Jonathan Kellerman - [Alex Delaware 01]

by When the Bough Breaks (Shrunken Heads) (v5. 0) (epub)

  “How safe can you be—Towle and Hayden have roots here.”

  “I know. But their families haven’t lived here for a generation. I checked. I even went by their old homes. There are new faces, new names. There’s no reason for them to look for me here. Not unless you give them one.”

  “I won’t.”

  “On my next trip I’ll buy a gun. I’ll be prepared for them if they come. I’ll escape and go somewhere else. I’m used to it. The memory of Seoul returns in my dreams. It keeps me watchful. I’m sorry to hear about the other murders, but I don’t want to know about them. There’s nothing that I can do.”

  I got up and she helped me on with my jacket.

  “The funny thing is,” she said, “this estate probably belongs to me. As does the Brentwood property and the rest of the Hickle fortune. I’m Stuart’s sole heir—we wrote our wills several years ago. He never discussed finances with me so I don’t know how much he left, but it has to be considerable. There were bearer bonds, other pieces of real estate all up and down the coast. In theory I’m a rich woman. Do I look it?”

  “There’s no way to get in touch with the executors of his will?”

  “The executor is a partner in Edwin Hayden’s law firm. For all I know he’s one of them. I can do without wealth when all it means is a fancy funeral.”

  She used her chair to climb out of the window. I followed her. We walked in the direction of the big, black house.

  “You worked with the children from my school. How are they doing?”

  “Very well. The prognosis is good. They’re amazingly resilient.”

  “That’s good.”

  A few steps later:

  “And the parents—did they hate me?”

  “Some. Others were surprisingly loyal and defended you. It created a schism in the group. They worked it out.”

  “I’m glad. I think about them often.”

  She accompanied me to the edge of the swamp that fronted the mansion.

  “I’ll let you go the rest of the way by yourself. How does the arm feel?”

  “Stiff, but nothing serious. I’ll survive.”

  I held out my hand and she took it.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  “Same to you.”

  I walked through weeds and mud, chilled and tired. When I turned around to look she was gone.

  I stayed in the ferry’s dining room drinking coffee for much of the return trip to the mainland, going over what I’d learned. When I got back to the hotel I called Milo at the station, was told he wasn’t there and tried his home number. Rick Silverman answered.

  “Hi, Alex. There’s static. Is this long distance?”

  “It is. Seattle. Is Milo back yet?”

  “No. I expect him tomorrow. He went to Mexico on a supposed vacation but it sounds like work to me.”

  “It is. He’s looking into the background of a guy named McCaffrey.”

  “I know. The minister with the children’s home. He said you turned him on to it.”

  “I may have sparked his interest but when I spoke to him about it he brushed me off. Did he mention what led him to make the trip?”

  “Let me see—I recall his saying he phoned the police down there—it’s some small town, I forget the name—and they jerked him around. They implied they had something juicy for him but that he’d have to come up with some bucks to get it. It surprised me—I thought cops cooperated with each other—but he said that’s the way they always are.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. He invited me to come along but it didn’t work out well with my schedule—I had a twenty-four-hour shift coming up and it would have required too much trading with the other guys.”

  “Have you heard from him since he left?”

  “Just a postcard from the airport at Guadalajara. An old peasant pulling a burro next to a Saguaro cactus that looked plastic. Very classy stuff. He wrote ‘Wish you were here’ on it.”

  I laughed.

  “If he does call, tell him to give me a ring. I’ve got some more information for him.”

  “Will do. Anything specific?”

  “No. Just have him call.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks. Look forward to meeting you some day, Rick.”

  “Likewise. Maybe when he gets back and wraps things up.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I got out of my clothes and examined the arm. There was some oozing, but nothing bad. Kim Hickle had done a good patchup job. I did a half-hour of limbering exercises and a bit of karate, then soaked in a hot bath for forty-five minutes while reading the throwaway guide to Seattle the hotel had furnished.

  I called Robin, got no answer, dressed and went for dinner. I remembered a place from my previous visit, a cedar-paneled room overlooking Lake Union, where they barbecued salmon over alder wood. I found it, using my memory and a map, arrived early enough to get a table with a view, and proceeded to put away a large salad with Roquefort, a beautiful coral-colored chinook filet, potatoes, beans, a basket of hot cornbread and two Coors. I topped it off with homemade blackberry ice cream and coffee and, with a full belly, watched the sun go down over the lake.

  I browsed a couple of bookstores in the University District, found nothing exciting or uplifting, and drove back to the hotel. There was an Oriental imports shop in the lobby, still open. I went in, bought a green cloisonné necklace for Robin and rode the elevator back up to my room. At nine I called her again. This time she answered.

  “Alex! I was hoping it was you.”

  “How are you, doll? I called you a couple of hours ago.”

  “I went out for dinner. By my lonesome. Ate an omelette in a corner of the Cafe Pelican all by myself. Isn’t that a pathetic image?”

  “I supped alone, too, my lady.”

  “How sad. Come home soon, Alex. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  “Was the trip productive?”

  “Very.” I filled her in on the details, careful to exclude my encounter with Otto.

  “You’re really on to something. Don’t you feel strange, uncovering all those secrets?”

  “Not really, but I’m not looking at it from the outside.”

  “I am, and believe me, it’s freaky, Alex. I’ll just be glad when Milo gets back and he can take over.”

  “Yes. How are things going with you?”

  “Nothing nearly as exciting. One thing new. This morning I got a call from the head of a new feminist group—it’s a kind of a women’s chamber of commerce. I fixed this woman’s banjo, she came down to pick it up and we got to talking. This was a couple of months ago. Anyway, she called and invited me to give a lecture to their group next week. The topic’s something like The Female Artisan in Contemporary Society subtitle Creativity Meets the Business World.”

  “That’s fantastic. I’ll be sure to be there listening if they let me in.”

  “Don’t you dare! I’m scared enough as it is. Alex, I’ve never given a speech before—I’m absolutely petrified.”

  “Don’t worry. You know what you’re talking about, you’re bright and articulate, they’ll love you.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I say. Listen, if you’re really nervous I’ll do a little hypnosis with you. To help you relax. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  “You think hypnosis will help?”

  “Sure. With your imagination and creativity you’ll be a terrific subject.”

  “I’ve heard you talk about it, how you used to do it with patients, but I never thought of asking you to do it with me.”

  “Usually, darling, we find other ways to occupy our time together.”

  “Hypnosis,” she said. “Now I’ve got something else to worry about.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s harmless.”

  “Totally?”

  “Yes. Totally, in your case. The only time you run into a problem is when the subject has major emotional conflicts or deep-seated problem
s. In those cases hypnosis can dredge up primal memories. You get a stress reaction, some terror. But even that can be helpful. The trained psychotherapist uses the anxiety constructively, to help the patient work it through.”

  “And that couldn’t happen to me?”

  “Certainly not. I guarantee it. You’re the most normal person I’ve ever met.”

  “Ha. You’ve been retired too long!”

  “I challenge you to come up with one single symptom of psychopathology.”

  “How about extreme horniness, hearing your voice and wanting to be able to touch you and grab you and put you in me?”

  “Hmmm. Sounds serious.”

  “Then come on back and do something about it, Doctor.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. Treatment will commence immediately.”

  “What time?”

  “The plane lands at ten—a half-hour after that.”

  “Damn, I forgot—I have to go to Santa Barbara tomorrow morning. My aunt’s sick, in the ICU at Cottage Hospital. It’s a family thing, I have to be there. If you came in earlier we could have breakfast before I leave.”

  “I’m taking the earliest flight, hon.”

  “I suppose I could postpone it, show up later.”

  “Visit your aunt. We’ll have dinner.”

  “It might be a late dinner.”

  “Drive straight to my place and we’ll take it from there.”

  “All right. I’ll try to make it by eight.”

  “That’s great. Speedy recovery to your aunt. I love you.”

  “Love you too. Take care.”

  26

  SOMETHING BOTHERED ME the next morning. The troubled feeling persisted during the ride to Sea-Tac and up the ramp to the plane. I couldn’t get a handle on what it was that lurked in a bottom drawer of my mind, that lingered through the serving of the plastic food, the forced smiles of the flight attendants, the copilot’s bad jokes. The harder I tried to bring it to the forefront of my consciousness the further back it sank. I felt the impatience and frustration of a child encountering a Chinese finger puzzle for the first time. So I decided to just ride with it, sit back and wait and see if it came to me on its own.

  It wasn’t until shortly before landing that it did. What had stuck in my head was last night’s conversation with Robin. She’d asked me about the dangers of hypnosis and I’d given her a speech about it being harmless unless the experience stirred up latent conflicts. Dredged up primal memories had been my exact words. Dredge up primal memories and the reaction is often terror …

  I was stuffed with tension as the landing wheels touched down. Once free, I jogged through and out of the airport, picked up the Seville in the overnight lot, paid a considerable ransom to get it out the gate and headed east on Century Boulevard. Caltrans, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen to set up construction in the middle of the road during the morning rush in and out of LAX and, caught in a jam, I cooked in the Cadillac for the mile to the San Diego Freeway on-ramp. I took the freeway north, connected to Santa Monica West, and exited just before Pacific Coast Highway. A drive down Ocean and a few turns brought me to the Palisades and the place where Morton Handler and Elena Gutierrez had lost their lives.

  The door to Bonita Quinn’s apartment was open. I heard cursing from within and entered. A man was standing in the front room kicking the floral sofa and muttering under his breath. He was in his forties, curly-haired, flabby and putty-colored with discouraged eyes and a steel-wool goatee separating his first chin from his second. He wore black slacks and a light blue nylon shirt that clung to every tuck and roll of his gelatinous torso. One hand held a cigarette and flicked ashes onto the carpet. The other groped for treasure behind a meaty ear. He kicked the couch again, looked up, saw me and waved the smoking hand around the tiny room.

  “Okay, you can get to work.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Loading this shit outta here—aren’t you the mover—” he looked at me again, this time with sharpened eyes. “No, you don’t look like a mover. Excuse me.” He threw back his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Bonita Quinn and her daughter.”

  “You and me both.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Three friggin’ days. With who know how many rent checks. I’ve got tenants complaining their calls weren’t answered, repairs that haven’t been done. I call her, no answer. So I come down here myself and find she’s been gone for three days, left all this junk, hightailed it. I never had a good feeling about her. You do someone a favor, you get shafted. Happens every time.”

  He inhaled his cigarette, coughed and sucked again. There was yellow around the irises of his eyes; gray, unhealthy flesh pouched the wary orbs. He looked like a man recuperating from a coronary or just about to have one.

  “What are you, collection agency?”

  “I’m one of her daughter’s doctors.”

  “Oh yeah? Don’t tell me about doctors. It’s one of you that got me into this in the first place.”

  “Towle?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Yeah? You from his office? Cause if you are, I got plenty—”

  “No. I just know him.”

  “Then you know he’s a nag. Gets into stuff he has no business getting into. My wife hears me say this, she’ll kill me. She loves the guy. Says he’s terrific with the kids, so who am I to argue, right? What kind of doctor are you, anyway?”

  “Psychologist.”

  “The kid had problems, huh? Wouldn’t surprise me. She looked a little iffy, if you know what I mean.” He held out his hand, tilted it like the wing of a glider.

  “You said Dr. Towle got you into the mess with Bonita Quinn?”

  “That’s right. I met the guy once or twice, maybe. I don’t know him from Adam. One day he calls me out of the clear blue and asks me if I could give a job to a patient of his. He heard there was an opening for a manager in this place, and could I help this lady out. I say does this person have experience—we’re talking multiple units here, not some duplex. He says no, but she can learn, she’s got a kid, needs the money. I say, listen, Doc, this particular building is singles-oriented, the job’s not right for someone with a kid. The manager’s place is too small.” He looked at me scowling. “Would you stick a kid in a hole like this?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. You don’t have to be a doctor to see it’s not fit. I tell Towle this. I explain it to him. I say, Doc, this job is meant for a single person. Usually I get a student from UCLA to do it—they don’t need a lot of space. I’ve got other buildings, I tell him. In Van Nuys, a couple in Canoga Park, more family-oriented. Let me call my man in the Valley, have him check it out, I’ll see if I can help this person.

  “Towle says, no, it has to be this building. The kid’s already enrolled in school in this neighborhood, to move her would be traumatic, he’s a doctor, he knows this to be a fact. I say, but Doc, you can’t have kids making noise in a place like this. The tenants are mostly singles, some like to sleep late. He says I guarantee you this kid is well-behaved, she makes no noise. I think to myself this kid makes no noise, there’s gotta be something wrong with her—now you show up and it makes sense.

  “I try to put him off, but he presses me. He’s a nag. My wife loves him, she’ll kill me if I get him pissed off, so I say okay. He makes an appointment for me to meet this lady, shows up with the Quinn broad and the kid. I was surprised. I gave it a little thought the night before, figured he was humping this broad, that’s why the Albert Schweitzer routine. I expected something classy, with curves. One of those aspiring actress types, you know what I mean? He’s older, but he’s a classy-looking guy, right? So in he walks with her and the kid and they look like a pair outta the Dust Bowl, real hicks. The mother is scared outta her skull, she’s smoking more than me, which is a feat—the kid’s, like I told you, a little iffy, just stares into space, though I’ll grant you she’s quiet. Didn’t make a sound. I had my doubts she could ha
ndle the job, but what could I do, I already committed myself. I hired her. She did okay. She was a hard worker, but she learned very slowly. No complaints about the kid, though. Anyway, she stays for a few months, then she flies the coop leaving me with this junk and she’s probably got five grand worth of rent checks, I have to go back and trace ’em and have the tenants put stops on ’em and write new ones. I gotta clean this place, hire someone new. Let me tell you, no more Mister Nice Guy for Marty. For doctors or anyone else.”

  He folded his arms over his chest.

  “You have no idea where she went?” I asked.

  “I did, would I be standing here jawing with you?”

  He went into the bedroom. It was as bleak as I remembered it.

  “Look at this. How can people raise kids like this? I got three, each has his own room, they got TV’s, bookshelves, Pac Mans, all that stuff. How can a kid’s mind grow in a place like this?”

  “If you hear from her or find out where she is, would you please call me?” I took out an old business card, crossed out the number and wrote my home phone number on it.

  He glanced at it, and put it in his pocket. Running one finger along the top of the dresser he came up with a digit cloaked with dust kittys. He flung the dust away. “Yecch. I hate dirt. I like things to be clean, know what I mean? My apartments are always clean—I pay extra for the best cleaning service. It’s important tenants should feel healthy in a place.”

  “You’ll call me?”

  “Sure, sure. You do the same for me, too, okay? I wouldn’t mind finding Miss Bonita, get my checks back, give her a piece of my mind.” He fished in his pocket, pulled out an alligator billfold and from it produced a pearl-gray business card that said M and M Properties, Commercial and Residential, Marduk I. Minassian, President, followed by a Century City address.

  “Thanks, Mr. Minassian.”

  “Marty.”

  He continued probing and inspecting, opening drawers and shaking his head, bending to look under the bed Bonita Quinn had shared with her daughter. He found something under there, stood up, looked at it and tossed it in a metal wastebasket where it landed with a clang.

  “What a mess.”