Flesh and Blood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Exactly.”

  * * *

  At nine A.M. Milo rolled onto my property. I had my keys out and headed toward the Seville.

  “No,” he said, slapping the driver's door of the unmarked, “we'll take the Ferrari. I want this to look official. Hence the tie— excellent choice, by the way. Nice power stripes— Italian?”

  I checked the label. “So it says.” I regarded the blue polyester ribbon riding his paunch. “Where's yours from?”

  “The Planet Vulgaro.” He tugged at the knot, licked his pinkie, pretended to slick his hair. “Spiffed and ready for action. What a team.”

  As he drove past the gateposts I said, “You tell Dugger we were coming?”

  He nodded. “Mr. Cooperative. Sounds a little depressed, though. I seem to have that effect on people.”

  When we reached Sunset I said, “Leo Riley.”

  “What about him?”

  “How would you rate him on the ace detective scale?”

  “Average. Why?”

  “Adam Green had the feeling Riley was phoning in the investigation on Shawna, just biding his time till retirement. Then again, he's kind of a mouthy kid and had nothing to offer Riley but guesses about an affair with a professor.”

  “Leo . . . I called him a few days ago— he's living out in Coachella. Because I did look up the Yeager file, and there's not much in it. Left a message— he hasn't called me back.”

  “Not much in the file because there wasn't much to know— or was Green right about Riley?”

  “Maybe both,” he said. “No, Leo was no workaholic. . . . Still, there wasn't much to go on. She told her roommate she was going to the library and never came back. Like I told you before, Leo figured it for a psycho sex thing, and I can't say I argued with him. He even made some crack about it turning into a serial killer, and by that time he'd be playing golf in the desert and growing skin cancer. Let's see what he says when he does call back. Meanwhile, I've been thinking about Gretchen's trip to Duke's place. What do you think— collecting for services rendered?”

  “Gretchen's never been picky about what she sells.”

  “Something else,” he said. “What Salander said— the whole deal about Lauren not wanting to be controlled by her mom. During the notification interview Jane Abbot did all the right things grief-wise. But basically she gave us nothing. Usually the family throws something at you— wild guesses, suspicions, useless stuff, sometimes a real lead. Jane cried a lot, but there was none of that from her. So I called her last night, left a message.” His eyes shifted toward me. “She still hasn't gotten back to me. Which leads me to the fact that she hasn't called me once since the notification. That is also not typical, Alex. Your usual middle-class homicide, I get bombarded with messages: what progress has been made, how soon's the autopsy gonna be over, when can we claim the body, have a funeral. Generally, my problem is playing shrink and clerk and still trying to do my job. This lady— not only doesn't she get in touch on her own, she doesn't take the time to call back.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning is there anything more I should know about her?”

  “No,” I said. “I barely knew her. Barely knew Lauren.”

  He gave a cold smile. “And look where that got you.”

  “The price of fame.”

  “Yeah— Alex, I guess what I'm saying is there's something about Jane— like maybe she knows something she isn't letting on. The Duke angle's nice and juicy, but what if this all traces back in some way to Lauren's family— Jane, that asshole dad, whatever. I did some checking on ol’ Lyle. Couple of DUI's, but that's it. Still, you know better than anyone, this was not one happy family. Is there anything I should be looking at?”

  I thought about that as Sunset sloped upward and the 405 on-ramp appeared. Milo pushed down harder on the accelerator, and the unmarked kicked, shuddered, and jammed into high gear.

  “Maybe Jane hasn't called back because she's gone into seclusion,” I said.

  “With Mel? Where? They both check into some rest home? So that's my answer, huh? Don't waste my time in the Valley.”

  “I can't think of anything.”

  “Fair enough.” His hands were white around the wheel as he sped onto the freeway, narrowly passing a Jaguar sedan and eliciting angry honks. “Fuck you too,” he told the rearview mirror. “Alex, let's say there is no big family issue. But what if Lauren got hold of juicy info on Dugger or Duke or whoever and passed it along to Jane? Maybe Jane reacted strongly— told her to keep her mouth shut, whatever, and that was the control thing Lauren talked about to Salander.”

  “Lauren had been out of the house for years,” I said. “Had just reconnected with Jane. Their relationship was still thawing. That doesn't mesh with her confiding something explosive, but maybe. When times get rough sometimes the chicks return to roost.”

  “So maybe Jane hasn't been in touch with me because she's scared. Has an idea what led to Lauren's death and is worried it could be dangerous for her too. That would be enough to get her to hold back on a lead to Lauren's murder— I know, I know, now it's me who's hypothesizing. But when I'm finished with Dugger, I definitely want another try at her.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  He grinned fiercely. “Makes no sense evidence-wise, but thanks for the emotional validation. I'm flopping around like a fish on the pier— I know you like Dugger, but he just doesn't bother me. I don't pick up any guilt vibe. Sure, he reacted strongly to the news of Lauren's death, but my immediate impression was it was just that: news. Okay, he was sweating, and maybe he and Lauren were doing the dirty— Let's see if any of those Newport restaurants remember serious smooching. But still, he doesn't give off any of that fear-hormone stink. He's depressed, not spooked. . . . What the hell, he could be a primary psychopath— hog-tied her, shot her, dumped her, and ate a candy bar afterward, and I'm being played like a cheap harmonica. Have you seen anything that points to that level of disturbance? I mean, you should've heard the ex-wife— ready to beatify the guy.”

  “Psychopaths don't get anxious, but they do get depressed. Let's take a closer look at him today.”

  Milo frowned, rubbed his face. “Sure. What the hell, at least we'll get another trip to the beach.”

  * * *

  Just before LAX the freeway clogged. We rolled slowly toward El Segundo, and when the clog gave way Milo said, “What do you think Tony Duke's worth— couple of hundred million?”

  “The magazine's not what it used to be,” I said, “but sure, that wouldn't surprise me. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just thinking. Big stakes if something Dugger did do placed the old man in jeopardy. As in sexual violence. 'Cause Duke's image is good, clean licentiousness, right?”

  A few miles later: “Think about it, Alex: John Wayne Airport. . . . The guy spent World War II on the Warner's lot and he's a combat hero. . . . Welcome to the land of illusion.”

  “Maybe that's why Dugger likes it here.”

  * * *

  Newport Beach sits forty miles south of L.A. Milo violated as many traffic laws as he could think of, but the LAX slowdown turned the trip into a full hour. Exiting at the 55 south, he stayed on the highway as it became Newport Boulevard, sped past miles of basic SoCal strip mall and some spanking new shopping centers with all the charm of theme parks on Prozac. The first evidence of maritime influence— boat brokers— appeared as we switched to Balboa, and soon I was seeing lots of anchor motifs, restaurants claiming FRESH FISH! and HAPPY HOUR! and people dressed for the beach. A silvery winter sky said the sand would be gray and cool, but there was no shortage of bare skin. I opened the window. Ten degrees warmer than L.A. Salt smell, clean and fresh. Between this and Santa Monica, Ben Dugger's lungs would have to be pink and pretty.

  A few blocks later Balboa turned narrow and residential: beautifully landscaped two-story homes lining both sides of the boulevard, beach view to the west, marina vista across the street. A turn onto Balboa East took us past more spa
rkling windows, bougainvillea flowing from railings, Porsches and Lexuses and Range Rovers lolling in cobbled driveways. Then a two-block, low-profile commercial stretch appeared, and Milo said, “Should be right around here.”

  The shop fronts were shaded by multicolored awnings. More shade from street trees, immaculate sidewalks, easy parking, bird chirps, the merest drumbeat of the tide rolling in lazily. Cafés, chiropractors, wine merchants, beachwear boutiques, a dry cleaner. The address Dugger had given for Motivational Associates matched a one-story, seafoam green stucco structure near the corner of Balboa East and A Street. No signage, just a teak door and two draped windows. The immediate neighbors were a dress shop with a window full of chiffon and a storefront eatery labeled simply CHINESE RESTAURANT! Behind the glass front of the café, an Asian man played the deep fryers at warp speed as the woman next to him chopped with a cleaver. The aroma of egg rolls mingled with Pacific brine.

  We parked, got out, and Milo knocked on the teak door. The wood was highly varnished, like a boat's deck; with so many coats laid on the thump barely resonated. Ben Dugger opened and said, “You made good time.”

  He wore a white shirt under a gray crewneck, wide-wale green cords, brown moccasins with rawhide laces. The sweater showcased dandruff flecks. He'd shaved recently, but not precisely, and dark hairs hyphenated a raw-looking neck. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes were bloodshot and resigned, and when they met mine the pupils expanded.

  I smiled. He turned away.

  Milo said, “Easy ride. Scenic.”

  Dugger said, “Come on in,” and admitted us into an off-white anteroom set up with cream canvas chairs and tables piled with magazines and hung with photos of the ocean in various color phases. An unmarked door at the back took us into a larger space, empty and silent and lined with a white door on each wall. The entrance to the left had been left open, revealing a very small, baby blue room furnished with a single bed draped by an Amish quilt and a plain pine nightstand. Stacks of books on the stand, along with a cup and saucer and a pair of glasses. Dugger continued toward a door to the right, but Milo paused to look into the blue room.

  Dugger stopped and raised an eyebrow.

  Milo pointed at the blue room. “You've got a bed in there. Sleep research?”

  Dugger smiled. “Nothing that exotic. It's a genuine bedroom. Mine. I sleep here when it's too late to drive back to L.A. Actually, this was my home until I moved.”

  “The whole building?”

  “Just this room.”

  “Kinda cozy.”

  “You mean small?” said Dugger, still smiling. “I don't need much. It sufficed.” He crossed to a closed door and took out a key ring. Double dead bolts, a sign marked PRIVATE. He'd unlatched the first bolt when Milo said, “So how long ago did you move to L.A.?”

  The keys lowered. Dugger took a deep breath. “All these questions about me. I thought this was about Lauren's employment.”

  “Just making conversation, Doctor. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.”

  Dugger's lips curled upward, and his long, grave face managed a low, inaudible laugh. “No, it's fine. I moved a couple of years ago.”

  “Newport too quiet?”

  Dugger glanced at me. Again I smiled, and again his eyes whipped away. “Not at all. I like Newport very much. But things came up, and I needed to be in L.A. more, so I opened the Brentwood office. It's not really in full gear yet. When it is, I may have to close this place down.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Too much overhead. We're a small company.”

  “Ah,” said Milo. “Things came up.”

  “Yes,” said Dugger, releasing the second bolt. “Come, let's meet the staff.”

  * * *

  On the other side of the door was a large, bright office pool partitioned into workstations. The usual off-white blandness, computers and printers and bracket bookshelves, potted plants and cute calendars, stuffed animals on shelves, the smell of lilac air freshener, Sheryl Crow from a cassette player over the watercooler.

  Four women stood by the watercooler, all blandly attractive, ranging from mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Each wore a variant of sweater-and-pants, and it came across as a uniform. Dugger rattled off names: Jilda Thornburgh, Sally Patrino, Katie Weissenborn, Ann Buyler. The first three were research assistants. Buyler, the secretary, was already equipped with Lauren's time cards.

  Milo flipped through them, began questioning the women. Yes, they remembered Lauren. No, they didn't know her well, had no idea who would have wanted to hurt her. The word punctual kept coming up. As they talked to Milo I searched for signs of evasiveness, saw only the discomfiture you'd expect from honest people confronted with murder. Ben Dugger had retreated to a cubicle dominated by a large, framed zoo association poster— koalas, cute and cuddly— and had turned his back to us.

  Occasionally, one or more of the women looked his way, as if for support.

  The women.

  Surrounding himself with females.

  Like father, like son?

  Milo said, “Dr. Dugger? If you don't mind, I'd like to see that room— the one where Lauren worked.”

  Dugger turned. “Certainly.”

  As he walked toward us Milo said, “Oh yeah, one more thing, gang. Shawna Yeager. Anyone by that name ever work here?”

  Four headshakes.

  “You're sure?” said Milo. “Not as a subject or a confederate or anything else?”

  Dugger said, “Who?”

  Milo repeated the name.

  “No,” said Dugger, eyes steady. “Doesn't ring a bell. Ann?”

  Buyler said, “I'm sure, but I'll check.” She pecked at her computer keyboard, called up a screen, manipulated the mouse. “No. No Shawna Yeager.”

  “Who is she?” Dugger asked Milo.

  “A girl.”

  “So I gathered, Detective—”

  “Let's see that room,” said Milo. “Then I don't need to waste any more of your time.”

  20

  BACK IN THE inner lobby Milo said, “So who're your clients?”

  “You're not thinking of contacting them,” said Dugger.

  “Not unless the need arises.”

  “It won't.” Dugger's voice had grown sharp.

  “I'm sure you're right, sir.”

  “I am, Detective. But why do I get the feeling you still suspect me of something?”

  “Not so, Doctor. Just—”

  “Routine?” said Dugger. “I really wish you'd stop wasting your time here and go out looking for Lauren's killer.”

  “Any suggestions where?” said Milo.

  “How would I know? I just know you're wasting your time here. And as far as clients go, in terms of the intimacy study there isn't one. It's a long-term interest of mine, goes back to graduate school. Our commercial projects tend to be much shorter— attitudinal focus groups, a specific product, that kind of thing. We work on a contractual basis, the timing's irregular. When we're in between projects, I focus back on the intimacy study.”

  “And now's one of those times,” said Milo.

  “Yes. And I'd appreciate it if you don't talk about clients to the staff. I've assured the women that their jobs are secure for the time being, but with the move . . .”

  “You may be revamping. So you're financing the intimacy study on your own?”

  “There isn't much expense,” said Dugger. “That woman you mentioned— Shawna. Was she murdered as well?”

  “It's possible.”

  “My God. So this— You're thinking Lauren could've been part of something?”

  “Part, sir?”

  “A mass murderer— a serial killer, pardon the expression.”

  Milo jammed his hands into his pockets. “You don't like the term, Doctor?”

  “It's a cliché,” said Dugger. “The stuff of bad movies.”

  “Doesn't make it any less real when it happens though, does it, sir?”

  “I suppose not— Do you really think t
hat's what happened to Lauren? Some psychopathic creep?” Dugger's voice had risen, and he was standing taller. Assertive. Aggressive. Locking eyes with Milo.

  Milo said, “Any tips in that regard— speaking as a psychologist?”

  “No,” said Dugger. “As I told you before, abnormal psychology's not my interest. Never has been.”

  “How come?”

  “I prefer to study normal phenomena. This world— We need to emphasize what's right, not what's wrong. Now I'll show you my room.”