Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Survival of the Fittest

  Alex Delaware [12]

  Kellerman, Jonathan

  Ballantine Books (1997)

  * * *

  Tags: Alex Delaware

  Alex Delawarettt

  * * *

  The daughter of a diplomat disappears on a school field trip–lured into the Santa Monica mountains and killed in cold blood. Her father denies the possibility of a political motive. There are no signs of struggle, no evidence of sexual assault, leaving psychologist Alex Delaware and his friend LAPD homicide detective Milo Sturgis to pose the disturbing question: Why?

  Working together with Daniel Sharavi, a brilliant Israeli police inspector, Delaware and Sturgis soon find themselves ensnared in one of the darkest, most menacing cases of their careers. And when death strikes again, it is Alex who must go undercover, alone, to expose an unthinkable conspiracy of self-righteous brutality and total contempt for human life.

  Survival of the Fittest

  Alex Delaware – Book 12

  By Jonathan Kellerman

  To my parents,

  David and Sylvia Kellerman

  Special thanks to

  Detectives Paul Bishop and

  vic Pietrantoni, and to

  Dr. J. David Smith.

  1

  Hooray for Hollywood.

  Brass stars with celebrities' names were inlaid in the sidewalk but the stars of the night were toxin merchants, strong-arm specialists, and fifteen-year-olds running from family values turned vicious.

  Open twenty-four hours a day, Go-Ji's welcomed them all. The coffee shop sat on the north side of Hollywood Boulevard, east of Vine, between a tattoo parlor and a thrash-metal bar.

  At 3:00 A.M., a Mexican boy was sweeping the sidewalk when Nolan Dahl pulled his cruiser into the front loading zone. The boy lacked documentation but the sight of the policeman didn't alter his rhythm; cops could care less about immigration. From what the boy had observed after a month, no one in L.A. cared much about anything.

  Nolan Dahl locked the black-and-white and entered the restaurant, sauntering the way only 220 pounds of young, muscular cop laden with baton, belt, radio, flashlight, and holstered nine-millimeter could saunter. The place smelled rancid and the aisle of deep red carpet between the duct-taped orange booths was stained beyond redemption. Dahl settled at the rear, allowing himself a view of the Filipino cashier.

  The next booth was occupied by a twenty-three-year-old pimp from Compton named Terrell Cochrane and one of his employees, a chubby sixteen-year-old mother of two named Germadine Batts, formerly of Checkpoint, Oklahoma. Fifteen minutes ago, the two had sat around the corner in Terrell's white Lexus, where Germadine had rolled up a blue, spangled legging and shot fifteen dollars' worth of tar heroin into a faltering ankle vein. Now nicely numbed and hypoglycemic, she was on her second diluted jumbo Coke, sucking ice and fooling with the pink plastic stirrer.

  Terrell had mixed heroin and cocaine into a speedball and was feeling as perfectly balanced as a tightrope walker. He slouched, forked holes in his cheeseburger, simulated the Olympic logo with five flaccid onion rings while pretending not to watch the big blond cop.

  Nolan Dahl couldn't have cared less about either of them, or the five other things scattered around the bright room. Elevator rock played softly. A slim, pretty waitress the color of molasses hurried down the aisle and stopped at Nolan's booth, smiling. Nolan smiled back, waved away a menu, and asked for coconut cream pie and coffee, please.

  “New on the night shift?” asked the waitress. She'd come from Ethiopia five years ago and spoke beautiful English with a pleasant accent.

  Nolan smiled again and shook his head. He'd been working Hollywood night shift for three months but had never patronized Go-Ji's, getting his sugar rush from a Dunkin' on Highland recommended by Wes Baker. Cops and doughnuts. Big joke.

  “Never seen you before, Officer— Dahl.”

  “Well,” he said, “life's full of new experiences.”

  The waitress laughed. “Well, hmm.” She left for the pastry counter and Nolan watched her before shifting his blue eyes, making contact with Terrell Cochrane.

  Scruffy thing.

  Nolan Dahl was twenty-seven and had been formed, to a large extent, by TV. Before joining the force, his notion of pimps had been red velvet suits and big hats with feathers. Soon he'd learned you couldn't prepare for anything.

  Anything.

  He scanned Terrell and the hooker, who had to be a minor. This month the pimp was into coarse, oversized, insipid plaid shirts over black T-shirts, abbreviated cornrows above shaved temples. Last month had been black leather; before that, African prince.

  The cop's stare bothered Terrell. Hoping it was someone else under scrutiny, he looked across the aisle at the three transsexuals giggling and whispering and making a big deal out of eating french fries.

  He eased back to the cop.

  The cop was smiling at him. A weird smile— almost sad. What did that mean?

  Terrell returned to his burger, feeling a little out of balance.

  The Ethiopian waitress brought Nolan's order and watched as he tasted a forkful of pie.

  “Good,” he said, though the coconut tasted like bad pina-colada mix and the cream was gluey. He was a practiced culinary liar. As a kid, when his mother had served swill he'd said, “Delish,” along with Helena and Dad.

  “Anything else, Officer Dahl?”

  “Not for now, thanks.” Nothing you've got.

  “Okay, just let me know.”

  Nolan smiled again and she left.

  Terrell Cochrane thought, That smile— one happy fucker. No reason for a cop to be happy 'ceptin' he busted some rodney with no video going.

  Nolan ate more pie and again aimed his smile at Terrell. Then he shrugged.

  The pimp looked sideways at Germadine, by now nodding half-comatose into her Coke. Few minutes more, bitch, then back outside for more gravel-knee.

  The cop ate the rest of the pie, finished his coffee and his water, and the waitress was there right away with refills.

  Bitch. After bringing Terrell's and Germadine's food, she'd mostly ignored them.

  Terrell lifted his burger and watched her say something to the cop. The cop just kept smiling and shaking his head. The bitch gave the cop his check and the cop gave her money and she turned all grinny.

  A twenty, keep it, was the reason.

  Fuckers always tipped big, but this? All that smiling, must be celebrating something.

  The cop looked into his empty coffee cup.

  Then something came out from under the table.

  His gun.

  He was smiling at Terrell again. Showing him the gun!

  The cop's arm stretched.

  Terrell's bowels gave way as he ducked under the table, not bothering to push down on Germadine's head though he'd had plenty of practice doing that.

  The other patrons saw Terrell's dive. The transsexuals and the drunken long-haul truck driver behind them and the toothless, senile, ninety-year-old man in the first booth.

  Everyone ducked.

  Except the Ethiopian waitress, who'd been talking to the Filipino cashier. She stared, too terrified to move.

  Nolan Dahl nodded at the waitress. Smiled.

  She thought, A sad smile, what's with this guy?

  Nolan closed his eyes, almost as if he were praying. Opening them, he slid the nine-millimeter between his lips and, sucking like a baby, fixed his gaze on the waitress's pretty face.

  She was still unable to move. He saw her terror, softened his eyes, trying to let her know it was okay, the only way.

  A beautiful, black, final image. God this place smelled crappy.

  He pulled
the trigger.

  2

  Helena Dahl gave me a mourner's account. The rest I got from the papers and from Milo.

  The young cop's suicide merited only two inches on page 23 with no follow-up. But the flash-point violence stayed with me and when Milo called a few weeks later and asked me to see Helena, I said, “That one. Any idea yet why he did it?”

  “Nope. That's probably what she wants to talk about. Rick says don't feel obligated, Alex. She's a nurse at Cedars, worked with him in the E.R. and doesn't want to see the in-house shrinks. But it's not like she's a close friend.”

  “Has the department done its own investigation?”

  “Probably.”

  “You haven't heard anything?”

  “Those kinds of things are kept quiet and I'm not exactly in the loop. Only thing I've heard is the kid was different. Quiet, stuck to himself, read books.”

  “Books,” I said. “Well, there's a motive for you.”

  He laughed. “Guns don't kill, introspection does?”

  I laughed back. But I thought about that.

  Helena Dahl called me that evening and I arranged to see her in my home office the following morning. She arrived precisely on time, a tall, handsome woman of thirty, with very short straight blond hair and sinewy arms exposed by a navy blue tank top. The tank was tucked into jeans and she wore tennies without socks. Her face was a lean oval, well-sunned, her eyes light blue, her mouth exceptionally wide. No jewelry. No wedding ring. She gave my hand a firm shake, tried to smile, thanked me for seeing her, then followed me.

  The new house is set up for therapy. I take patients in through a side door, crossing the Japanese garden and passing the fish pond. People usually stop to look at the koi or at least comment but she didn't.

  Inside she sat very straight with her hands on her knees. Most of my work involves children caught up in the court system and a portion of the office is set aside for play therapy. She didn't look at the toys.

  “This is the first time I've done this.” Her voice was soft and low but it carried some authority. An E.R. nurse would make good use of that.

  “Even after my divorce, I never talked to anyone,” she added. “I really don't know what I expect.”

  “Maybe to make some sense of it?” I said gently.

  “You think that's possible?”

  “You may be able to learn more, but some questions can never be answered.”

  “Well, at least you're honest. Shall we get right into it?”

  “If you're ready—”

  “I don't know what I am but why waste time? It's . . . you know about the basic details?”

  I nodded.

  “There was really no warning, Dr. Delaware. He was such a . . .”

  Then she cried.

  Then she spilled it out.

  “Nolan was smart,” she said. “I mean seriously smart, brilliant. So the last thing you'd think he'd end up being was a cop— no offense to Rick's friend, but that's not exactly what comes to mind when you think intellectual, right?”

  Milo had a master's degree in literature. I said, “So Nolan was an intellectual.”

  “Definitely.”

  “How much education did he have?”

  “Two years of college. Cal State Northridge. Psychology major, as a matter of fact.”

  “He didn't finish.”

  “He had trouble . . . finishing things. Maybe it was rebellion— our parents were heavily into education. Maybe he just got sick of classes, I don't know. I'm three years older, was already working by the time he dropped out. No one expected him to join the police. The only thing I can think of is he'd gotten politically conservative, real law-and-order. But still . . . the other thing is, he always loved . . . sleaze.”

  “Sleaze?”

  “Spooky stuff, the dark side of things. As a kid he was always into horror movies, really gross stuff, the grossest. His senior year in high school, he went through a stage where he grew his hair long and listened to heavy metal and pierced his ears five times. My parents were convinced he was into satanism or something.”

  “Was he?”

  “Who knows? But you know parents.”

  “Did they hassle him?”

  “No, that wasn't their style. They just rode it out.”

  “Tolerant?”

  “Unassertive. Nolan always did what he wanted—”

  She cut the sentence short.

  “Where'd you grow up?” I said.

  “The Valley. Woodland Hills. My father was an engineer, worked at Lockheed, passed away five years ago. My mother was a social worker but never worked. She's gone, too. A stroke, a year after Dad died. She had hypertension, never took care of it. She was only sixty. But maybe she's the lucky one— not having to know what Nolan did.”

  Her hands balled.

  “Any other family?” I said.

  “No, just Nolan and me. He never married and I'm divorced. No kids. My ex is a doctor.” She smiled. “Big surprise. Gary's a pulmonologist, basically a nice guy. But he decided he wanted to be a farmer so he moved to North Carolina.”

  “You didn't want to be a farmer?”

  “Not really. But even if I did he didn't ask me along.” Her eyes shot to the floor.

  “So you're bearing all this alone,” I said.

  “Yup. Where was I— oh, the satanic nonsense. No big deal, it didn't last long and then Nolan got back to normal teenage stuff. School, sports, girls, his car.”

  “Did he maintain his taste for the dark side?”

  “Probably not— I don't know why I brought that up. What do you think about the way Nolan did it?”

  “Using his service gun?”

  She winced. “I meant so publically, in front of all those people. Like saying screw you to the world.”

  “Maybe that was his message.”

  “I thought it was theatrical,” she said, as if she hadn't heard.

  “Was he a theatrical person?”

  “Hard to say. He was very good-looking, big, made an impression— the kind of guy you noticed when he entered a room. Did he milk that? Maybe a bit when he was a kid. As an adult? The truth is, Dr. Delaware, Nolan and I lost touch. We were never close. And now—”

  More tears. “As a little kid he always enjoyed being the center of attention. But other times he didn't want anything to do with anybody, just crawled into his own little space.”

  “Moody?”

  “A family trait.” She rubbed her knees and looked past me. “My dad underwent shock therapy for depression when Nolan and I were in grade school. We were never told what was going on, just that he was going into the hospital for a couple of days. But after he died, Mom told us.”

  “How many treatments did he have?”

  “I don't know, three, maybe four. When he'd come home he'd be wiped out, fuzzy about remembering— like what you see in head-injury patients. They say ECT works better now but I'm sure it damaged his brain. He faded in middle age, took early retirement, sat around reading and listening to Mozart.”

  “He must have been severely depressed to get ECT,” I said.

  “Must have been but I never really saw it. He was quiet, sweet, shy.”

  “What was his relationship with Nolan?”

  “There wasn't much of one that I could see. Even though Nolan was gifted, he was into typical macho stuff. Sports, surfing, cars. Dad's idea of recreation was . . .”— she smiled—“reading and listening to Mozart.”

  “Did they have conflict?”

  “Dad never had conflict with anyone.”

  “How did Nolan react to your father's death?”

  “He cried at the funeral. Afterward, we both tried to comfort Mom for a while, then he just drifted away again.”

  She pinched her lower lip. “I didn't want Nolan to have one of those big LAPD funerals, gun salutes, all that crap. No one at the department argued. Like they were happy not to deal with it. I had him cremated. He left a will, all his stuff is mine. Dad's and Mom's
stuff, too. I'm the survivor.”

  Too much pain. I backtracked. “What was your mother like?”

  “More outgoing than Dad. Not moody. On the contrary, she was always up, cheerful, optimistic. Probably why she stroked out— holding it all inside.” She rubbed her knee again. “I don't want to make our family sound weird. We weren't. Nolan was a regular guy. Partying, chasing girls. Just smarter. He got A's without working.”