Rage (11 page)

I
said, “Any fix on when it happened?”

“You
know how T.O.D. is, mostly guesswork. Best guess is sometime between nine p.m.
and one a.m.”

Nine
was well after I’d gotten home from Duchay’s no-show. Maybe he had changed his
mind about the meeting. Or had his mind changed.

I
said, “Did you just happen to find out, or did you go looking for him?”

Milo
stretched his long legs as far as the room allowed. “After you called I decided
to do a little research on Duchay, found out he’d been released three days ago.
Four years early, good behavior.” Flaring nostrils said what he thought about
that.

“I
learned who he’d been released to, which took some doing. Called, got no
answer, decided a thrill-killer ambling around the Westside didn’t appeal to my
sense of order. I left Sean a message to check prowler reports and attempted
burglaries for the last three days. Then I took a drive up Westwood and hit
some side streets.”

He
worked his tongue inside his cheek. “I was thinking I’d finish up at your
place, you’d fix me a sandwich, I’d wish you bon voyage. Then Sean calls back,
he’s at the coroner, a case came in last night that looked like a whodunit and
the crime scene guys missed something but the crypt attendant found it when she
undressed the body. Little scrap of paper in the victim’s pocket. Sean was
pretty sure he recognized your number, but wanted to confirm.”

“Sean’s
got a good memory,” I said.

“Sean’s
coming along.”

“You’re
working the case with him?”

“He’s
working it with me.”

* * *

As we
left, Sean Binchy stepped out of the detectives’ room and hailed us. He’s
red-headed and freckled, in his late twenties, as tall as Milo, many pounds
lighter. Sean favors four-button suits, bright blue shirts, somber ties, and
Doc Martens. Old tattoos are hidden by long sleeves. Short, neat hair replaces
the dreads of his music days.

“Hi,
Dr. Delaware,” he said cheerfully. “Looks like you’re involved in this one.”

Milo
said, “Sean, Dr. Delaware’s scheduled to fly to New York tomorrow morning. I
don’t see any reason that should change.”

“Sure,
no prob— uh, Loot, I finally got through to the folks Duchay was staying with
and they had no idea he’d gone into the city to meet with Dr. Delaware. He told
them he was going looking for a job.”

“Where?”

“Construction
site,” said Binchy. “There’s an apartment development going up not far from
where they live and Duchay went to speak with the supervisor.”

“On
Saturday?”

“Guess
the site’s open.”

“Verify
that, Sean.”

“You
bet.”

“What
time did he leave for this alleged meeting?” said Milo.

“Five
p.m.”

“Guy
takes a short walk at five, doesn’t come home all night, and they’re not
concerned?”

“They
were concerned,” said Binchy. “At seven p.m., they called Van Nuys Division to
report him missing, but since he was an adult and not enough time had passed,
it wasn’t filed as an official M.P.”

“A
convicted murderer wandering around didn’t bother anyone?”

“I
don’t know if they mentioned that to Van Nuys.”

“Find
out if they did, Sean.”

“Yes,
sir.”

I
said, “Who was he living with?”

“Some
people who take in troubled kids,” said Binchy.

“Duchay
was an adult,” said Milo.

“Then
it’s troubled people, Loot. They’re ministers, or something.”

“The
Daneys?” I said.

“You
know them?”

“They
were involved with Rand’s case years ago.”

“Back
when he killed that little girl,” said Binchy. No rancor in his voice. Every
time I’d seen him, his demeanor had been exactly the same: pleasant, unruffled,
uncluttered with self-doubt. Maybe still waters did run deep. Or God on your
side was the ultimate soul balm.

“Involved
how?” said Milo.

“Spiritual
advisers,” I said. “They were seminary students.”

Binchy
said, “Everyone could use some of that.”

“Didn’t
seem to help Duchay,” said Milo.

“Not
in this world.” Binchy smiled briefly.

I
said, “Both of them were murdered.”

“Both
of who, Doc?”

“Rand
and Troy Turner.”

“Didn’t
know about Turner,” said Milo. “When did that happen?”

“A
month after he was in custody.”

“So
we’re talking eight years in between. What happened to him?”

I
described Troy’s ambush of a Vato Loco, the gang-vengeance theory, the way he’d
been hung in the utility closet. “Don’t know if it was ever solved.”

“A
month in and he’s thinking he’s a tough guy,” he said. “No impulse
control . . . yeah, sounds like your basic prison hit. Were he and
Duchay in the same facility?”

“No.”

“Lucky
for Duchay. If he’d been seen as Turner’s buddy, he would’ve been next.”

“Duchay
didn’t get away clean in prison. Coroner said there were old knife scars on his
body.”

Milo
said, “But he was alive until last night. Big and tough enough to defend
himself.”

“Or
he learned to avoid trouble,” I said. “He got early release for good behavior.”

“That
means he didn’t rape or shank anyone in front of a guard.”

Silence.

Binchy
said, “I’ll follow up on what exactly Van Nuys was told, Loot. Enjoy your trip
to New York, Doctor.”

After
he left, Milo jammed some papers into his attaché case and the two of us
descended the stairs to the back of the station. We walked a couple of blocks
to where I’d parked the Seville.

He
said, “Guys like Turner and Duchay
attract
bad stuff.”

“It’s
ironic, isn’t it?” I said.

“What?”

“Rand
makes it through eight years of the C.Y.A., gets out, and three days later he’s
dead.”

“Your
feeling this, huh?”

“You
aren’t?”

“I
pick and choose when I bleed.”

I
opened the car door.

He
said, “What’s really getting to you, Alex?”

“He
was a stupid, impressionable kid who lost his parents in infancy, probably
suffered brain damage as a baby, got raised by a grandmother who resented him,
was ignored by the school system.”

“He
also killed a two-year-old. At that point, my sympathies shift.”

“I
can understand that,” I said.

He
placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let it eat at you. Go have fun in La
Manzana Grande.”

“Maybe
I shouldn’t go.”

“Why
the hell not?”

“What
if I’m relevant to the case?”

“You’re
not. Good-bye.”

* * *

I
drove home thinking about Rand Duchay’s last moments. Perhaps a temple shot
meant he’d been looking straight ahead, hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe he’d
experienced no final fireburst of terror and pain.

I
pictured him lying facedown in some cold, dark place, beyond knowing or caring.
Eight-year-old TV images flew into my head. Barnett and Lara Malley exiting the
courtroom. She, sobbing. He, tight-lipped, smoldering. So rigid with anger he’d
come close to striking a cameraman.

Demanding
the death penalty.

Now
both murderers of his daughter were gone. Would he find comfort in that?

Had
he played a role in it?

No,
that was trite and illogical. Revenge was a dish best eaten cold, but eight
years between deaths was arctic. Milo was right. Damaged boys like Turner and
Duchay
did
attract violence. In a sense, what had happened was the
predictable termination of two wasted lives.

Three.

* * *

I
checked my overnight bag, packed the toothbrush I’d forgotten, and put the
house in relative order. Logging onto a weather site, I learned I’d be arriving
tomorrow in the midst of a snowstorm.

Low:
fifteen, high: twenty-nine. I pictured white skies and sidewalks, the flicker
of Manhattan lights in our window as Allison and I holed up in a nice warm
suite with butler service.

Why
had Rand called me?

The
phone rang. Allison said, “Thank God, I caught you. Alex, you won’t believe
this.”

Strain
in her voice. My first thought was something had happened to her grandmother.

“What’s
up?”

“Gram’s
friend, the one who was coming from St. Louis, suffered a stroke this morning.
We just got the call. Gram’s taking it hard. Alex, I’m so sorry, but I can’t
leave her.”

“Of
course not.”

“She’ll
be fine, I know she will, she always is— is your ticket refundable? I’ve
already called the hotel and canceled. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t
worry about it,” I said, sounding calm. No act, I was
relieved
that I
wouldn’t be going. What did that say about me?

“. . . despite
the situation, I’m going to try to get out of the two-week extension, Alex. One
week, tops, then I’ll call my cousin Wesley and ask him to do a shift. He’s a
chem prof at Barnard on sabbatical in Boston, so his hours are flexible. It’s
only fair, right?”

“Right.”

She
paused for a breath. “You’re not too upset?”

“I’d
love to see you but things happen.”

“They
do . . . it’s freezing, anyway.”

“Fifteen
to twenty-nine in New York.”

“You
looked it up,” she said. “You were all prepared to go. Boo hoo.”

“Boo
hoo hoo,” I said.

“The
suite had a fireplace. Dammit.”

“When
you come back we’ll light mine.”

“In
seventy-degree weather?”

“I’ll
buy some ice and sprinkle it around.”

She
laughed. “That’s some picture . . . I’ll get back as soon as I
can. One week, tops . . . uh oh, there’s Gram calling me again,
what now? She wants more tea . . . sorry, Alex, talk to you
tomorrow.”

“Sounds
good.”

“Are
you all right?”

“Sure.
Why?”

“You
sound a little distracted.”

“Just
disappointed,” I lied. “Everything will work out.”

“Nothing
like optimism,” she said. “With all you see, how do you manage that?”

Allison
had been widowed in her twenties. Her basic disposition was a good deal sunnier
than mine. But I was a better faker.

“It’s
a good way to live,” I said.

“Oh,
yeah.”

M
onday night, I reached Milo at his house. It was just
after ten and his voice was thick with scotch and fatigue.

“It’s
one a.m. in New York, dude.”

“I’m
still on Pacific Standard.”

“What
happened?”

“Allison’s
grandmother needed her.” I filled him in.

“Sorry
about that. What’s on your mind?”

“Just
checking in,” I said.

“On
Duchay? Turns out weekends at the construction site are for cleanup, but the
supervisor said he’d never met Duchay. So either the story was bogus or Duchay
was confused. Other than that, zippo to report. My working theory was that
Duchay hooked up with some C.Y.A. bad guy buddy in order to do something bad.
They got into conflict and the buddy did him.”

“What
makes you think he was planning anything?”

“Because
eight years in lockup is a Ph.D. in bad. The reason I figured a buddy was
because Duchay’s pattern was criminal collaboration.”

“One
crime’s a pattern?”

“When
it’s a crime like his. And you need to consider this, Alex: The plan may have
involved you. As in target.”

“Some
theory,” I said.

“Step
back and try to be objective,” he said. “A convicted thrill murderer phones you
out of the blue, says he wants to talk about his crime but won’t give details.
If it was really some confession-absolution deal, why wait eight years? He
could’ve written you a letter. And why you? He had spiritual advisers—
do-gooders who’d love to grant him absolution. The whole thing smells, Alex. He
lured you out.”

“Why
would he want to hurt me?”

“Because
you were part of the system that sent him away for eight years. And his knife
wounds say it wasn’t a vacation. Nine sticks, Alex, and three had gone deep.
There were scars on his liver and one of his kidneys.”

Margaret
Sieff— the woman Rand had called “Gram”— had been clear about my allegiance.