Rage (12 page)

Randolph’s
laywer said you weren’t necessarily on our side.

Maybe
she’d transmitted that to Rand. Or Lauritz Montez had. He’d seen me as a
prosecution tool, had gone along with Sydney Weider’s petition to keep me away
from the boys.

Milo
said, “Does your silence indicate I’m making sense?”

“Anything’s
possible,” I said. “But he didn’t sound hostile over the phone.”

“I
know, just troubled.”

“Back
when I evaluated him there was no hostility, Milo. He was meek, cooperative.
Unlike Troy, he never tried to manipulate me.”

“He
had eight years to stew, Alex. And don’t forget: He cooperated and
still
got
sent to hell. You know what C.Y.A.’s like. No more status offenders and
mischief makers. This year there were six murders in the system.”

“Liver
scars,” I said.

“Even
with that, most people would think Duchay got off easy for what he did. But try
telling that to the guy who went through it. I’m thinking one very bitter
twenty-one-year-old ex-con. Maybe he had plans to pay lots of people back and
you were first on the list.”

“Why
do you have doubts about him hooking up with a prison buddy?”

“What
do you mean?”

“You
said it
was
your working theory.”

“Lord,
I’m being
parsed,
” he said. “No, I haven’t abandoned the basic premise.
I just haven’t come up with any buddies Duchay met in lockup yet. C.Y.A guy I
spoke to said he had no gang affiliations, was ‘socially isolated.’ ”

“Any
disciplinary problems on his record?”

“Quiet,
compliant.”

“Good
behavior,” I said.

“Yada
yada.”

“So
what’s next?”

“Talk
to people who knew him, try to get a fix on his movements that day. I had Sean
hit every store on Westwood for three blocks north of Pico to see if anyone
spotted Duchay lurking around. Nada. Same for the Westside Pavilion, so if he
went in there, he didn’t make an impression. Tomorrow morning I visit Reverend
and Mrs. Andrew Daney.”

“Reverend
and Reverend,” I said. “They were both studying to be ministers.”

“Whatever.
I talked to her— Cherish, there’s a name for you. She sounded pretty broken up.
All those good intentions blown to bits.”

“Why’d
you take the case on, big guy?”

“Why
not?”

“You
don’t care much for the victim.”

“Who
I like or don’t like has nothing to do with it,” he said. “And I am deeply hurt
by your intimations to the contrary.”

“Yada
freaking yada,” I said. “Seriously, you can pick and choose. Why this one?”

“I
picked
it to make sure you’re not in continuing danger.”

“I
appreciate that but— ”

“A
simple thanks will suffice.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re
welcome. Try to enjoy the sunshine until Dr. Gwynn returns.”

“What
time are you seeing the Daneys tomorrow?”

“Not
your problem,” he said. “Sleep in.”

“Should
I drive?”

“Alex,
these people were advocates for the boys. That could make you not their
favorite person.”

“My
report wasn’t a factor in the decision to certify them as juveniles. Which, I
should point out, is exactly what their lawyers were asking for. There’s no
logical reason for me to be targeted.”

“Strangling
and beating a two-year-old wasn’t logical.”

“What
time?” I said.

“The
appointment’s for eleven.”

“I’ll
drive.”

* * *

I
picked him up at the station at ten-thirty and took the Sepulveda Pass out to
the Valley. He said nothing as we crossed Sunset and passed the spot where Rand
Duchay’s body had been found.

I
said, “Wonder how he got from the Valley into the city.”

“Sean’s
checking the buses. Probably a waste of time. Like so much of what we do.”

* * *

The
Galton Street address where Drew and Cherish Daney advised spiritually was in a
blue-collar Van Nuys neighborhood, a few blocks from the 405. The sky was the
color of newspaper pulp. Freeway noise was a constant rebuke.

The
property was fenced with redwood tongue-and-groove but the gate was open and we
entered. A boxy, pale-blue bungalow sat at the front of the eighth-acre lot. At
the rear were two smaller outbuildings, one a converted garage painted a
matching blue, the other, set slightly back, an unpainted cement block cube.
The free space was mostly pavement, broken by a few beds of draft-friendly
plants edged with lava rock.

Cherish
Daney sat in a lawn chair to the left of the main house, reading in full sun.
When she saw us she shut the book and stood. I got close enough to read the
title:
Life’s Lessons: Coping with Grief.
A piece of tissue paper
extended from between the pages.

Her
hair was still white-blond and long, but the teased-up bulk and side-wings of
eight years ago had been traded for bangs and simplicity. She had on a white,
sleeveless top over blue slacks and gray shoes, the same silver chain and
crucifix she’d worn that day at the jail. Most people put on weight as they get
older but she had reduced to a hard, dry leanness. Still a young woman—
mid-thirties was my guess— but fat’s a good wrinkle filler and her face had
collected some tributaries.

The
same sun-bronzed complexion, the same pretty features. Noticeable curve to her
back, as if her spine had bowed under some terrible weight.

She
smiled without opening her mouth. Red-rimmed eyes. If she recognized me, she
didn’t say so. When Milo gave her his card, she glanced at it and nodded.

“Thanks
for seeing us, Reverend.”

“Sure,”
she said. A screen door slammed and the three of us turned toward the sound.

A
girl, fifteen or sixteen, had come out of the main house and stood on the front
steps holding what looked to be a school workbook.

Cherish
Daney said, “What do you need, Valerie?”

The
girl’s return stare seemed resentful.

“Val?”

“Help
with my math.”

“Of
course, bring it over.”

The
girl hesitated before walking over. Her wavy black hair trailed past her waist.
Plump build. Her face was dusky, round, her gait stiff and self-conscious.

When
she got to Cherish Daney, she alternated between looking at us and pretending
not to.

“These
men are police officers, Val. They’re here about Rand.”

’’Oh.”

“We’re
all very sad about Rand, aren’t we, Val?”

“Uh-huh.”

Cherish
said, “Okay, show me what the problem is.”

Valerie
opened the book. Sixth-grade arithmetic. “These ones. I’m doing them right but
I’m not getting the right answers.”

Cherish
touched the girl’s arm. “Let’s take a look.”

“I
know I’m doing them right.” Valerie’s fingers flexed. She rocked on her feet.
Glanced at Milo and me.

“Val?”
said Cherish. “Let’s focus.” Touching Valerie’s cheek, she guided the girl’s
eyes toward the book.

Val
shook off the contact but stared at the page. We stood there as Cherish
attempted to unravel the mysteries of fractions, speaking slowly, enunciating
clearly, skirting the line between patience and patronizing.

Not
losing her patience during Valerie’s lapses of concentration. Which were
frequent.

The
girl tapped her feet, drummed her hands on various body parts, wriggled, craned
her neck, sighed a lot. Her eye contact was hummingbird-flighty and she kept
glancing over at us, shooting her gaze to the sky, then down on the ground. The
book. The house. A squirrel that scampered up the redwood fence.

I’d
gone to school for too long to resist diagnosis.

Cherish
Daney stayed on track, finally got the girl to focus on a single problem until
she achieved success.

“There
you go! Great, Val! Let’s do another one.”

“No,
I’m okay, I get it now.”

“I
think one more’s a good idea.”

Emphatic
head shake.

“You’re
sure, Val?”

Without
answering, Valerie ran back toward the house. Dropped the workbook and cried
out in frustration, bent and retrieved it, flung the screen door open and
disappeared.

“Sorry
for the interruption,” said Cherish. “She’s a terrific kid but she needs a lot
of structure.”

“A.D.D.?”
I said.

“It’s
that obvious, huh?” Now she stared at me with wide blue eyes. “
I
know
who you are. The psychologist who saw Rand.”

“Alex
Delaware.” I held out my hand.

She
took it readily. “We met at the jail.”

“Yes,
we did, Reverend.”

“I
guess,” she said, “our paths cross at sad junctures.”

“Occupational
hazard,” I said. “Both our occupations.”

“I
suppose . . . actually, I’m not a minister, just a teacher.”

I
smiled. “
Just
a teacher?”

“It
comes in handy,” she said. “For homeschooling. We homeschool the kids.”

Milo
said, “Foster kids?”

“That’s
right.”

“How
long do they stay with you?” I said.

“No
set time. Val was supposed to be with us for sixty days while her mother was
evaluated for detox. Then her mother O.D.’d and died and all of Val’s relatives
live in Arizona. She barely knows them— her mom ran away from home. Top of
that, they weren’t interested in taking her. So she’s been with us nearly a
year.”

“How
many fosters do you care for?”

“It
varies. My husband’s shopping over at Value Club. We buy in bulk.”

“What
was the arrangement with Rand Duchay?” said Milo.

“The
arrangement?”

“With
the state.”

Cherish
Daney shook her head. “That wasn’t a formal situation, Lieutenant. We knew Rand
was being released and had nowhere to go so we took him in.”

“The
county had no problem with his being here?” said Milo. “With kids?”

“It
never came up.” She stiffened. “You’re not going to cause problems for us, are
you? It wouldn’t be fair to the kids.”

“No, ma’am.
It was just a question that came to mind.”

“There
was never any danger,” she said. “Rand was a good person.”

Same
claim he’d made. Neither Milo nor I answered.

Cherish
Daney said, “I don’t expect you to believe this, but eight years transformed
him.”

“To?”

“A
good person, Lieutenant. He wasn’t going to be with us long term, anyway. Just
until he found a job and a place to stay. My husband had made inquiries with
some nonprofits, figuring maybe Rand could work at a thrift shop, or do some
landscaping work. Then Rand took the initiative and came up with the idea of
construction. That’s where he went Saturday.”

“Any
idea how he ended up in Bel Air?”

She
shook her head. “He’d have no reason to be there. The only thing I can think of
is he got lost and someone picked him up. Rand could be very trusting.”

“He
never phoned you?”

“He
didn’t have a phone,” she said.

He’d
called me from a pay booth.

Milo
said, “How close is the construction site?”

“Up a
few blocks on Vanowen.”

“Not
very far, in terms of getting lost.”

“Lieutenant,
Rand spent his entire adolescence in prison. When he got out he was extremely
disoriented. His world was a buzz of confusion.”

“William
James,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Pioneer
of psychology. He called childhood a blooming, buzzing confusion.”

“I
probably learned that,” said Cherish. “I took psychology in seminary.”

Milo
said, “So you kept in regular contact with Rand while he was in custody.”

“We
did,” she said. “Right after Troy died, we initiated contact.”

“Why
then?”

“Initially,
we were more involved with Troy because we knew him before the trouble.”

“The
trouble being Kristal Malley’s murder,” said Milo.

Cherish
Daney looked away. Her stoop became more pronounced.

“How’d
you know Troy before, Mrs. Daney?”

“When
my husband and I were students, part of our community service seminar involved
identifying needs in the community. Our apartment wasn’t that far from 415
City, so we knew its reputation. Our faculty adviser thought it would be a good
place to find kids with needs. We talked to Social Services and they identified
several prospects. Troy was one of them.”