Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 12 - Survival of the Fittest

by Survival Of The Fittest(Lit)

  'Sounds good.'

  He rubbed his face. 'I'm not kidding myself, Alex. They want me out of the station - any station. And I know damn

  well this can go either way: the best thing that ever happened to me or they marginalize me, ease me out. If it's the second, fuck 'em, I'll deal with it. Meanwhile, they've upped my pay and promised lieutenant within a year.'

  'Still sounds good,' I said. 'Now, tell me why.'

  'The official reason is that they were intending to do it all along - the meeting with the deputy chief was about that. Because of my solve rate, people in high places had put in a good word for me.'

  'Carmeli. Wanting you out of the way.'

  'Carmeli and the department,' he said. 'The real reason is they need to shut me up. Because Carmeli told them about Baker and NU and what he was going to do about it, and they didn't try to stop him.'

  'Common interest,' I said. 'The last thing LAPD needed was a psycho-killer cop.'

  'Clean slate, Alex. Can't say I'd rather see Baker in court.'

  'And the story about Tenney being picked up for Raymond Ortiz and Latvinia and dying in a shoot-out with police gives their families some peace of mind. Too bad Raymond's body will never be found.'

  "They told his parents Tenney had burned it completely - confessed it before he went for his gun.'

  'Convenient,' I said.

  Frowning, he took something out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

  Two neady cut squares of newsprint.

  This morning's paper.

  Two papers, same date. Los Angeles Times, The New York Times.

  The local story was slighdy bigger, a front section, page 12, the lower right-hand corner:

  PSYCHOLOGIST PERISHES IN HOUSEFIRE

  SANTA MONICA - Fire investigators said an early-morning blaze that killed a psychologist yesterday was the result of faulty electrical wiring.

  Room M. Lehmann, fifty-six, died in his bed of smoke inhalation during the fire that erupted in a secluded area of Santa Monica Canyon and consumed his house along with nearly half an acre of surrounding vegetation. Neighbors' houses were spared. The structure had been outfitted with smoke alarms but apparently they failed to go off.

  Liehmann, a bachelor, had served as a consultant to the Los Angeles Police Department as well as to several other foundations and institutions, including the Central City Skills Center. Funeral arrangements await notification of next of kin.

  The smaller scrap said:

  BOATING ACCIDENT CLAIMS TWO

  A couple boating on Long Island Sound drowned yesterday evening in what police are terming a freak accident.

  Farley Sanger, 40, and Helga Cranepool, 49, had apparently embarked on a nighttime sail when their craft sank after a previously undiscovered hole in the bottom widened and filled the twenty-foot sailboat with water.

  'Mr Sanger boated all the time,' said a Manhattan neighbor, preferring to remain anonymous, 'but never at night'

  Sanger, an attorney, was a partner in the firm of...

  I gave him back the clippings.

  'Same day, probably the exact same time,' I said, sliding the papers toward him. 'Perish the careless.'

  'Hey,' he said, 'they made the rules.'

  I ended up telling Robin a version that left her shocked, but relieved, eventually able to sleep again.

  My sleep was another matter, but after two weeks I was starting to settle down.

  I'd never forget any of it, knew I had to get back on a routine.

  Taking referrals, seeing kids, writing reports. Feed the fish, walk the dog.

  Thinking about Helena, from time to time. The things she'd never know... sometimes ignorance was bliss.

  Thinking about Daniel, too. What had happened to him?

  I filled the hours. Doing the usual things because I could.

  The small white envelope that arrived on a sunny Tuesday was punctuation of sorts.

  No stamp, no postmark, stuck right in the middle of the day's delivery.

  Post-office oversight, if you believed that.

  Embossed Hallmark trademark on the back flap.

  Inside was no card, just a photograph.

  Daniel, along with a pretty, slender woman around his age. He wore a white shirt, dark slacks, sandals, and she had on a loose blue dress and sandals. Several inches shorter than he was, with curly, blond hair. Her arm in his.

  Flanking them, three children.

  A gorgeous, dark-skinned but fair-haired girl of college age wearing an olive-drab Army uniform, and two little black-haired boys in T-shirts and shorts and yarmulkes. The older boy grinned mischievously but the younger one looked serious, a clone of Daniel. Daniel and the woman and the girl all smiled evenly. The girl had Daniel's features, her mother's hair.

  Stone wall behind them. Big, rough, golden stones.

  Nothing else.

  On the back was a typed address:

  PINSKER STREET, JERUSALEM, ISRAEL.

  Below that:

  NEXT YEAR IN JERUSALEM? YOU ARE ALWAYS WELCOME HERE.

  My service phoned. 'A Mr Brooker, Dr Delaware.'

  'I'll take it.'

  'Doctor? My name is Gene Brooker and I'm-'

  'I know who you are, Captain. We... encountered each other briefly.'

  'Did we? Anyway, the reason I'm calling is to deliver a message, Doctor. From a mutual friend. He sent you something and wanted to know if you received it.'

  'I did. Just now, as a matter of fact. Perfect timing.'

  Silence. 'Good. He said to tell you he's fine. Thought you might be wondering.'

  'I was. Thoughtful of him.'

  'Yes,' he said. 'He's always been thoughtful.'

  The End