It didn't work— my head wouldn't shake off images of Jane Abbot's final moments. Had she known what was coming, or had the flash of the gun been sensation without comprehension?
Mother and daughter, gone.
A family, gone.
Not a happy family, but one that had cared enough, years ago, to seek help. . . .
A restraint strap unbuckled with a snap, and the EMTs advanced on Abbot. He began to cry but offered no resistance as they eased him onto the stretcher. Then he gazed down at the body and screamed, and waxy arms began striking out. One paramedic said, “Now, come on,” in a bored voice. Snap snap. The paramedics went about their work, speedy as a pit crew, and Abbot was immobilized.
I ran downstairs, retraced the path through the house and out the kitchen door to the flagstone pathway. The sun was relenting, and the lowest quadrant of the sky was striped persimmon. A few neighbors had come out to stare, and when they saw me they edged closer to the gates. A uniform held them back. Someone pointed, and I ducked out of view, stayed close to the house, which was where Milo found me.
“Taking the air?”
“Breathing seemed a good idea,” I said.
“You missed the fun. Abbot managed to slip an arm out and grab hold of one of the EMTs’ hair. They shot him up with tranquilizer.”
“Poor guy.”
“Pathetic but dangerous.”
“You really think he did it?”
“You don't?” He slapped his hands on his hips. “I'm not saying it was premeditated, but hell, yeah. He was holding the gun, and that hole in the wall fits with a shot fired from the bed. My best guess is it happened last night. They probably had the gun in a nightstand, somehow he found it, was using it as a teddy bear, Jane entered the bedroom, freaked him out, and boom.”
“Suburban security goes bad.”
“We see it all the time, Alex. Usually with kids. Which is what Abbot really is, right? The nightstand drawer's within arm's reach. There's another gun in there— older revolver, a thirty-eight, unloaded. So maybe Jane was being careful. But not careful enough. She forgot about the clip in the gun.”
“Tragic accident,” I said. “You're the detective.”
He stared at me. “Spit it out.”
“Jane was an experienced caretaker. I can't see her letting him get near a gun.”
“She had her hands full, Alex. People get careless. Perfectly competent parents turn their backs while Snookums toddles over to the pool.”
He stared down the length of the house. “There're no signs of forced entry, there was a box of loose jewelry in Jane's dresser and a nice fat safe in the bedroom closet, combination-locked. Not to mention all those paintings. Ruiz and Gallardo's first order of business will be to see if the gun was registered. Solid citizens like them aren't likely to own an illegal piece. If it was theirs, that pretty much clinches it.”
He took baby steps, turned in a small, tight circle, hitched his trousers. “Least I know why she didn't return my calls.”
“You're right about the art,” I said. “If it's real, it's worth a fortune. One hell of an estate. One hell of a community property. I wonder who inherits.”
He rotated, faced me, eyes half closed but alert, like those of a resting guard dog. “And the point is . . .”
“Mel Abbot's only child died ten years ago, Jane's, just a few days ago. Now Mel will be declared incompetent and someone else will be placed in charge of all the assets. Probably a court-appointed conservator. My guess is relatives will start lining up. I wonder who's next in line, from a legal standpoint.”
“Some cousin from Iowa. So what?”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Jane mentioned a prenup, but that could've applied only to divorce, not death. If Mel's will signed everything over to Jane, that would've put Lauren in place to inherit. But with Lauren dead, her closest living relative could step up to the plate. And look who just called you and asked about Lauren's finances.”
His head shot forward, and the eyes opened wide. “Daddy dearest— Oh, man, you have a devious mind.”
“He did call. Hours after Jane died.”
“Jane and Lauren both hated his guts. There'd be no reason for him to think anyone made him a beneficiary.”
“Any will come up for Lauren?”
“Not yet.”
“If she died intestate,” I said, “her estate will end up in probate and be up for grabs. I'm no lawyer, but my bet is that, as her closest living blood relative, Lyle will have a strong claim. Sure, getting through the paperwork will be a hassle, and there'll be estate taxes to pay, but if those paintings are real, even a chunk would be serious money. Lyle's hurting financially. A Picasso or two would do wonders.”
“He offs his ex and plants the gun in the old guy's hand?”
“Like you said, no love lost between them.”
“C'mon, Alex. He can't be stupid enough to do it and call me the same day. Talk about obvious.” He frowned. “But it wasn't obvious, was it? Not till your warped mind seized upon it. You are one creative puppy.”
He began pacing along the side of the house. Low chatter from the front of the property created an irritating soundtrack: noise but no reason.
“Lyle's calling you was blatant,” I said. “But, like you said, people get careless. Did he seem the subtle type to you? The guy's angry, depressed, out of work, drinks, stomps around his property with a loaded shotgun. If that's not a recipe for violence, I don't know what is.”
“You're saying he did Jane and Lauren? No big bad Duke conspiracy or Shawna cover-up?”
“Who knows?” I said. “The other thing to think about is everyone around Lauren is dying. Which fits with Jane not being more forthcoming because she did know something explosive. Either way, pinning it on Abbot seems awfully convenient.”
“For argument's sake, let's say Lyle was the shooter. He shows up and Jane just lets him in?”
“She might've. Even with tons of hostility, there was that early bond— the years they'd been together, familiarity, chemistry. I've seen it plenty of times working custody cases. The nastiest divorces. Two people trying to rip each other's hearts out in court, then they find themselves alone and end up in bed. Maybe Lyle put on a big show of grief— that's the one thing they shared. Lauren's death. For all we know he didn't even come to kill her. They started talking, Lyle segued into money talk like he did with you, Jane lost it, and one thing led to another.”
“So why's the old guy still breathing?”
“Because Lyle's no genius, but he did have an inspiration. Picture it this way: The argument begins downstairs. Jane orders Lyle out, he refuses. She rushes upstairs, thinking to lock herself in the bedroom, then call the police. Lyle goes after her, gets in the bedroom, shoots her. It's dark, they could've wrestled from a spot near the bed— the hole in the wall. He misses that time but hits his mark twice, and Jane goes down. Abbot's asleep— maybe deeply, he's probably on medication. The gunshot wakes him. He sits up. Disoriented. A senile old man confronted with sudden loud noise and darkness. His consciousness is clouded anyway. He wouldn't have focused immediately— Where were his glasses?”
“On his nightstand.”
“He could've seen nothing. Lyle spots him, considers killing him, realizes Abbot's no direct threat, and comes up with a better idea: plant the gun near or in Abbot's hand and leave quietly. He might've even pressed Abbot's finger on the trigger and fired and that's where the hole in the wall came from. Even if Abbot's head does clear and he recalls some details, who's going to believe him? What's his story? A mystery intruder with no signs of forced entry? A bogeyman who leaves his weapon behind? But I'll wager Abbot comes up with nothing. He's out of it. A few days in the prison ward at County and he'll probably be completely vegetative.”
A door slammed at the front of the house. We stepped forward to see the paramedics trundle Abbot out. The old man lay strapped on the stretcher, eyes closed, mouth agape. As the EMTs carried him across the motor court, they cha
tted and seemed relaxed. No threat from the cargo. Neighborly necks craned as Abbot was loaded into the ambulance. Siren sonata as the uniform at the gate cleared an exit path and the ambulance sped away. Two vans drove up. One white, with the coroner's logo on the door, was allowed through the gates. The silver one with a network affiliate's call letters on the roof next to a satellite antenna was waved to the curb.
“The party begins,” said Milo. “At least it's Ruiz and Gallardo's bash.”
“I can just hear tonight's broadcast,” I said, as a young redhead in a yellow pantsuit stepped out of the news van. “‘A Sherman Oaks man was arrested today on suspicion of murdering his wife. Neighbors described Melville Abbot as friendly but feeble—'”
“That's still where the facts point, Alex.”
“Guess so,” I said. “And Ruiz and Gallardo do seem like nice guys. Why complicate their lives?”
“Oh, my,” he said. “What the hell went down during your childhood to make you enjoy complications?”
“When my mother was pregnant with me she got startled by an obsessive-compulsive pit bull.”
The woman in yellow approached with a cameraman and a soundman in tow. The boom hovered over her coiffure as she flirted with the uniform at the gate. Smiles all around, then the cop shook his head and the reporter pouted and the news crew drifted toward the growing clot of suburban observers.
Milo said, “Let's get the hell out of here. Just walk straight through and don't make eye contact. If Ms. Bubblehead chirps, remember she's a vulture, not a canary.”
“You heading home?”
He laughed harshly. “You kidding? I love the goddamn Valley— hey, how about a nice little jaunt to Reseda.”
* * *
The commuter rush. Ventura Boulevard was constipated, and a glance at the freeway overpass revealed a chromium still life. Milo stayed on surface streets, sitting too straight in the driver's seat, jaw muscles pumping, lips twisting, one big hand shoving aside the hair lick that shadowed his brow— repeating the futile gesture over and over.
Silent, talking to himself. Assessing the possibilities I'd inflicted upon him.
I might've felt guilty, but my mental camera was working overtime too, flashing images of Jane Abbot's gray-green corpse. Then: the trussed bundle of ruin that had been Lauren's final pose.
I tried to switch channels, but the alternative fare wasn't any prettier. Michelle and Lance, burned to cinders. Shawna Yeager brutalized unthinkably, then kicked into a hidden grave. Agnes Yeager probably still pictured her only child's beautiful face, but by now Shawna would be nothing more than bones.
Mothers and daughters. Entire families, disappeared . . .
Past Haseltine the traffic eased up. Milo said, “Finally.”
* * *
The same soil-and-paint smell, the same irate dogs.
When we reached the chain-link around Lyle Teague's property, the sun was a brick-colored skullcap on a flat, gray pate of horizon, and the smear of illumination in the lower sky had dulled to excremental brown.
Grimy chemical light revealed the shabby neighborhood at its worst. A few kids with shaved heads lounged in front of the apartments across the street, slouching and drinking, enjoying delusions of immortality. Their grins shifted to fear and distrust as we pulled up. When Milo parked a bottle shattered against the curb. By the time we got out of the car, the kids were gone.
The beefy padlock on Teague's front gate was in place, but the pickup with the chrome pipes and the overgrown tires was missing, and we had a view of the carport littered with machine parts and broken toys.
“Gone,” I said.
Milo peered through the chain-link diamonds. “This one I don't scale. Let me call his number.”
As he reached for his cell phone, the house's front door opened a crack, then wider as Tish Teague stepped out into the dirt, holding the hand of a brown-haired girl around five years old. The child's eyes were open, but she looked sleepy. The second Mrs. Teague wore a baby blue tank top and too-tight white shorts that sausaged her hips. Her bra strap did the same for her torso, turning her into a mass of soft rolls supported by pasty, dimpled legs. Blue tattoo on the left biceps. Her hair was drawn up at the top, rubber-banded into an off-center thatch.
Milo waved, but she just stood there, bland, pale pudding of a face aiming for stoic.
“Mrs. Teague,” Milo called. “Is your husband home?”
Headshake. Her mouth formed “No,” but the sound failed to make it across the yard.
“Where is he, ma'am?”
Instead of answering Tish returned inside, came back minus the child and with her hair loosened. Walking halfway across the dirt, she stopped, folded her arms under her bosom, and shouted, “Hunting.”
“Hunting what?”
“Usually he brings back birds. Or a deer.”
Milo muttered, “Dan'l Boone.” To Tish: “Where's he hunt, ma'am?”
“Up near Castaic. What do you need him for?”
“Doing some follow-up, ma'am— May we come in?”
“Follow-up on what?”
“Your husband phoned me today, and I was getting back to him. How long's he been gone?”
Tish blinked three times. “Coupla days.”
“So he must've called me from somewhere else. He have a cell phone?”
“Nope.”
“But he did take camping gear.”
“Yeah.”
“Guns too.”
“He's hunting,” said Tish.
“What, the shotgun?”
“I don't know what he takes. He wraps everything up in plastic. I don't pay attention to guns— Why all these questions?”
“Just curious.”
“What, you're saying Lyle could shoot someone?”
Milo paused. “Has that been on your mind, ma—”
“No way,” she said. “He keeps that stuff just for home protection and hunting— that's all, and I like that. He's a good man, why're you hassling him?”
“I don't mean to hassle, ma'am. So you haven't heard from Mr. Teague in two days?”
“I told you, he don't have one of those.” She pointed to the cell phone. Her tone said the deficiency was a crime for which someone needed to be blamed.
“Hmm,” said Milo. “Well, he did call me.”
“Well, he didn't call me.” Tish aimed for defiance, but her gray eyes filled with hurt. She stepped a few yards closer. “Sometimes he uses a pay phone— What did he want?”
“To talk about Lauren.”
“Her? What for?”
“She was his daughter, ma'am.”
“Not if you asked her.”
“What do you mean, ma'am?”
Crossing her arms, she covered several more feet, stopped well before the gate. Bare feet, toes grayed with dust. The nacre of chipped pink polish glinting through. “She wasn't nice to us.”
“Lauren wasn't?”
“Not to me or him or the girls.”
“I thought she brought the girls Christmas presents.”
Tish smirked. “Oh, sure. Big deal. She comes in wearing her cool clothes and her cool makeup and hypers them up with all that candy and junk, and then when she leaves I'm nice enough to thank her and say she can take home some of the apricot pie I baked from fresh apricots because that's the kind of person I am, she laughs at me and looks down at the pie slice I'm offering her and says, ‘No, thanks.’ Like I stuffed shit in a crust or something. Then she says, ‘At least you've got better manners than him. Thanking me. Which you should, 'cause I didn't have to do this.’ And I'm like, ‘What do you mean?’ And she's like, ‘You better believe you should thank me, 'cause you don't deserve a damn thing from me— you're not even my family and neither is he and neither are your rugrats.'”
Tish's lip trembled. “Just like that. Nasty mean. One minute she's playing with the girls, and then she's insulting us. I could've trashed her back, but I just said, ‘Well, sorry you don't like apricot pie. Good-bye.’ And she lau
ghed again and was like, ‘I came here 'cause I've got class— something you'll never know, chubby.’ Then she prancie-pranced out the door.”
Tish released her arms, let the wrists go limp. “She prancie-prances around like she's doing one of her strip dances— which is the class she had, a stripper and a whore. So who's she to be snobbing and styling on me? I was so mad, it gave me a migraine, but at least she was out of here. Then, just as I'm closing the door, she turns around and starts coming back, and I'm like, Okay, Tish, you controlled yourself good, but she's asking for it. I really thought we were gonna get into it, and I tell you, I was ready. But she musta figured that out or maybe it was the girls, running around the house, in and out of rooms, screaming and wild, all hypered up 'cause of her. Or maybe she was just a chicken— whatever.”
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