Jonathan Kellerman - Deception

Deception

Alex Delaware Book 25

By Jonathan Kellerman

To Oscar

The woman had haunted eyes.

Pale, drooping at the outer edges, they stared intothe unseen camera with an odd combination of defiance and defeat.

She didn't move. Neither did the camera. The wallbehind her was brown-blue, the color of an old bruise. The couch on which sheperched was gray. She was a pretty woman, made less so by fear. Her shoulderswere bunched high, her neck tendons taut as bridge cables. A black, sleeveless dressshowcased soft white arms. Too-blond hair fell limply to her shoulders.

Moments passed. Nothing happened. In another situationI might've cracked wise about it being one of Andy Warhol's old anti-films:interminable, static studies of the Empire State Building, a man sleeping.

When a homicide lieutenant brings you something towatch, you keep your mouth shut.

Milo stood behind me. His black hair and raincoat wererumpled. The coat was cheap, green, wrinkled past the point of salvation. Itgave off a not unpleasant vegetative odor. He'd placed a massive breakfastburrito in a take-out box on my desk, hadn't touched it.

When he drops in, he usually beelines for the fridge,empties a quart of something, raids the shelves for bad carbs. This morning,he'd marched to my office, loaded the DVD with a flourish.

"For your consideration."

Blanche, my little French bulldog, sat next to me,uncharacteristically serious. She'd tried her usual smile, had figured outsomething was different when Milo didn't stoop to pet her.

I rubbed her knobby head. She looked up at me,returned her attention to the monitor.

The woman's lips moved.

Milo said, "Here we go."

More silence on the screen.

"So I lied."

The woman said, "My name is Elise Freeman. I'm ateacher and tutor at Windsor Preparatory Academy in Brentwood." Her voicewas throaty. She knotted her fingers, flopped them onto her lap. "I'mmaking this recording to document sustained abuse I have received at the handsof faculty members at Windsor Preparatory Academy in Brentwood. Which I willhereon refer to as Prep."

Deep breath. "For the past two years at Prep, Ihave been subjected to repeated, unwarranted, aggressive, and distressingsexual harassment from three individuals. Their names are." Her right handrose. A finger pointed upward. "Enrico Hauer. H-A-U-E-R." Twofingers: "James Winterthorn." More slow, enunciated spelling, then atrio of digits. "Pat Skaggs."

The hand dropped. "For the past two years EnricoHauer, James Winterthorn, and Pat Skaggs have made my life a living hell byengaging in brutal, unsolicited, and threatening sexual behavior. I am makingthis recording so that in the event something violent happens to me, theauthorities will know where to look. I do not know what else to do as I feeltrapped and frightened and have nowhere to turn. I hope this recording neverneeds to come to light but if it does, I am glad that I made it."

Her eyes clenched shut. Her lips moved soundlessly andshe slumped. Suddenly her jaw jutted and she was sitting up straight. Moredefiance than defeat.

Staring hard at the camera. "Thanks forlistening."

The screen went blue. Milo said, "Talk about aD-movie plot device."

I said, "But you're here. She was murdered?"

"Maybe. She's on ice."

"Backlog at the coroner?"

His laughter was harsh. "Nope, this morning I'mMr. Literal. Ice of the dry sort. Frozen CO2. She was found in her home, lyingin a bathtub full of the stuff."

I tried to picture the blond woman as a frozen corpse,didn't like the image that flashed in my head, and reverted to Doctor Helpful."Someone trying to mess up the time-of-death estimate? Or maybe apsychopath coming up with a new way to showcase his handiwork."

He winced, as if all contingencies were painful.Removing the disc, he slipped it back into a clear plastic jewel box. Notbothering to glove up; the DVD had already been printed, matched only to EliseFreeman.

I said, "Where are you going with this?"

He rotated his neck. "Got coffee? Maybe sometoast?"

We left my house with black coffee in travel-cups andsix slices of lavishly buttered sesame-rye.

When Milo wants to think, phone, text, or sleep hesometimes asks me to do the driving. It's against LAPD regs but so are lots ofthings. He makes up for my mileage cost with bar tabs and such.

The toast was occupying his attention so I offered totake my Seville. He shook his head, scattering crumbs, continued to his latestunmarked, a bronze Chevy Malibu with a phlegmy ignition. Heading north onBeverly Glen, he steered with one hand, stuffed rye bread into his mouth withthe other.

The police radio was switched off. The burrito restedin the backseat and filled the car with eau de frijole.

He said, "In answer to your question, toomessy."

"That was low on my list of questions. Where arewe going?"

"Where she died, Studio City."

"Not a West L.A. case but you're on it."

"Not an official homicide but I'm on it."

The difference between an experienced psychologist anda novice is knowing when not to speak.

I sat back and drank coffee.

Milo said, "Maybe there'll be a microwave and Ican heat up the burrito."

Elise Freeman had resided in a green-sided, tar-roofedbungalow on a spidery, tree-shaded lane east of Laurel Canyon and north ofVentura Boulevard. Close enough to the thoroughfare to hear Valley traffic, butmature vegetation and larger houses blocked any urban visuals.

The little green box sat at the terminus of a longdirt driveway split by a strip of concrete. A gray sedan was parked near thefront door. Full-sized car but not big enough to hide the bungalow's blemishesas we drew close: worn and ragged siding eroded to raw wood in patches, curlingshingles, a noticeable listing to the right due to a sinking foundation.

No crime scene tape that I could see, no uniforms onwatch.

I said, "When was she found?"

"Last night by her boyfriend. He says he talkedto her on the phone three days ago but after that, she stopped returning hiscalls. A forty-eight-hour time frame fits the coroner's TOD guesstimate.Probably at the tail end--early morning. Apparently, dry ice doesn't melt, itsublimates--goes straight into the atmosphere--so there's no water residue forestimating degradation. In an ice chest, the rate of sublimation is five to tenpounds every twenty-four hours, but it's faster under normal roomtemperature."

"Any empty ice bags left behind?"

"Nope. Exactly."

Someone had cleaned up.

"The scene's still intact?"

He scowled. "I never got a chance to see thescene because my involvement began at five thirty a.m. today when Deputy Chief Weinbergwoke me from a rare good dream. The DVD, the key to the house, and what'spassing for a file were messengered to my house ten minutes later."

"High intrigue and an egregious break inprocedure," I said. "Sounds like orders from on high."

He continued slowly up the drive, checking out thesurroundings. Layers of greenery to the left, a two-story Colonial mansion tothe right. The big house was wood-sided like the bungalow, but what I could seeof it was painted white and adorned with black shutters. It sat on a generouslot partitioned from Freeman's skimpy ribbon of real estate by a ten-footstucco fence topped with used brick. Bougainvillea topped areas of brick,amping up the privacy quotient on both sides.

The smaller structure might've begun life as anoutbuilding of the manse, back when multi-acre estates spread across Valleyhillsides. A guesthouse, servant's quarters, maybe tack storage for one of thecowboy actors wanting proximity to the Burbank film-lots that passed for WildWest badlands.