Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 12 - Survival of the Fittest

by Survival Of The Fittest(Lit)

  'I can do the hillside,' said Daniel.

  'You're sure?'

  'I've done climbing in Israel. Caves in the Judaean Desert.'

  'Recently?'

  Daniel smiled and flopped the dead hand. 'Recently. One accommodates. Contrary to what our NU friends believe, life goes on for all kinds of people.'

  'Fine. Where you sleeping tonight, Alex?'

  'Might as well go home,' I said.

  'I'll follow you.' He faced Daniel. 'After that, you and I meet back here.'

  On Saturday, Daniel slept from 4:00 a.m. to 8:00, awoke, put on fresh jeans, loafers, a black T-shirt, and his best sportcoat, a black serge Hugo Boss jacket given to him by his mother-in-law last Chanukkah. After buying a morning paper, he drove to Marina del Rey, where he walked through the Marina Shores Hotel and out to the harbor.

  Shielding his face behind the paper, he looked for Baker's boat. Easy enough. Alex's description had been precise.

  Satori was long, sleek, white. On a police sergeant's salary? Or had Dr Lehmann played share-the-wealth in all kinds of ways?

  He could smell the ocean, hear the gulls. Impossible to tell from here if Baker was on the boat. One way or another, he'd find out.

  He strolled up and down the breezeway, pretending to sightsee. Twenty minutes later, Wesley Baker came out on deck with a cup of coffee, stretching and looking up at the sky.

  Solid-looking in a white T-shirt and white shorts. Tan, muscular, gold-rimmed glasses. A real California guy, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Hannah Arendt would have been pleased...

  He gave another stretch, unfolded a deck chair, and brought it close to the boat's pointed bow. There he sat, mug in hand, feet on a lower ledge.

  Face full of sun.

  Just another golden day for the elite.

  Daniel forced himself to watch.

  He got back to the house on Livonia before noon and had something of a Sabbath, studying the weekly Torah portion, reciting kiddush, eating a light meal. Grape juice today, no wine.

  Not allowing the murders to re-enter his mind for an hour, but after that, they were all he thought of.

  Milo arrived at 2:00 p.m. and the two of them discussed equipment. The German plastic gun interested the American the most - lightweight, convertible to automatic with the press of a button, two dozen rounds in a cartridge, easy to speed-load.

  Daniel had three, offered him one. The big man thought about it, finally accepted, muttering about 'the next time I want to sneak something onto a plane'. They talked about long guns and agreed Daniel would take a rifle with a night-scope because he'd be on the hillside.

  Milo had spent the morning reviewing Baker's police personnel files as unobtrusively as possible. Nothing in the records indicated Baker's transfer had been disciplinary. No record of any punishment or demotion due to Zev Carmeli's complaint. No documentation, at all, of the incident with Liora Carmeli.

  'Figures,' said Milo. 'The brass investigates complaints enthusiastically. Like Michelangelo would investigate sculpting David out of dog shit.'

  The man had a way with words.

  'Pencil pushers are the same everywhere,' said Daniel.

  Milo made that grumbling noise, then he left at 3:30.

  The plan was for Alex to call Zena Lambert at 5:00 to confirm tonight's date. Anything unusual would mean calling the whole thing off - Milo was protective of his friend. That caused Daniel to think about things better left ignored and he stopped himself and concentrated on getting onto that hillside.

  At 5:15, his phone rang and Milo said, 'It's on.'

  Daniel set out at 8:30. Dark enough for concealment but enough time to be stationed behind the house well before Alex arrived at 10:00.

  He wore ultra-lightweight black pants with paratrooper pockets, black shirt, black stocking cap. Concealing the rifle meant the long black coat with the Velcro-fastened pouch sewn in the lining. Other pockets for the plastic gun and ammunition. His backpack held the parabolic mike, a couple of tiny concussion grenades, mini tear-gas canisters, a combat knife that dated back to his Army days - he'd yet to find something better than the old blade.

  He felt adrenalized and just a bit ludicrous. Big tough commando. Like one of those ninja movies his sons loved to watch. He'd assured Milo he could handle it. Because they weren't talking about freeing multiple hostages, here. Just getting onto that hillside, listening, recording, returning home.

  As he headed for the door, the phone rang.

  Milo, again? Change in plans?

  'Yes?'

  'Shavuah top.' Zev Carmeli offered the traditional post-Sabbath greeting - have a good week.

  'Same to you, Zev.'

  'I need to see you, Daniel.'

  'When?'

  'Now.'

  'I'm afraid that's-'

  'Now,' Carmeli repeated.

  'I'm in the middle of-'

  'I know what you're in the middle of. Where you're going is here - the consulate. I've sent a driver for you, he's parked right behind the Toyota. Which has two flat tires.'

  'Zev-'

  'And don't think about sneaking out the back door, Sharavi. Someone's watching.'

  'You're making a huge-'

  The connection broke. As he put down the phone, two men came in, both young, one blond, one dark-haired. Dark suits, open-necked white shirts. He knew them by face and name. Guards from the consulate, Dov and Yizhar. He hadn't heard them enter. Carmeli had known the phone call would distract him.

  Mr Ninja, indeed.

  'Erev tov' said Dov.

  And a good evening to you, too, schmuck. 'Do you have any idea what you're doing?'

  The man shrugged.

  Yizhar smiled and said, 'Following orders. Who says the only good Germans are Germans.'

  Milo was at his desk at the West L.A. station when Captain Huber called him in.

  Huber was doing paperwork at a chaotic desk and didn't look up or speak. His bald spot was pink, slightly flaky.

  'Sir.'

  'Your lucky day, Sturgis. Meeting downtown with Deputy Chief Wicks. What'd you do, solve a crime or something?'

  'When?'

  'Now. Ahora. They even sent a car and a driver - big Afro-Amer two-striper waiting just outside my office, you're really rating today.'

  Huber stopped writing, but kept his head down. 'Maybe it's an affirmative-action thing, diversity and all that good stuff. Don't look so glum.'

  Never making eye contact, so he had no idea about Milo's expression.

  'I-'

  Now Huber looked up sharply, thick face mottled with anger. Wicks's call had caught him by surprise. Out of the loop.

  Milo suddenly understood why and his bowels began to churn.

  'What's that, Sturgis?'

  'I'm on my way.'

  'Looks like you are, indeed. Making any progress on your cases?'

  'Which ones?' said Milo.

  'All of them.'

  'We're doing okay.'

  'Good. Don't keep them waiting. Close the door on your way out.'

  Body-searched, pockets emptied, Daniel sat sandwiched between the two men in the consulate car breathing in their tobacco smells, knowing there was no chance to break free. He feigned relaxation.

  They drove him to the consulate, placed him in Zev Carmeli's office, and remained outside the door.

  He sat wondering if Zev would show.

  Feeling like an idiot for neglecting the obvious. How could he have not seen it? How could it have been any other way?

  Denial, pathological denial.

  Had Milo been intercepted, too? How far did this go?

  Hopefully, it wouldn't matter, Alex walking into the date unprotected. Just a date with a crazy girl and back to the Genesee apartment.

  More denial.

  Alex was expecting full coverage, would behave accordingly.

  He remembered the tranquil look on Baker's face, all those murders and the guy was taking in the sun, unbothered by life.

  Guy like
that, nothing would bother him.

  He looked around Zev's office. Saw something that could help, pocketed it, and knocked on the door.

  Dov opened it. 'What?'

  'Bathroom.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Up to you, soldier. I can piss on his desk.'

  Dov smiled, took his arm firmly, and propelled him to a nearby unmarked door.

  No need for another search, the first had been so thorough.

  'Have fun,' Dov told him.

  Once inside, Daniel urinated, flushed, turned on the faucet, took the cell phone he'd lifted from Zev's desk out of his pocket, and dialed a familiar number. Time for only one call - he hoped the phone was a normal line, not one of Zev's preassigned coded things.

  Ringing. Good.

  Pick up, friend, pick up, pick up...

  'Hello?'

  'Gene? It's me. I can't talk long. I need your help.'

  Knocking on the door. Dov's voice, 'Hey, you drown or what? How long does it take to pee?'

  'Wait til you reach my age,' Daniel called out.

  'Ain't that the truth,' said Gene.

  Zena was at the store when I made the confirmation call.

  'How gallant of you to verify, A.'

  'Just wanted to make sure you weren't too worn out from the party.'

  'Me? Never. On the contrary, bursting with energy. I shall prepare comestibles - pasta with clams, Caesar salad, fruit of the vine.'

  'The woman cooks, too.'

  'Oh, do I.' She laughed. 'I simmer and sometimes I boil over. I'll leave a key in the empty flowerpot near the door. I'll be ready.'

  At 9:30 I put on an Andrew uniform: gray shirt, baggy gray pants, the same tweed sportcoat. The same cologne.

  Starless night, a washed-slate sky, the air reeking of wet paper, damp around the edges.

  I took La Brea to Sunset. The boulevard was rife with spandex and leather, delusions passing as hope. East of Western it changed: darkened buildings hemmed by shadow-strewn corners, everything murky, grubby, too quiet.

  I drove automatically, slowly, as if riding a track, reached Lyric just after ten o'clock, and climbed the winding road now stripped of cars.

  Rondo Vista was mortuary silent. Zena's garage was closed and one car was parked in front of her house. Fifty-eight T-bird. Pink with a white top, faded and scarred.

  Had to be hers.

  The same faint light from her window. Setting the mood?

  I parked and headed for the door. The covered pathway was dark, the dead spider plants shuddered in the night breeze. Feeling an inexplicable pang of first-date anxiety, I groped til I found the key in the pot, resting atop a mound of bone-dry planter's mix.

  Music from inside.

  Electric guitars played slowly.

  Beautiful, dreamy music.

  'Sleepwalk' by Santo and Johnny.

  Zena setting the mood. I remembered the song from my childhood. She hadn't been born when it hit the charts.

  I unlocked the door, expecting to find her downstairs in the bedroom, maybe some kind of cute note directing me to the stuffed animals.

  She was right there in the living room.

  Lit by a single pole lamp with a weak blue bulb.

  Theatrical.

  Nude, on the sofa.

  She reclined, one arm extended along the top of the couch, like Goya's Naked Maja. Wide-eyed with eagerness, her tiny, white body perfectly formed, pearly in the steely

  light. Nipples pink and erect, oversized for the small, white breasts, black hair sprayed static. Her legs were spread just enough to offer a view of bleached-blond pubic patch. Her other arm rested on her flat, smooth belly.

  I smelled clam sauce but the lights were out in the kitchen.

  No preliminaries. How to get out of this-

  'Hi,' I said.

  She didn't speak. Or move.

  I came closer, was inches away before I saw the ligature around her neck. Copper wire, biting into the slender stem, so tight it had been invisible.

  Wide, wide blue eyes. Not seductiveness. Surprise, the final surprise.

  I turned to run, was caught by the elbows from behind.

  A knee in the small of my back sent a jolt of pain up my spine and made my legs give way.

  Then hands around my neck, more pain, different - an entire new definition of pain, as the back of my head exploded.

  Milo's driver was named Ernest Beaudry and he was coal-black, maybe thirty, handsome, impassive, a devout Baptist, with a bristly mustache that looked laser-trimmed and an eighteen-inch neck turned to asphalt by shaving bumps.

  The car was a blue unmarked Ford, same model as Milo's but newer and much cleaner, parked in the West L.A. station lot. Beaudry stayed close to Milo as they approached it, held the door open for him.

  'Some service, officer.'

  Beaudry didn't answer, just shut the door and got into the driver's seat.

  He managed the car skillfully. Driving was one of his favorite things. As a kid he'd fantasized about becoming a professional race driver til someone told him there were no black ones.

  The police radio was on, reciting that night's epic poem

  of coded violence, but Beaudry wasn't listening. Turning out of the lot, he headed for the 405.

  'Downtown?' said Milo.

  'Yup.'

  As they got on the ramp, Milo said, 'So what's this about?'

  No answer, because Beaudry had none, and even if he had, he was smart enough to keep it zipped. The 405 was clogged with nighttime airport traffic and they barely moved for a while.

  Milo repeated the question.

  'No idea, sir.'

  A few car lengths later: 'You work for Chief Wicks?'

  'Yup.'

  'Assigned to the motor pool?'

  'Yup.'

  'Well,' said Milo, 'all these years on the force and I never got driven before. So this is my lucky day, huh?'

  'Looks like it.' Beaudry let his left hand sink to the driver's-door handrest as he one-fingered the wheel.

  Traffic started moving.

  'Okay, I'll just sit back and enjoy this,' said Milo.

  'There you go.'

  Sturgis stretched his legs and closed his eyes. They cruised slowly but steadily.

  Nice and easy - then Beaudry heard, 'Shit - Jesus.'

  Rustling motion on the passenger side. Beaudry glanced to the right and saw that Sturgis was sitting up.

  'Oh - Jeesus, I can't-' The last word was guillotined by a gasp and Beaudry saw Sturgis slump, one hand on his barrel chest, the other fighting to loosen his tie.

  'What's the problem?'

  'Stomach - chest - probably just gas... the shit I had for dinner - oh, man, here's another -Jesus, it hurts like a mother - oh, shit, this is not-'

  Sturgis sat up again, suddenly, as if pierced by something. Gasping, rasping, yanking the tie loose but holding on to the limp fabric. Clutching the left side of his chest. Beaudry heard a button pop and plink against the dashboard.

  'You all right-'

  'Yeah, yeah - get the hell over to Parker, maybe they've got a - no... I dunno - oh shit!'

  The long legs stiffened, knees knocking against vinyl. Sturgis's eyes were shut now, and his color looked bad - grayish, his face screwed up tight.

  'Ever have this before?' said Beaudry, fighting to sound calm.

  Milo's response was a deep, bearish moan.

  'Sir, have you ever experie-'

  'Ohh! Jeez - get me - oh - ahV Sturgis arched his back, bit his lip, and Beaudry heard fast, rough breathing.

  Beaudry said, 'I'm getting you to a hospital-'

  'No, just get me-'

  'No choice, sir - where's the closest one - Cedars, okay, Robertson exit's just a ways up, hold on-'