Guilt

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “Sorry.”

  “No, no, now it’s my head’s going in bad directions. What if the baby wasn’t unwanted, Alex? What if it was wanted in a bad way? Literally. For some kind of nut-cult ritual.”

  His normal pallor had leached to an unhealthy off-white. I felt my own skin go cold.

  He said, “Dear God in Heaven, what if that poor little thing was farmed.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  A woman stood near the entrance to the division parking lot. Tall, lanky, long-legged with frizzy yellow hair, wearing a maroon pantsuit with shoulder pads a couple of decades too big, she consulted a piece of paper as she checked out entering vehicles. A badge was clipped to her lapel.

  I said, “Department bean counter?”

  Milo said, “Your tax dollars at work.” He rolled up behind a black-and-white and a blue Corvette that was someone’s civilian ride. Both cars passed the frizzy-haired woman’s scrutiny. When Milo pulled up to the keypad, she looked at him, waved the paper.

  “Lieutenant Sturgis?” She approached the driver’s side.

  Milo said, “Another survey? Not today,” began rolling the window up.

  “Don’t do that!” Her protest was more screech than bellow. Her pantsuit was the color of pickled beets, some fabric that had never known soil or harvest. She wore glasses framed in pale blue plastic, rouge that was too bright, lipstick that wasn’t bright enough. Had one of those rawboned bodies that abhor body fat. Nothing masculine about her, but nothing feminine, either.

  She pressed a hand on the half-rolled window. Picture on her badge; I was too far to read the small print. She showed Milo the paper in her hand: On it was a full-page, color photo of him.

  He said, “Never seen the guy.”

  “C’mon, Lieutenant.”

  He rolled down the window. “What can I do for you?”

  “You could stop avoiding me.” She unclipped the badge, showed it to him. “Kelly LeMasters, L.A. Times.”

  Milo didn’t oblige her with a response.

  She said, “That’s the way it’s going to be? Fine, I’ll grovel for every crumb. Even though I shouldn’t have to ’cause I’m with the paper of record and I’ve been calling you all week on those skeletons and you’ve been shining me on like I’m your ex-wife filing for more spousal support.”

  She smiled. “Or in your case, ex-husband.”

  Milo said, “A comedian.”

  “Anything that works,” said Kelly LeMasters. Her tone said she was used to rejection. But not inured to it.

  A car pulled up behind us. Large black man at the wheel of a brand-new Chevy unmarked. Dark suit, white shirt, red tie. Scowl of impatience. Horn-beep.

  Milo said, “That’s a captain behind me, so I’m going to pull into the lot. It has nothing to do with avoiding you.”

  “You couldn’t avoid me if you wanted to, I’ll be right here when you come walking out.”

  True to her word, she hadn’t budged a foot. Looking at me, she said, “This is the psychologist. He advise you to shine me on?”

  “No one’s shining you on. Sorry if it came across that way.”

  “Ma’am bam thank you not,” she said. “What, you’re allergic to cooperation?” She looked me over, top-to-bottom. “Good angle, grizzled homicide cop and dashing shrink.” Blue eyes shifted back to Milo. “Delete grizzled, insert rumpled.”

  He reached for his tie, lying crookedly across his paunch. The reflexive move cracked up Kelly LeMasters. She slapped her knee with glee. Long time since I’d seen anyone do that. Not since my last drive through the Ozarks.

  Milo said, “Glad to be amusing.”

  Kelly LeMasters said, “See? You’re human. Have your vanities like everyone else. So why in the world would you refuse to cooperate with me? I could make you famous. At least temporary-famous and that’s pretty cool, no?”

  “Thanks but no thanks.”

  “Playing hard to get? Why run from stardom, Milo Sturgis? In addition to being a sexual-preference pioneer, for which you’ve never received just credit, you’re darn good at what you do. According to my sources, over the past twenty years you’ve closed proportionately more murders than any other detective. And yet no one really knows about the totality of your accomplishments because you refuse to maintain any sort of media presence. Sure, you pop up from time to time, giving pithy little quotes. But more often than not you let some boss-type get the credit for your work.”

  “Aw shucks.”

  “Fine, you’re the gay Jimmy Stewart but why shut me out on these baby cases? What is it? My breath?”

  She leaned close, exhaled noisily. “See? Minty fresh?” I was favored with a second blast of herbal aroma. “Back me up on that, Doctor.”

  Milo and I laughed.

  “See,” she said, “I’m a funny girl. Reward me, Milo Sturgis.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “So what isn’t?” Her hand shot out. A white-gold wedding band circled one of ten bony fingers. Her nails were short, unpolished. But for the ring, she wore no jewelry.

  Milo said, “Now we shake?”

  “We sure do,” said Kelly LeMasters. “Seeing as we’re going to be warm, nurturing, mutually advantageous buddies.”

  A car approached from Santa Monica Boulevard. Shiny unmarked, new enough to lack plates.

  Milo motioned LeMasters away from the lot entrance, turned his back to the oncoming vehicle.

  “Who’s that?” she said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Let’s not talk here.”

  Kelly LeMasters said, “No prob. That Indian place you like?”

  He glared at her. “Nowhere I like, I don’t want to be seen with you. Minty fresh notwithstanding.”

  “Fine,” she said. “If it means you’re going to give me something juicy.”

  “No obligations.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  We headed up the block into the residential area south of the station. Milo and LeMasters walked abreast as I trailed two steps behind. A few turns later he stopped in front of a dingbat apartment building. White stucco instead of aqua but stylistically not dissimilar from Melvin J. Wedd’s part-time residence.

  Milo’s idea of a private joke? Nothing about him suggested mirth as he drew himself up to max height, the way he does when he’s out to intimidate.

  If that was the goal, it failed with Kelly LeMasters. She took a notepad and pen out of her bag and said, “Go for it.”

  Milo said, “Put that away, we’re off the record. If you guys still respect that.”

  “Milo, Milo,” she said. “If nothing’s on the record, what use are you to me?”

  “This may come as a shock, Kelly: Being useful to you isn’t my priority.”

  “Of course not, solving nasty old murders is, yadda yadda yadda. But you know as well as I do that those things go together. How many of your closed files would still be open if you didn’t get media exposure when you needed it?”

  “I appreciate the value of a free press. But my hands are tied.”

  “By?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Regarding that small point?” she said. “Sure.”

  “Bureaucracy.”

  She said, “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s the staggering secret? We all deal with red tape, you think my employer’s all Bill of Rights and no bullshit?”

  “Glad you empathize.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me why your stupid, venal bosses closed you up on the second skeleton: politics as usual, the whole Maxine Cleveland real estate thing. You ever meet her? Brain-dead and clueless, should be a perfect fit in D.C. That ploy was stupid, where did it get her?” She removed her glasses. “Your idiot bosses let me get scooped by a damn student paper.”

  “You want to complain, I can give you some phone numbers.”

  “How far would that get me?”

  “Exactly my point, Kelly. It’s like talking to dust.”

  She studied him. “Y
ou’re a crafty one, aren’t you? Okay, we go off the record, as long as at some point it goes on the record and I don’t mean months.”

  “Nope, can’t give you a deadline.”

  “I don’t want a deadline, I just want you to be reasonable.” She put her glasses back on. Wrote something in her pad, angling the page so he couldn’t see. I’ve seen him do the same thing with witnesses, trying to kick up the intrigue, establish dominance.

  The two of them would make an interesting bridge twosome.

  “Define reasonable, Kelly.”

  “Use common sense, cut the crap, however you want to define it. I am not going to remain mute for eternity only to have every moron on TV and the Internet going with the story.”

  Bony hands slapped onto bony hips. “Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Fine.” Her pen poised. “Shoot.”

  “Put the pad away.”

  “You don’t trust me to keep it under wraps?”

  “You just said your patience couldn’t be guaranteed.”

  “We’re wasting each other’s time,” she said. “This is bullshit.”

  “Then how about we table the proceedings? Something opens up, I promise to let you know.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you’re right,” he said.

  She studied him. “You’re shitting me. Nice try.”

  “I’m not. You’re right.”

  “Admitting you made a mistake? Have you checked your Y chromosomes recently?”

  “If it was up to me, Kelly, I’d have lots to tell you and it would hit the paper tomorrow. Not because I care about you or your job but because it could be in my best interest. Unfortunately, by pulling that stunt at the parking lot, you made sure anything you write is going to be traced right back to me.”

  “I … maybe that was poor judgment but what was my choice?”

  Milo shrugged.

  Kelly LeMasters said, “Okay, fine, no notes and I swear to protect your identity.” The pad and pen returned to her bag.

  Milo said, “Same for the tape recorder you’ve got in there.”

  “How … fine, you’re an ace detective.” She produced the machine, switched it off.

  He took it, removed a mini-spool that he pocketed, returned the recorder.

  Her nostrils flared. “You’re going to keep that?”

  “For both our sakes.”

  “Want to check if I’ve got a nuclear-laser thought-reader in here?”

  “Nah, those are so twentieth century. So what do you want to know, Kelly?”

  “After all that I have to ask questions? Just tell me what you’ve learned about those baby skeletons.”

  “The first skeleton may not be related to a crime.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “No signs of trauma or injury.”

  “Maybe it was smothered or something.”

  “Anything’s possible but I need evidence.”

  “A body buried under a tree is evidence,” she said. “If no crime was committed why conceal it?”

  “Could’ve been a death due to natural causes that someone wanted to cover up.”

  “What kind of death is natural for a baby?”

  “Disease.”

  “Then why cover it up?”

  “Wish I knew, Kelly. I may never know.”

  “Why the pessimism?”

  “Too old, too cold.”

  “I assume you’ve traced the owners of the house.”

  “You assume correctly. No leads, there.”

  “I know,” said LeMasters. “I looked into it, myself. Found that old guy in Burbank, the whole John Wayne thing, he had nothing to say. Neither did anyone in Cheviot Hills. Including that kid who blabbed to the SMC paper. Her thing was I talk to Lieutenant Sturgis, no one else.”

  Milo said, “Power of the press.”

  “Yeah, we’re real popular—so I should just forget about the first one.”

  “Probe to your heart’s content, Kelly. You learn anything, I’ll be grateful.” Sounding sincere. Not a word about Eleanor Green, a big blue Duesenberg.

  Nothing from me to either of them about Dr. Jimmy Asherwood.

  Kelly LeMasters said, “Okay, let’s get to the juicy one.”

  “Once again, Kelly, there’s no evidence of trauma but I’m assuming homicide, because of the dead woman who was found across the park. Also, we’ve done prelim DNA on the bones and the baby was a girl.”

  Kelly LeMasters didn’t emote. “Okay, go on.”

  “By the state of her dentition two or three months old.”

  “That’s it? What about the woman?”

  Milo said, “Does it bother you at all?”

  “What?”

  “A baby.”

  Her jaw tightened and her arms grew rigid. “Does it bother you?”

  “You bet.”

  “Well, me, too,” she said. “So it’s settled, we both make our livings off other people’s misery but we’re still human.” She turned to me. “Guess that applies to you, too—the misery part. Tell me, did you coach him in all this psychological warfare?” She faced Milo again. “Does it bother me? Let’s put it this way: I’ve got one kid and it took me three miscarriages to get him, so no, I don’t get a thrill out of dead babies, don’t find them the least bit entertaining. Now what the hell else do you want to know?”

  Milo said, “Sorry.”

  “Screw the apology. Give me some meat to chew on.”

  “We’ve identified the adult victim. Nothing in her past predisposes her to being murdered.”

  “Name,” said LeMasters.

  “Adriana Betts, originally from Idaho. She was religious, had no bad habits, worked as a nanny.”

  “She took care of kids?”

  “Yes.”

  “That include babies?”

  “In some cases.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a connection to you?”

  “Theoretically? Sure, Kelly, but we interviewed her employers and all their kids are alive and well. No one has a bad word to say about her.”

  “Religious types can be hypocrites.”

  “Anyone can.”

  “What, you’re a Holy Roller? Despite what the church says about people like you?”

  “Let’s stick with the case, Kelly.”

  “I can’t see it,” said LeMasters. “Being Catholic and gay.” She laughed. “Unless you’re a parish priest.”

  “You’re Catholic?”

  “Once upon a time.”

  “Nice to know you’ve got no biases.”

  She frowned. “Where will you be taking the investigation?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said. “Everyone says you’re methodical as well as intuitive, always come up with a plan. So don’t hold back on me. What’s next?”

  “Same answer, Kelly.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I go off-record and you give me generalities?”

  “That’s because generalities are all I’ve got. I could feed you stuff that would spark your prurient interest, set you off on a useless maze-run. But it wouldn’t help my case, could even hurt it if you printed fallacious crap.”

  “I thought we were working on trust here.”

  “We are,” he said. “Have we reached our goal?”

  “Of what?”

  “Mutually advantageous buddy-hood.”

  “Not even close,” she said. “I promised to keep everything under wraps and you gave me squat.”

  He creased his brow. “I’m going to tell you something else but you have to pledge not to use it until I say otherwise. I mean that, Kelly. It’s essential.”

  “Fine, fine. What?”

  “Though of apparently sound moral character, Adriana Betts may have somehow gotten mixed up with bad people.”

  “What kind of bad people?”

  “This isn’t fact-based,” he said, “but possibly cult members.”

/>   “Not fact-based? Then what?”

  “Inference.”

  “Yours or Dr. Delaware’s?”

  “Mine.”

  “You inferred from the body?” she said. “Some sort of ritual mutilation? I heard she was just shot.”

  “Sorry, that’s all I can say, Kelly.”

  “Church-girl in the clutches of Satan worshippers? Any freakos in particular?”

  “Not even close,” he said. “I’ll be looking into that world, would welcome your input on the topic.”

  “I don’t know squat about cults.”

  “That makes two of us, Kelly.”

  Her arms relaxed. Her eyes brightened. “Are we talking another Manson thing?”

  “I sure hope not.”

  “This town,” said LeMasters, “is Weirdo Central. Can you narrow it down at all?”

  “Wish I could, Kelly, and you need to make sure no one knows we had this talk.”

  “Like I said, I protect my sources.”

  “I’m not talking legally, I mean total blackout.” His turn to move closer to her. Big black eyebrows dipped. He loomed. Kelly LeMasters shrank back. He filled another few inches of her personal space. She tried to stand her ground but the primal fear of something big and aggressive caused her to step back.

  “Total,” he repeated. “You screw that up, I’ll never talk to you again and neither will anyone in the department.”

  He’d lowered his voice. The resultant half whisper was movie-villain ominous.

  LeMasters blinked. Forced herself to smile. “You’re threatening me?”

  “I’m stating a contingency, Kelly. And here’s another one, just to show you what a nice guy I am: If you stick to your part of the deal, you’ll be the first one to know if I close the case.”

  “If, not when?”

  “Appreciate the vote of confidence, Kelly. Either way, you’ll scoop everyone. I promise.”

  “How much lead time will I get?”

  “Enough to close everyone out.”

  “You can guarantee that?” she said. “What about your bosses?”

  “Fuck ’em,” he growled.

  His eyes were green slits.

  Kelly LeMasters knew better than to argue.

  We walked her back to Butler Avenue, watched her diminish to a beet-colored speck that turned east on Santa Monica and disappeared.