Guilt

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Nothing succeeds like success.”

  “Well,” he said, “the best I can do for surveillance is a couple of additional drive-bys per shift by sector cars. I know ’cause I’ve already asked, great minds and all that … maybe I’ll do an all-nighter … God, I’m hungry, how long will it take you to defrost a steak? Or a roast? Or half a cow?”

  His phone chirped Ravel’s “Bolero.” He picked up, flashed a V. “That’s great, sir, I apprec—” The victory sign wilted as he listened for a long time.

  He put the phone down and drank more water at the sink.

  I said, “His Godliness ranting?”

  “Lower the volume, it woulda been a rant. ‘Well, Sturgis, looks like your fucking victim is gonna be a fucking reality star for fifteen fucking minutes so get a decent fucking photo of her fucking dead face because you’ve got one fucking shot at this. And you better fucking be able to do something with it because I just swallowed a whole lot of fucking bullshit from a fucking piece-of-shit politician who’s got fucking White House connections.’ ”

  I said, “When will the photo run?”

  “Tonight at six. If I get my fucking ass in gear.” He smiled. “I believe I will.”

  Ten-second flash at the tail end of the news. Three hours later, Milo phoned, exuberant. “Her name’s Adriana Betts and she’s originally from Boise. A cousin from Downey saw it and recognized her, called Adriana’s sister back in Idaho, the sister called me, emailed a photo. She’s flying down tomorrow, I booked Interrogation B at the Butler Avenue Hilton.”

  “Did the sister have anything interesting to say about Adriana?”

  “Wonderful person, not an enemy in the world, how could this happen, why do bad things happen to good people.”

  That got me thinking about Jimmy Asherwood and I was hit with a strange, aching sympathy for a man I’d never known.

  “Alex? You there?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked if you can make it tomorrow for the sister and you didn’t answer. Three p.m.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “My favorite word.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  No DNA was needed to link Helene Johanson’s chromosomes to those of Adriana Betts.

  Four years older than Adriana, Helene had a pleasant, square face, solid build, and chestnut hair that made her a near-twin to her sister. Watching her step into the interview room was unsettling: a dead woman come to life.

  The match didn’t extend to style. Adriana had been found wearing a loose dress and budget shoes, both tagged by the coroner as “Walmart, made in China.” Helene’s preferences ran to designer jeans with rhinestone accents, a formfitting black ribbed top under a fringed caramel suede jacket, snakeskin cowboy boots. Her nails were polished rose-pink. The diamond studs in her ears looked real. So did the Lady Rolex on her left wrist and the Gucci bag from which she pulled out a silk, lace-edged handkerchief.

  HAJ monogram on one corner. She took in the room, dried a corner of one eye.

  Milo said, “Thanks for getting here so quickly, Ms. Johanson. I’m sorry it had to be for such a terrible reason.”

  Helene Johanson said, “I’m sure you hear this all the time but I can’t believe this is real.”

  “I hear it often, ma’am, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Are you able to talk about Adriana?”

  “I’m here,” she said, with no conviction. “I guess it’s better than watching the bulls get castrated.”

  “Pardon?”

  “We ranch beef cattle outside of Bliss. Red and Black Angus for the organic market. This is the week some of the boys become less-than-boys. The noise and the smell are terrible, I always leave. But I’d rather be doing that than this.” She slapped the handkerchief on the table. “Lieutenant, what happened to my sister?”

  “What we know so far is she was shot in a park.”

  “During the day?”

  “At night, ma’am.”

  “That makes absolutely no sense,” said Helene Johanson. “What would Adriana be doing in a park at night? Did she make a wrong turn into a slum or something?”

  “Actually, it’s a very nice neighborhood. A place called Cheviot Park. Did Adriana ever mention it?”

  “No, she didn’t mention L.A., period. Why would she? She lived in San Diego.”

  “Really,” said Milo. “When did she move there?”

  “Around a year ago. Before that, she was a year in Portland. Why would she be in a park in L.A.?”

  “Did she know anyone here?”

  “Not that she ever mentioned.”

  “What brought her to San Diego?”

  “Same thing as Portland,” said Johanson. “A job. Babysitting. Not like a teenager doing it part-time, a real job, working for a family. She loved it. Loved children.” Her face crumpled. “Now she’ll never have any of her own—can I call my husband?”

  “Sure,” said Milo.

  She took a while to locate her cell in her purse, speed-dialed, spoke to “Danny” and cried.

  When she hung up, Milo said, “Ms. Johanson, anything you can tell us about Adriana will be helpful. The kind of person she was, who her friends were.”

  “The kind of person she was … is a good person. A wonderful person. There wasn’t a mean cell in Adriana’s body. She was kind and sincere. Very religious. We were brought up Methodist but she went for something more intense. Religion was important to her. She taught Sunday school. Preschoolers—she always loved the little ones.”

  “In terms of her friends—”

  “Her church group. Even before she switched. She always hung with the good kids.”

  “Who’d she hang with in California?”

  She twisted a diamond stud. “I guess this is the point where I tell you we weren’t close. And feel crappy about it. The entire flight I was thinking of why I didn’t pay Adriana more attention. Even if she didn’t ask for it, I should’ve included her more … I’m sorry, I don’t know. Don’t know much about her life since she left Idaho.”

  “Why’d she leave Portland?”

  “The people she worked for couldn’t afford her. Adriana had grown attached to the little boy but there was no choice.”

  “Did she get her jobs through an employment agency?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  Milo said, “Do you have her address? In Portland, as well, if you recall.”

  Head shake. “Sorry.”

  “What about a phone number?”

  “All she gave me was her cell.” She scrolled her own phone, read off the number. Not committed to memory; the sisters hadn’t talked often.

  Milo said, “Did she tell you anything about her San Diego employers?”

  “They were doctors—medical professors.”

  I said, “At UC San Diego?”

  “All she told me was one of them did research on cancer, Adriana was impressed by that. But I can’t tell you if it was the husband or the wife.”

  “Was she happy with the job?”

  “Adriana was happy about everything, she was a happy person—oh, here’s something, the little girl was adopted. Korean or Chinese, some kind of Asian.” Her eyes brightened. “Oh, yeah, her name was May, Adriana said she was adorable.”

  “How long ago did you have that conversation?”

  Helene Johanson’s eyes wandered. “Too long ago. Right after she started.”

  Milo said, “This may sound like a stupid question, ma’am, but did Adriana have any enemies?”

  “No, everyone loved Adriana. And I can’t see her falling in with a bad crowd, that wasn’t her. She liked quiet things, reading, crocheting—she’d make blankets for her church friends’ babies.”

  “What about her personal relationships?”

  “With men?”

  “Yes.”

  “She had a boyfriend in high school. Dwayne Hightower, his family farmed a big spread near where Danny and I run our Angus. Great family, everyone thought Dwayne and
Adriana would be married after high school graduation. Then Dwayne got himself killed in a tractor accident and Adriana never wanted to date.” She sniffled. “All those years doing for others. It’s so unfair.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “When Dwayne died, it’s like Adriana pulled away. Drew into herself. But then she came out of it and it was the same old Adriana, cheerful, happy, helping others.”

  “Resilient,” I said.

  “You bet.”

  “But no interest in dating.”

  “It wasn’t for lack of guys trying. Then they stopped, I guess they got the message.”

  “Was there anyone in particular who might’ve felt rejected?”

  “One of those crazy stalker things? No way.”

  “Would your parents have any additional—”

  “They’re gone,” she said. “Cancer, both. Danny thinks it was the radon in the basement and I think he might be right. Because Mom and Dad went within nineteen months of each other and there was definitely radon, Danny had it measured. So we’d know if our kids could be safe. They didn’t find a lot but there was some. I wanted Adriana to sell the house and keep all the money. Danny and I sell every pound of meat we raise and we’re also getting good money for bones and skin and renderable fat. So I wanted Adriana to get the house but she said it belonged to both of us by right, she wouldn’t take extra.”

  “What happened to the house after Adriana moved to Portland?”

  “We sold it, by the time taxes and the mortgage were paid, there really wasn’t much left.”

  I said, “Any reason Adriana took jobs outside of Boise?”

  “She told me it was time to travel, see what was out there. I said, why don’t you go all the way, do something crazy, check out Europe? Danny and I love to travel, we cruise, last year we saw the coast of Italy, it was amazing.” She smiled. “I guess the West Coast was adventure enough for Adriana.” She bit her lip. “Now I guess I have to look? To identify her?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Johanson.”

  “No?”

  “We know who she is.”

  “Oh, okay, so how does it work? Do I take her back with me?”

  “Eventually but not quite yet, Ms. Johanson.”

  “She’s being autopsied?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When will that be finished?”

  “Within a few days.”

  “Then what?”

  Milo said, “You’ll be informed and given a list of local undertakers who can help you through the process. They’ll take care of everything.”

  “I guess I’ll bury her next to Mom and Dad … there’s a space. Two, one for each of us.”

  I said, “No other sibs?”

  “Nope, just Adriana and me … I’ll tell her pastor, I’m sure he’ll want to do some kind of memorial.”

  Milo said, “Could we have his name, please?”

  “Pastor Goleman. Life Tabernacle Church of the Fields. Any recommendations for picking an undertaker, Lieutenant Sturgis?”

  “They’re all good, ma’am.”

  “Six of one, half dozen of the other? Okay, I guess I’ll fly back, you tell me when I can have my sister.”

  “Do you need a ride to the airport?”

  “No, I reserved a car and driver for all day.”

  “When’s your flight?”

  “Whenever I want.” She looked away. “I’m leaving from Van Nuys, we own a small plane—a tiny little jet, you can’t even stand up in it, nothing fancy. We use it for business, visiting the various cattle auctions and semen dealers and whatnot.”

  “Makes sense,” said Milo.

  “Efficient. That’s what Danny says, though between us, I think he just wanted his own plane. I thought I’d be bringing Adriana back with me, talked to the pilot about there being room in the hold, he said there was.” She swiped at her eyes. “I guess I’ll be going home alone.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Adriana Betts’s cell phone registration traced to an address in Portland but her recent billing had gone to a Mailboxes Galore in a La Jolla strip mall. Milo began the paperwork for subpoenaing the records, then tried the mail drop.

  The clerk said, “Let me check … here we go, Betts. Closed three months ago.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “We don’t ask.”

  “She leave a forwarding?”

  “Let me check … nope, just a close-down.”

  “Was she all paid up?”

  “To the day,” said the clerk. “That’s pretty cool.”

  “What is?”

  “Someone being honest.”

  I said, “La Jolla makes sense if she was working for two doctors. Big medical town. And a pair of physicians would be less likely to run out of nanny money.”

  “Med school’s a big place,” he said. “You have any contacts?”

  “A few in Pediatrics, but the sister said cancer research so I’d try Oncology first.”

  “Sister didn’t know much, did she? Maybe Adriana didn’t want her to. Why would a church girl need a P.O.B.?”

  I said, “Church girl with a secret life?”

  “She didn’t die pretty.”

  An outraged activist might call that blaming the victim. Anyone with homicide experience would call it logic.

  He read off the Portland address on the cell registration. “Let’s talk to these people, first.”

  Susan Van Dyne worked as a reference librarian at the Multnomah County Library, Main Branch. Bradley Van Dyne was in human resources at a start-up software company. Both had Facebook pages that showed them as bespectacled towheads with an interest in snow sports. Their only child was a three-year-old named Lucas, already wearing glasses. In one of several posted photos, Adriana Betts could be seen holding the boy on her knee.

  Everyone smiling, Adriana’s grin the widest. She had on the same dress she’d died in. Lucas grasped her finger with a tiny hand. Child and nanny appeared in love. So far, I believed everything Adriana had told her sister.

  The Van Dynes’ number was listed. They gasped in unison when Milo told them about the murder.

  “My God, my God,” said Susan. “Adriana was a gem. We so regretted having to let her go.”

  “Why did you?”

  Bradley said, “Lost my job, couldn’t afford her anymore. When the HR department gets reamed, you know the company’s terminal. And guess what? They bellied up ten days after I got my pink slip.”

  Susan said, “With Bradley staying home it didn’t make sense.”

  “I became Mr. Mom,” said Bradley. “Not my finest hour, I’m finally bringing in a paycheck again. Poor Adriana, I can’t believe anyone would hurt her. Was it a random thing? ’Cause it’s not like she traveled the fast lane.”

  “No partying?” I said.

  “Her? She made us look like night-lifers and trust me, we’re not.”

  Susan said, “She had her evenings to herself but never went out. All she wanted to do was read and watch TV and crochet. She made three lovely blankets for Lucas. Oh, God, he’d be so sad if he knew.”

  Milo said, “Did Adriana have any friends?”

  “None that we ever met.”

  Bradley said, “She actually told me her best friend was Lucas.”

  Susan said, “She and Lucas really bonded. She had great instincts, could get down and play at his level. He still asks about her. Letting her go wasn’t easy.”

  “How’d she react to that?”

  Bradley said, “No drama, it was like she’d expected it. I’d been bitching for a while about the company having problems.”

  Susan said, “To tell you the kind of person she was, we offered her an extra month’s severance. She refused to take it, said we needed it to tide ourselves over.”

  I said, “That’s pretty close to saintly.”

  Bradley said, “You could describe her as saintly. That’s why it doesn’t make sense, someone killing her.”


  Susan said, “Maybe not, Brad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Saints get martyred.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  I said, “Any idea who’d want to martyr Adriana?”

  “Of course not,” said Susan. “We haven’t been in touch for over a year.”

  “Do you know who she went to work for?”

  “Of course,” she said. “The Changs.”

  “You know them?”

  “No, but Adriana gave us their address so we could forward mail. They’re doctors.”

  “Better financial bet,” said Bradley.

  Milo said, “Did she get much mail for forwarding?”

  “Actually, not a single piece. Even when she lived here it was just junk—coupons she gave to us. Oh, yeah, she also got occasional correspondence from her church back in Idaho.”

  Susan said, “Tabernacle Something. I guess she was a fundamentalist. But it’s not like she was heavy-handed, some kind of Jesus freak.”

  “Did she find a church in Portland?”

  “She went every Sunday,” she said. “Ten to noon, that’s the only time she left for any stretch. Can’t tell you where the church was, though, because we never asked and she never said.”

  “Anything else you think would help us?”

  Bradley said, “Sue?”

  Susan said, “No, sorry.”

  Milo said, “How about the address in La Jolla?”

  Susan said, “Hold on, I’ll find it.”

  Seconds later, she was reading off the P.O.B. Milo had just called.

  He gestured obscenely. “One more question: Did you find Adriana through an agency?”

  “Nope,” said Bradley, “through an ad we ran in the paper.”

  “It wasn’t as risky as it sounds,” said Susan. “We ran a background check through a friend, he does security for one of the hotels. He said she came up absolutely spotless.”

  “Could we have his name?”

  Silence. “That’s absolutely necessary?”

  “There’s a problem, ma’am?”

  “Well,” said Susan, “actually, he’s not a friend, he’s my brother and I’m not sure he’s allowed to freelance with the hotel account.”

  “I promise not to get him in trouble, Ms. Van Dyne, just want to find out anything I can about Adriana.”