Rage (19 page)

“I
wouldn’t know, we never spoke about it.” Her eyes clenched and opened. “He had
Lara cremated, never had the decency to have a service. No funeral, no
memorial. He cheated me— the
bastard.
Can’t you tell me what he’s
suspected of? Is it something to do with drugs?”

Milo
said, “Barnett used drugs?”

“Both
of them smoked pot. Maybe that’s why Lara couldn’t get pregnant— isn’t that
supposed to do something to your ovaries or whatever?”

“How
do you know about their drug usage?”

“I
know the
signs,
Detective. Lara was a pothead when she was in high
school. I never saw any evidence she’d stopped.”

“The
bad crowd she fell in with,” I said.

“Bunch
of spoiled kids,” she said. “Driving around in their parents BMWs, booming that
music and pretending they were ghetto. Neither of my other two went for that
nonsense.”

“You
figure Lara continued using after she was married.”

“I
know she did. The few times I visited their apartment— the few times they let
me in— everything was a mess and you could
smell
it in the air.”

Milo
said, “Did they ever use anything stronger than marijuana?”

“Wouldn’t
surprise me.” Balquin eyed him. “So this
is
about drugs. Is Barnett
pushing?”

“Have
you known him to sell drugs?”

“No,
but I’m being logical. Don’t users become pushers to pay for their habit? And
all those guns he keeps— Lara wasn’t raised with that, we never had so much as
a BB gun in our home. All of a sudden they’ve got rifles, pistols, horrible
stuff. He kept them out in the open, in a wooden case— the way sophisticated
people display books. If you’re not doing something shady, why do you need all
those guns?”

“Ever
ask him?”

“I
mentioned it to Lara. She told me to mind my own business.”

I
looked for bookshelves in her front room. Nothing but pickled oak paneling and
the photos on the back wall.

She
said, “Lara used one of his guns to shoot herself. I hope he’s happy.” Her
hands tightened into fists. “If he is a pusher, I hope you catch him and put
him away forever. Because the last thing my daughter needed was another bad
influence.”

She
scraped an incisor with a fingernail, raised her glass to her lips, and drank
slowly but steadily. Finished off the refill without taking a breath.

Milo
said, “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, ma’am?”

“I
shouldn’t say this but . . . oh, what the hell, she’s gone and
so is Kristal and I need to concentrate on rebuilding my own life.” She
tightened her face again, held the tension so long that even the refashioned
muscles of her cheeks and chin gave way.

“I
always wondered if drugs had something to do with Lara losing sight of Kristal.
She insisted it was only for a second, the store was crowded and she turned her
head and she was gone. But doesn’t dope slow your reflexes?”

Milo
uncrossed his legs. He took his pad out but didn’t write.

Nina
Balquin said, “It’s a terrible thing to say about your own child, but how else
can you explain it? I raised three kids, and as a toddler Mark was a hellion,
all over the place, you couldn’t get him to sit still. But I never
lost
him. How do you just
lose
a child!”

Her
voice had risen to a near scream. She plopped back heavily, massaged her left
temple. “Damn cluster headache . . . the last thing I’d want to
do is blame my daughter, but objectively . . . maybe that’s why
Lara felt guilty enough to do what she— oh,
spit it out, Nina
! Maybe
that’s why she
killed
herself!”

Both
her hands began shaking violently. She sat on them, shut her eyes. A
high-pitched keen made its way from behind closed lips.

Milo
said, “We know this is hard, ma’am. We appreciate your being so frank.”

Nina
Balquin opened her eyes. Her expression was vacant.

“Insight,”
she said, “can be a bitch.”

* * *

As
Milo thanked her, I walked to the back of the room and looked at the photos. A
couple in their thirties with two kids under ten— the accountant son and his
family. A woman who resembled Lara Malley, wearing a cap and gown. Heavier face
than Lara’s, red hair curling from under the mortarboard. Sister Sandy.

No
image of Lara, but below her sibs hung a cheaply framed, three-by-five snapshot
of Kristal. Infant photo— less than a year old from the way she needed support
to sit up. Wearing a pink cowgirl dress and matching hat. Bucking broncos and
cacti in the background, a tiny moon above the plains, airbrushed slick.
Probably one of those kiddie-photo outlets. The kind you find in every mall.

Smiling
baby girl, chubby, rosy-cheeked. Big brown eyes engaged the camera. Moisture on
her chin— teething drool.

Nina
Balquin said, “I got that when I dropped in on them and brought Kristal a
Christmas present. They had a stack. I had to
ask
for that one.”

* * *

We
left her standing in her doorway, new drink in her hand.

Milo
drove away, muttering, “Sometimes
my
crazy family doesn’t seem so bad.”

I
said, “Mom hates Barnett’s guts but she never considered that he might’ve
murdered Lara.”

He
said, “That woman’s so fragile I kept waiting to pick up shards. Wonder how
she’ll cope if we find out Barnett’s a much badder guy than she imagined.”

* * *

He
chose surface streets over the freeway, took Van Nuys Boulevard north and
connected to Beverly Glen. As we curved through the canyon, he said, “Just like
Malley’s neighborhood, huh? Except for gazillion-dollar houses, tennis courts,
foreign cars, a lot more greenery, and no trailer parks.”

“Perfect
match,” I said.

“Anything
Balquin say illuminate Malley psychologically?”

“If
she’s credible, he isolated Lara from her family, was closemouthed about his
origins, used dope. We know the part about gun-hoarding is true. Toss in the
way he reacted to us and there’s potential for ugly.”

“Don’t
guys who isolate their wives also abuse them?”

“It’s
a risk factor,” I said. “If Malley’s basic approach to life was us against the
world, Kristal’s murder would’ve buttressed that.”

“The
world’s a rotten, dangerous place so stay armed and vigilant.”

“And
strike back. What interests me is Nina’s suspicion that Lara was negligent due
to drugs. That’s a tough place to get to when it’s your own kid. No matter how
much therapy you have.”

“There’s
Barnett’s reason for blaming Lara. Even though he’s also a doper.”

“Lara
was the mom,” I said. “Mothers always get blamed. After Troy and Rand were sent
away, Lara and Barnett started examining their own lives. Here’s a couple who
had trouble conceiving. Finally, they produce a child only to have her ripped
away in the worst manner possible. Talk about stress on a relationship. Maybe
tension escalated to unbearable, the wrong things got said. A history of
isolation and drugs and abuse would’ve added more heat. Maybe Lara stopped
putting up with the abuse.”

“Got
too assertive with the cowboy.” He aimed a finger gun at the windshield.
“Kapow.”

“Kapow,
indeed.”

F
or most of the ride back to the city, Milo waded
through LAPD bureaucracy in order to get hold of the complete file on Lara
Malley’s suicide.

I let
my mind run, ended up in some interesting places.

He
pulled up in front of my house. “Thanks. Onward. Somewhere.”

“Are
you in the mood for more speculation?”

“What?”

“Nina
Balquist suspects Malley was involved in the dope trade. If that’s true, he’d
be likely to know unpleasant people. The kind who’d be able to get something
done behind bars.”

He
twisted and faced me. “The hit on Troy Turner? Where’d
that
come from?”

“Free
association.”

“Turner
was written up as a gang thing. He assaulted a Vato Loco.”

“And
maybe it even happened that way,” I said.

“Why
wouldn’t it be righteous, Alex?”

“Why
would a thirteen-year-old kid hang in a supply closet for an hour bleeding
before anyone noticed?”

“Because
C.Y.A.’s a mess.”

“Okay,”
I said.

He
shoved the seat back violently and stretched his legs. “Malley puts a hit on
Turner a month into Turner’s sentence but waits eight years to take care of
Rand?”

“That
is problematic,” I said.

“Sure
is.”

“I
can offer an explanation but it would be broad conjecture.”

“As
opposed to wild speculation?”

“Malley
craved immediate vengeance for his daughter’s death. He saw Troy Turner as the
primary killer so Troy paid quickly. After that satisfaction, Malley’s rage
subsided. It’s possible he hadn’t even decided that Rand deserved the ultimate
penalty. But the two of them got together and something went wrong.”

“Malley
does own wife quickly but cuts Rand eight years of slack?”

“If
he blamed Lara for Kristal’s death, that was a whole different level of rage.”

“You
only kill the one you love? I don’t know, Alex. It’s a big jump.”

“Lara’s
own
mother’s
still angry at her. There was a picture of Kristal in her
house but none of Lara. Put yourself in Barnett’s place. All those years of
infertility and she blows it big time.”

“I
guess,” he said.

“There’d
also be a practical reason not to hit Rand immediately after Troy. Both boys
dying so close together would set off suspicions about revenge. Lara was
different, there was no reason to assume her death was anything other than
suicide.”

“Sue
didn’t suspect. And she was a smart cop. Maybe . . .”

“If
Malley did kill Lara and managed to fool the coroner and the cops, that implies
cunning and planning. Which is consistent with an ability to delay
gratification. So is Malley’s lifestyle— ascetic. Perhaps he mulled Rand’s fate
for years, decided to check out the quality of Rand’s atonement.”

“You
flunk you die,” he said. “Thirty-eight revolver. Cowboy
gun . . . still, eight years is a helluva long time to wait.”

“Maybe
the eight years were broken up by periodic contact— an extended testing period
for Rand.”

“Malley
visited Rand in prison? Spent face time with the punk who killed his kid?”

“Face
time or letters or phone calls,” I said. “You’ve seen it, victims and offenders
making contact after the disposition. The initiative could’ve come from Rand.
He wanted to unload his guilt and made the first move.”

“You
see Malley responding to that? We’re not talking Mr. Touchy-Feely.”

“Eight
years changes people. And just because he hoards guns doesn’t mean he’s not
hurting.”

“That
sounds like a defense brief.” The police band burped. His hand shot out and
switched it off. “Guess I’d be a putz not to check out Rand’s visitors’ list.
Which, given the fact that C.Y.A.’s a
big
mess, isn’t gonna be simple.
As long as I’m churning paper, I’ll also try to learn what I can about Turner’s
death. And let’s not forget the joy of excavating Barnett Malley’s personal
history.”

“Always
happy to brighten your day.”

“Hey,”
he said. “It’s more than I had before you started free
associating.
”

* * *

Five
messages on my machine. Four junkers and Allison, sounding cheerful.

“I’m
free! Seven a.m. flight tomorrow on JetBlue. I should arrive in Long Beach by
ten-thirty.”

I
reached her cell. “Got the good news.”

“Dropped
a whole lot of guilt on cousin Wesley,” she said. “My Ph.D. put to practical
use. He gets in from Boston tonight. I’m packed and ready to go.”

“How
did Grandma take it?”

“There
were a few genteel sniffs but she’s saying the right things.”

“Seven
a.m. flight in New York means a drive in the dark from Connecticut.”

“Got
a car picking me up at three-thirty,” she said. “Does that tell you how
motivated I am? The day after I arrive I’ve got patients, but if you have time
tomorrow, we could have some fun.”

“Fun
is good,” I said. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I
booked a car in Long Beach, too.”

“Unbook
it.”

“Ooh,”
she said. “Tough guy.”

* * *

At
nine p.m., my service called. I’d downed a sandwich and a beer, was ready to kick
back with some journals.

“It’s
a Clarice Daney, Doctor,” said the operator.