Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
The smile faded. “But I can’t stop thinking about the junkie. His dying for me. Like the Azazel goat in the Bible—almost as if he were my Jesus. If I
believed
in Jesus. I think about the fact that he was someone’s little kid once. Maybe someone loved him; now no one will ever know what happened to him. Then I rationalize it, saying it wouldn’t make him any more alive to tell the story. The way he was—so far gone—probably everyone who’d once loved him had given up on him.”
Looking to us for confirmation. I gave a supportive smile and nodded. Milo nodded too.
The boy clenched and opened his hands. Blinked. Wiped his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was small and tight.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Holly. Another sacrifice. But I had no idea she’d do what she did—it wasn’t as if the two of us were confidants or anything. I felt sorry for her, so lonely, so closed in, that father who treated her like a slave. If I had known, I would have called her, warned her not to do anything stupid.”
Milo said, “What did the two of you talk about, son?” Using the voice I’d heard him use with victims.
“Things,” said the boy. Wretched. “All kinds of things. She didn’t talk much herself—she wasn’t very bright, just a step above retarded, really. So I did all the talking. I
had
to do all the talking.”
He held his hands out, supplicating. Zeroing in on Milo. Wanting a cop’s forgiveness.
Milo said, “Absolutely. If you didn’t talk, it would have been like treating her the way everyone else did. Shutting her out.”
“Exactly! Shining her on—everyone shined her on, treated her like some kind of subhuman creature. Even that father of hers, going around doing his own thing with his computers, pretending she didn’t exist. She told me that, told me how he expected her to do his housework. His scutwork. For no money. After we got to know each other she said her dad had been in the army, a general or something. Demanded everything perfect. That she could never be perfect, so she knew he’d never like her.”
“Ever meet the father?” said Milo.
“Just in passing. He walked by me once or twice. Pretending I didn’t exist. Whether it was racism or just the way he was, I didn’t know. Until Ted told me.”
He looked at Dinwiddie and our eyes followed.
The grocer looked uncomfortable. “What I told him is that Burden was strange, to be careful. The whole family was strange.”
“And the other stuff,” Ike said softly.
“Rumors,” said Dinwiddie. “About Burden having been some kind of government spy—rumors that were going around back when I was in high school. We used to ask Howard about it. He always said he didn’t know, but no one believed him—why wouldn’t he know about his own father? We figured he was hedging. This was the sixties—it was uncool to be military. Not that I really believed it. But I just wanted Ike to know that he was dealing with a possible risk factor. So as not to get into trouble.”
“You wanted to make sure I didn’t sleep with her,” said Ike, smiling. Without malice. “Which is cool—that would have been stupid. But there was never any
chance
of that. It wasn’t . . . She wasn’t like that—wasn’t feminine. More like a kid. Gullible. It would have been like sleeping with a kid. Perverted.”
Milo nodded again and said, “How much detail did you give her? About Wannsee?”
“More than I realized, I guess. When I’d come over there, she’d be so happy to see me—set out food, start to make a big deal about it. I was the only one who gave her any attention. So I guess I just kind of went on. Talking my head off.”
“You mention Latch’s name?”
He looked down. Muttered something that passed for “Uh-huh.”
“And Massengil’s?”
“All of it.” Still downcast and muttering. He looked up suddenly, wet-eyed again. “I had no idea she was really listening! Half the time she was so spaced-out I felt like I was talking to a wall! Talking to myself! Almost a stream of consciousness thing, just letting it all out. I don’t even remember what I told her, how much I told her. If I’da known . . .” He broke off, shook his head. Wept. Dinwiddie went over to him and patted his shoulder.
Milo waited a long time before saying, “It wasn’t your fault.”
The thin brown face shot up like a jack-in-the-box. “No. Nothing like that. Whose fault was it?”
“You want to torture yourself with guilt, son, wait until you’re a bit older. After you’ve given yourself some good reason.”
Ike stared at him. Dried his eyes. “You’re weird, man. For a cop. What is it you want from me?”
“That’s up to you,” said Milo. “Latch and Ahlward and a bunch of the others are dead. Mrs. Latch is being looked into. But quite a few of them—too many of them—survived. We’ve got very little to hold them on—nothing that’ll do serious damage in terms of jail time. And maybe that’s no big deal. They’re all a bunch of sheep—with the leaders gone they’ll forget politics, go into real estate or growing dope or writing screenplays, whatever. But maybe not.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you were an eyewitness to a homicide. Maybe you saw enough of the asshole in the coat to be able to match him up to a face. Match that pig nose. If you don’t want to bother, I understand. You can’t buy beer legally and you’ve been through ten lifetimes’ worth of shit. You still don’t trust anyone, know who’s right, who’s wrong. But if you can ID him, there’s a chance we can put the Nazi flick away, get some of the others for conspiracy, Get them really seared. And talking.”
“That’s it?” said the boy. “Match a face?”
“’Course not,” said Milo. “If you do get a match, there’ll be depositions, subpoenas, the whole legal ball of twine. If it gets that far the Police Department will offer you protection, but the truth is, that can be kind of half-assed. So I’ll protect you myself. Make sure it’s done right. I’ll also make sure your grandma gets protection. And good medical help. I’ve got close medical connections.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why go to all the bother?”
Milo shrugged. “Part of it’s personal. I’m still plenty pissed at them—what they did to me.” He ran his hand over his face. Removed his baseball cap and scratched his head. Sweat and pressure had turned his hair into something black and oily and sodden. “Also, maybe I’m curious. The way Ted was. How I’d react. Being asked to shock someone.”
He yawned, stretched, put his hat back on. “Anyway, I’m not going to pressure you, son. Tell me to forget it and I drive back to L.A., you go on to your next hidey-hole, sayonara.”
The boy thought for a while. Bit his nails, gnawed his knuckles.
“Match a face? It was a long time ago, pretty dark. What if I can’t?”
“Then it’s bye-bye and good luck.”
“Do I have to see them . . . him . . . in person? Or can I just look at some photos?”
“Photos for a start. If you come up with an ID, we’ll do a lineup. With full security. Behind a one-way mirror.”
The boy got up, paced, punched his palm with his other hand. I couldn’t help thinking how much he reminded me of Milo. Wrestling. Always wrestling.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll look at your photos. When?”
“Right now,” said Milo. “If you’re ready. I’ve got stuff in the car.”
39
It ended the way it started.
“Turn on your TV, Alex.”
I’d been sitting at the dining room window, watching the sun set over the Glen. Reading Twain. Then poetry—Whitman, Robert Penn Warren, Dylan Thomas. Stuff I’d neglected for too long. Stuff with body to it. Music and lust and despair and religion.
“Is it important, Milo?”
“Quick, or you’ll miss it.”
I got up and switched on the tube.
Six o’clock news.
Tape of Lieutenant Frisk at a podium; below him, a microphone audience. Fawn-colored suit. Cream shirt, green tie.
Grinning and blathering about long-term investigations, interdepartmental task forces, multiple indictments the result of careful coordination with federal and state agencies.
Using the word
hero
. Looking as if he had to force his lips around it. Holding out a hand.
Milo stepped up to the podium.
Frisk shook his hand, handed Milo a piece of paper.
Milo took it, looked at it, gave the camera a
Hi, mom!
smile. Pocketed the commendation.
Frisk stood away from him. Stood back, waiting for him to leave the stage.
Milo stayed there, still smiling. Frisk looked puzzled.
Milo mugged for the camera again, turned and faced Frisk. Drew back his arm and hit Frisk, hard, in the face.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J
ONATHAN
K
ELLERMAN
, America’s foremost author of psychological thrillers, turned from a distinguished career in child psychology to writing full-time. His works include fourteen Alex Delaware books—
When the Bough Breaks, Blood Test, Over the Edge, Silent Partner, Time Bomb, Private Eyes, Devil’s Waltz, Bad Love, Self-Defense, The Web, The Clinic, Survival of the Fittest, Monster,
and
Dr. Death
—as well as the thrillers
The Butcher’s Theater
and
Billy Straight
, three volumes of psychology, and two children’s books. He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have four children.
B
OOKS BY
J
ONATHAN
K
ELLERMAN
FICTION:
Billy Straight
(1998)
Survival of the Fittest
(1997)
The Clinic
(1997)
The Web
(1996)
Self-Defense
(1995)
Bad Love
(1994)
Devil’s Waltz
(1993)
Private Eyes
(1992)
Time Bomb
(1990)
Silent Partner
(1989)
The Butcher’s Theater
(1988)
Over the Edge
(1987)
Blood Test
(1986)
When the Bough Breaks
(1985)
NONFICTION:
Helping the Fearful Child
(1981)
Psychological Aspects of Childhood Cancer
(1980)
FOR CHILDREN, WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED:
Jonathan Kellerman’s ABC of Weird Creatures
(1995)
Daddy, Daddy, Can You Touch the Sky?
(1994)
Turn the page for an excerpt from
Jonathan Kellerman’s
new Alex Delaware novel
A COLD HEART
Available in hardcover
from Ballantine Books
CHAPTER 1
The witness remembers it like this:
Shortly after two
A.M.
, Baby Boy Lee exits The Snake Pit through the rear alley fire door. The light fixture above the door is set up for two bulbs, but one is missing, and the illumination that trickles down onto the garbage-flecked asphalt is feeble and oblique, casting a grimy mustard-colored disc, perhaps three feet in diameter. Whether or not the missing bulb is intentional will remain conjecture.
It is Baby Boy’s second and final break of the evening. His contract with the club calls for a pair of one-hour sets. Lee and the band have run over their first set by twenty-two minutes because of Baby Boy’s extended guitar and harmonica solos. The audience, a nearly full house of 124, is thrilled. The Pit is a far cry from the venues Baby Boy played in his heyday, but he appears to be happy, too.
It has been a while since Baby Boy has taken the stage anywhere and played coherent blues. Audience members questioned later are unanimous: Never has the big man sounded better.
Baby Boy is said to have finally broken free of a host of addictions, but one habit remains: nicotine. He smokes three packs of Kools a day, taking deep-in-the-lung drags while on stage, and his guitars are notable for the black, lozenge-shaped burn marks that scar their lacquered wood finishes.
Tonight, though, Baby Boy has been uncommonly focused, rarely removing lit cigarettes from where he customarily jams them: just above the nut of his ’62 Telecaster, wedged under the three highest strings.
So it is probably a tobacco itch that causes the singer to leap offstage the moment he plays his final note, flinging his bulk out the back door without a word to his band or anyone else. The bolt clicks behind him, but it is doubtful he notices.
The fiftieth Kool of the day is lit before Baby Boy reaches the alley. He is sucking in mentholated smoke as he steps in and out of the disc of dirty light.
The witness, such that he is, is certain that he caught a glimpse of Baby Boy’s face in the light and that the big man was sweating. If that’s true, perhaps the perspiration had nothing to do with anxiety but resulted from Baby Boy’s obesity and the calories expended on his music: For eighty-three minutes he has been jumping and howling and swooning, caressing his guitar, bringing the crowd to a frenzy at set’s end with a fiery, throat-ripping rendition of his signature song, a basic blues setup in the key of B-flat that witnesses the progression of Baby Boy’s voice from an inaudible mumble to an anguished wail.
There’s women that’ll mess you
There’s those that treat you nice
But I got me a woman with
A heart as cold as ice.
A cold heart,
A cold, cold heart
My baby’s hot but she is cold
A cold heart,
A cold, cold heart
My baby’s murdering my soul . . .
At this point, the details are unreliable. The witness is a hepatitis-stricken, homeless man by the name of Linus Leopold Brophy, aged thirty-nine but looking sixty, who has no interest in the blues or any other type of music and who happens to be in the alley because he has been drinking Red Phoenix fortified wine all night and the Dumpster five yards east of the Snake Pit’s back door provides shelter for him to sleep off his
delerium tremens
. Later, Brophy will consent to a blood alcohol test and will come up .24, three times the legal limit for driving, but according to Brophy “barely buzzed.”
Brophy claims to have been drowsy but awake when the sound of the back door opening rouses him, and he sees a big man step out into the light and then fade to darkness. Brophy claims to recall the lit end of the man’s cigarette glowing “like Halloween, you know—orange, shiny, real bright, know what I mean?” and admits that he seizes upon the idea of panhandling money from the smoker. (“Because the guy is fat, so I figure he had enough to eat, that’s for sure, maybe he’ll come across, know what I mean?”)