked up the stick, started hinting around about how the pension was by no means a foregone conclusion, given the circumstances. Blah blah blah. How timing was of the essence. Blah blah blah."
He started to work on another piece of bread.
I said, "Bottom line?"
"I let them blah on for a while, then got up, said I had a pressing engagement, and left."
"Well," I said, "if you ever do decide to quit, there's always the diplomatic corps."
"Hey," he said, "I've had it to here." Running a finger across his throat. "Give me the half-year boot, okay. Take my gun and shield and pay, okay. But just let me do my time in peace and quiet, and cool it with the fucking follow-ups. All that phony sensitivity."
He drank and ate. "Course, guess I can't expect much better, given the circumstances." He smiled.
"A-plus in reality testing, Milo."
He said, "Assaulting a superior officer." Bigger smile. "Has a nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?"
"You forgot the crucial part. On TV" He grinned, started to drink more milk but was smiting too broadly and lowered the carton. "What the hell, this is the media age, right? The chief wears pancake when he plays meet-the-press. I gave them some soundbites they'll never forget."
"That you did. What's the situation with Frisk?"
"Word has it his cute little nose has healed quite nicety. The new teeth look almost as good as the old ones amazing what they can do with plastic nowadays, huh? But he is gonna look a little different.
Less Tom Selleck, more... Karl Maiden. Which isn't bad for a superior officer, right? That shopworn look implied wisdom and experience."
"He back on duty?"
"Nooo. Seems Kenny-poo's stress level is still pretty high, he's taking a long recuperation. But he'll be back, eventually. Kicked upstairs, where he can screw up on a higher level and do systematic damage."
"He's the assistant chief's son-in-law, Milo. You're lucky to still be on the force."
He put down the carton and glared. "Don't you think if they c
ould have shafted me, they would have? They're in a one-down position and they know it that's why they're going the weasel route.
He slammed his big hand down on the counter. "Asshole used me for fucking bait. The lawyer Rick had me talk to told me I had grounds for a major-league civil suit, could have taken it to the papers and kept it there for months. He would have loved it the shyster.
Big contingency fee. Rick wanted me to do it, too. On principle. But I refused because that wasn't what it was about bunch of goddam shysters quibbling about technicalities for ten years. This was one-onone; it needed to be handled one-on-one. Going the TV route was my extra insurance couple of million witnesses, so no one could say it didn't happen the way it did. That's why I hit him after he said what a great hero I was and gave me the commendation. So no one could say it was sour grapes. The department owes me, Alex. They should be grateful all I did was mess up his face. And if Frisk is smart, he'll be grateful, too stay out of my face. Permanently. Fuck his family connections. He's lucky I didn't rip his lungs out and toss them at the cameras.
His eyes had cleared and his complexion had deepened to hot pink. With his hair over his forehead and thick lips, he resembled a disgruntled gorilla.
I applauded.
He rose a few inches, stared at me, then started laughing. "Ah, nothing like adrenaline to make the day take on a rosy glow. Sure you don't want to golf?"
"Sorry. I really have to get the paper done and there's a patient coming at noon. And, frankly, knocking balls around the green isn't my idea of recreation, Milo."
"I know, I know," he said. "No aerobic benefit. Bet your triglycerides are just peachy."
I shrugged. The coffee was done. I poured two cups, gave one to him.
"So," I said, "what else have you been doing to fill the time?"
He gave an expansive gesture and put on a brogue: "Oh, it's been just grand, lad. Needlepoint, papier-mache', decoupage, crocheting. Little schooners and yachts made of ice-cream sticks and glitter there's a wonderful world ofcrafrs out there just waiting to be explored." He drank coffee. "It's been shit. Worse than a desk job. At first I thought I'd get into gardening grab some sun, a little exercise. Back to the earth to my roots, praise Hibernia."
"Planning to grow potatoes?"
He chuckled. "Planning to raise anything I could, other than hell.
Only problem was, Rick brought in this landscape designer last year, redid the whole yard with all this southwestern shit cactus, succulents, low-moisture ground cover. So we could cut our water usage, be ecologically sound. So much for Farmer Spud. So okay, scratch that, I figured I'd tinker around the house fix everything that needed fixing. I used to be handy when I worked construction in college I learned all the trades. And when I lived by myself I used to do all of it: plumbing, wiring, whatever. The landlord loved me.
Only problem with that plan is, there's nothing to fix. I hadn't been around the house long enough to realize it, but after nagging me for a year or so, Rick finally took care of everything. Seems he found this handyman fellow from Fiji, former patient. Cut himself with a power saw, nearly lost a couple of fingers. Rick sewed him up in the E.R saved the fingers, and purchased eternal gratitude: The guy works for us basically for free, on call twenty-four hours a day. So unless he slips with the saw again, my expertise is not in demand.
Scratch Mr. Fixit. What does that leave? Shopping? Cooking?
Between the E.R. and the Free Clinic, Rick's never home to eat, so I grab whatever and stuff my face. Once in a while I go out to a civilian range in Culver City and shoot. I've been through my record collection twice and read more bad books than I ever want to think about."
"What about volunteer work?"
He clapped his hands over his ears and grimaced. When he removed them, I said, "What?"
"Heard it before. Every day, from the altruistic Dr. Silverman.
The Free Clinic AIDS group, homeless kids, Skid Row Mission, whatever.
Find a cause, Milo, and stick wiTh it. Only problem is, I feel too goddam mean. Coiled. Like someone better not say the wrong thing to me or they're gonna end up sucking the sidewalk. This. hot feeling in my gut sometimes I wake up with it; sometimes it just comes on. And don't tell me it's post-traumatic stress syndrome, "cause giving it a name doesn't do squat. I've been there before after the war and I know nothing but time is gonna bleed it out of me.
Meantime, I don't want to be around too many people especially people with heavy-duty misery. I've got no sympathy to give. I'd end up telling them to shape up and get their goddam lives in order."
"Time heals," I said, "but time can be sped along."
He gave me an incredulous look. "What? Counseling?"
"There are worse things."
He slapped his chest with both hands. "Okay, here I am.
Counsel me."
I was silent.
"Right," he said, and looked at the wall clock. "Anyway, I'm gone.
Gonna hit little white balls and pretend they're something else."
He began barreling out of the kitchen. I held out an arm and he stopped.
"How about dinner," I said. "Tonight. I should be free by seven or so.
He said, "Charity meals are for soup kitchens."
"You're a charmer," I said, and lowered my arm.
"What, no date tonight?"
"No date."
"What about Linda?"
"Linda's still in Texas."
"Oh. Thought she was due back last week."
"She was. The stay's been extended. Her father."
"The heart?"
I nodded. "He's gotten worse. Bad enough to keep her there indefinitely."
"Sorry to hear it. When you talk to her, give her my best. Tell her I hope he mends." His anger had given way to sympathy. I wasn't sure that was an improvement.
"Will do," I said. "Have fun at Rancho."
He took a step, stopped. "Okay, so this hasn't been party-time for you either. Sorry."
"I'm doing fine, Milo. And the offer wasn't charity. God knows why, but I thought dinner would be nice. Two guys shooting the bull, all that buddy stuff, like in the beer commercials."
"Yeah," he said. "Dinner. Okay, I can always eat." He patted his gut. And if you're still struggling with your term paper by tonight, bring a draft along. Uncle Milo will render sage editorial input."
"Fine," I said, "but in the meantime why don't you think about getting yourself a real hobby?"
After he left I sat down to write. For no apparent reason it went more smoothly than ever before, and noon arrived quickly, heralded by the second doorbell ring of the day.
This time I squinted through the peephole. What looked back at me was the face of a stranger, but not foreign: remnants of the child I'd once known merging with a photo from a twenty-year-old newspaper clipping.
I realized that at the time of the attack her mother hadn't been that much older than Melissa was now.
I opened the door and said, "Hello, Melissa.
She seemed startled, then smiled. "Dr. Delaware! You haven't changed at all!"
We shook hands.
"Come on in.
She entered the house and stood with her hands folded in front of her.
The transition from girl to woman appeared nearly complete, and the evidence pointed to a graceful process. She had fashion-model cheekbones that asserted themselves through flawless lightly tanned skin. Her hair had darkened to a sun-streaked light brown and it hung, poker-straight and gleaming, to her waist. The straight-edge bangs had given way to a side part and flip. Below naturally arched brows her gray-green eyes were huge and wide-set. A young Grace Kelly.
A miniature Grace Kelly. She was barely five feet tall, with a cinch-waist and tiny bones. Big gold hoop earrings dangled from each shell-like ear. She carried a small lambskin handbag, wore a blue pinpoint button-down shirt, a denim skirt that ended an inch above her knees, and maroon penny loafers without socks. Maybe Preppy still ruled in San Labrador.
&nbs
p; I showed her to a chair in the living room. She sat, crossed her legs at the ankles, hugged her knees, and looked around. "You have a very nice home, Dr. Delaware."
I wondered what my eighteen-hundred square feet of redwood and glass really looked like to her. The castle she'd grown up in probably had rooms bigger. Thanking her, I took a seat and said, "It's good to see you, Melissa.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes Page 8
