Rage (38 page)

“She
keeps them?”

“No,
she tosses them in the trash out back, which is a health code violation. I had
her fish it out and put it in dry ice, then I brought it over to the coroner’s
to be stored with Kristal Malley’s tissue samples. Which is where I am now,
breathing in the aroma of decomposition and drinking county coffee. No word on
my DNA requisition yet, but now it looks like I’ll have another package to send
to Cellmark. We get Daney’s DNA in the fetus, I’ve got a gift for the Juvey Sex
Crimes unit they just started downtown.”

“You’re
bringing them into it?”

“Not
yet,” he said. “Not until I get closer to Daney for murder. But the pedophilia
thing could turn out to be good leverage.”

“How
long can you sit on it?”

“Eight
girls living on Galton Street bothers my sleep, but I can’t risk screwing
things up by moving without evidence. First order of business is to get DNA
from Daney. Any suggestions about how to approach it?”

“Arrange
a meet by playing his ego. You’ve bought into his suspicions of Barnett Malley
but Malley remains a mystery man; ask him if he has any other suggestions.”

“That
part’s true. Still researching Malley and can’t come up with a damn thing.
Okay, a face-to-face with Dynamic Drew. Then what? Swipe his toothbrush for the
sample?”

“That’s
the easy part,” I said. “He likes doughnuts.”

R
ain fell the next morning, and the temperatures
dropped into the high fifties. L.A. finally auditioning for winter. When Milo
pulled the unmarked into the Dipsy Donut lot at ten a.m., the sky had closed
and Vanowen Boulevard smelled of wet laundry.

Drew
Daney was there, drinking coffee at the same aluminum table. Exact position
he’d occupied the first time— a man of patterns.

He
had on a brown corduroy car coat, rested his denim haunches on newspaper he’d
spread to soak up dampness from the bench. When he saw us, he smiled and waved.

Warm
smile. It spread his stubbly silver beard. His eyes crinkled.

This
was the face of evil. He could’ve served as a model for a tool supply catalog.

Milo
pumped his hand as if they were longtime buddies. “Morning. Not hungry?”

Daney
winked. “Waiting for you guys.”

“How
about I get us an assortment?”

“Sounds
good, Lieutenant.”

Milo
left and I sat down opposite Daney. My assignment, should I choose to take it,
was to check out nonverbal cues and whatever “psych stuff” I came up with.

“Way
I figure, Alex, having you along will play to his ego. Make him feel like a
peer . . . even though you’re peerless.”

I
watched Daney’s teeth disappear as his smile shifted to a closemouthed one.
“Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice.”

“Hey,
anything I can do to help.” Under his car coat he wore a spotless yellow polo
shirt, tight across his broad chest. Well-developed musculature. His complexion
glowed and his eyes were clear.

Picture
of vitality; sometimes— too often— good things happen to bad people.

I
said, “How’s your wife doing?”

The
question made him blink. “In terms of?”

“Rand’s
death. She seemed pretty affected.”

“Of
course she was,” he said. “We all are. It’s a process— healing.”

“Your
foster kids were affected?”

“Definitely.
Rand wasn’t with us long, but he was a presence. You know what it’s like.”

“Dealing
with death?”

“That
and kids in general,” he said. “The developmental stages they go through.”

“What’s
the age range of your wards?”

“They’re
all adolescents.”

“There’s
a challenge.”

“You
bet.”

“Is
that by choice?”

“We’re
masochists,” he said, chuckling. “Seriously, a lot of people don’t want the
baggage teens bring to the table, so Cherish and I figured that’s where our
efforts would be best spent.” Boyish shrug. “Sometimes I wonder, though. It can
feel like temporary insanity.”

“That
I can believe.”

He
looked over at the doughnut stand. Crowded, just like the first time.

I
said, “Rand wasn’t that long out of his teens. That could also be an issue for
your kids.”

“Sure,”
he said quickly, but his eyes told me he wasn’t tracking.

“Perceived
similarity,” I went on. “There’s a whole bunch of data on how it relates to
empathy.”

“If
it could happen to him, it could happen to me?” he said. “Sure, makes total
sense. But what I was referring to are the core issues they’re wrestling with.
Sense of identity, establishing autonomy. And, of course, they think they’re
immortal.” Wry smile. “We did, at that age, right? All that stuff we kept from
our parents.”

I
forced my own smile. Trying not to think about what this guy did to young
girls’ autonomy.

A
thirteen-year-old bleeding out in a prison supply room.

I
said, “Thank God my parents never knew some of the things I did.”

“You
were a wild guy?” he said, shifting closer. Engaging me with those warm dark
eyes. As if I were the most important person on earth.

Return
of the teeth.

Charisma.
The most skillful psychopaths know how to play it like a guitar. Sometimes the
smartest ones get to the top of the corporate ladder or the highest rungs of
elected office. In the end, though, shallow theatrics are often counterbalanced
by laziness and sloppiness.

Doing
someone else’s wife in the marital bed.

Writing
and shopping a thinly described screenplay and expecting it to make you an
overnight millionaire.

Impregnating
minors for a hobby and billing the state for their abortions.

For
all his wizardry at manipulation, Daney was miles from where he wanted to be,
the lifestyle he’d glimpsed after hooking up with Sydney Weider: Brentwood,
Aspen, private jets, red carpet fantasies. All that upscale pillow talk
fevering his brain.

Look
at me look at me look at me!

Eight
years later, instead of all that, he was a middle-aged guy running around singing
camp songs and trying to cadge money from Dr. Marta Demchuk.

Fool’s
move; Demchuk was tough and Daney’s smarmy mojo worked only on the weakest of
victims.

He
flexed a thick wrist, ran his hand through his thick, wavy hair.

I
said, “I was never wild enough to get into serious trouble, but I had my
moments.”

“I’ll
bet you did.”

“How
about you?”

He
hesitated for a moment. “Nah, I was a good boy. Maybe too good.”

“Choir
boy?”

“I
was brought up thinking fun meant good deeds.”

“Preacher’s
kid?”

“You
guessed it . . .” A shadow darkened his face.

Then
a larger shadow, bearish, tinted the aluminum table pewter.

Daney
turned to see Milo looming behind him, holding a greasy cardboard box. “Fresh
out of the fat.”

“Smell’s
yum, Detective.”

* * *

Milo
let him have the first pick.

Jelly-filled.
Just like last time.

As he
chewed with obvious pleasure, I told myself to turn off the analysis, maybe he
just loved jelly-filled doughnuts.

He
wiped his beard, took another bite. “Aren’t these just the best?”

Milo
said, “Guilty pleasures, Rev,” and swallowed a mouthful of cruller.

I got
to work on a maple-glaze. Cars drove in and out of the lot. The air got warmer.
A flock of pigeons flew over from across Vanowen and began exploring the
leavings. Milo tossed them a crumb and they flittered like paparazzi.

Daney
said, “There’s your good deed for the day.”

We
laughed.

Just
a bunch of guys, stuffing their faces with junk food, on a damp day in the
Valley.

Milo
said, “So have you come up with any insights, Rev?”

Drew
Daney scanned the doughnut box, picked out a pink thing topped with chocolate
sprinkles. “You haven’t been able to learn anything at all about Malley?”

“I
wish. Guy seems to be a cipher.”

“Guess
that fits,” said Daney.

“With
what?”

“If
he had a history of antisocial behavior, he’d want to cover his tracks.”

“Well,”
said Milo, “if there are serious tracks, we’ll uncover them.”

“That
sounds pretty confident, Lieutenant.”

“We
usually get to the bottom of things. It’s just a matter of how long it takes—
hand me that chocolate thing.”

The
box was within Milo’s reach but Daney stretched to comply. “Anyway,” he said,
“after you called last night I spent some time thinking about why Malley would
get so violent after all these years. The only thing I can think of is that Rand
became some sort of threat to him. Or Malley perceived Rand that way. Now, that
would mean the two of them communicated somehow, so I looked at my phone bill
to see if Rand made any calls over the weekend. He didn’t. So unless he spoke
to Malley from prison, or used a pay phone, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Where’s
the pay phone closest to your house?” said Milo.

Daney’s
eyes shifted to the left. “You’re able to check them?”

“Sure.”

“Well,”
said Daney, “I think there’s one a few blocks that way.” Pointing east. “I
never really paid attention. Nowadays, with cell phones, who uses pay booths?”

“People
with no money,” said Milo.

“Hmm . . .
guess so.”

I
said, “Seems to me the ‘where’ isn’t important. It’s the ‘what’ we’re after.
What Rand
told
Malley.”

Daney
put his pink doughnut down. “That was speculation on my part. Because you asked
me to speculate. For all we know, Malley simply went nuts after he heard Rand
was getting out. Old wounds, opening.”

“Or
wounds that never healed,” said Milo. “The way he looked at you in that
hardware store.”

“True,”
said Daney. “That
was
pretty intense. Still . . .”

“Any
sign of the black truck?”

Daney
shook his head. “But I’m gone a lot.”

Milo
turned away, seemingly distracted. Daney watched him, then returned to his pink
doughnut but didn’t eat.

I let
the silence grow for a while before saying, “For argument’s sake, let’s go with
the assumption that Rand told Malley something that set him off. What do you
think it could’ve been?”

Daney
said, “Hmm . . . I guess it wouldn’t have been anything
malicious. And I can’t see Rand being confrontational. He was basically a nice
kid.”

He
waited for Milo’s reaction to that. None followed.

“The
only thing I can think of,” he went on, “is there was some sort of
miscommunication.”

“Such
as?” said Milo.

“I’m
not sure what I mean,” said Daney. “Like I said, this is all theorizing.”

“Understood,”
said Milo. “But give it a try, ’cause we’ve got nothing else.”

“Well,”
said Daney, “when we brought Rand home, he was clearly troubled. Like I told
you. The only explanation I can come up with is lingering guilt. Maybe he tried
to get some closure by meeting Malley face-to-face and apologizing.”

“Or
Malley accosted Rand and demanded an apology,” I said.

“Sure.
That, too.”

Milo
said, “That makes more sense to me, Rev. Malley follows Rand when he leaves
your house to go to the construction site, gets him in the truck, either by
convincing him he’s friendly or at gunpoint. Then something— could be an
apology demanded by Malley, or something else— goes haywire. What do you think,
Doc?”

I
said, “Makes sense.”

Daney
said, “Rand’s verbal skills were poor, Detective. I can see him saying the
wrong thing, phrasing something in a way that would spark Malley’s rage. I
mean, isn’t that how so much crime originates?”

“Miscommunication?”

“Two
guys in a bar,” said Daney. “An argument gets out of hand? Isn’t that a big
part of police work?”

“Sure,”
said Milo.

Daney
took a bite of the pink doughnut. Ate half and put it down. “There is something
else. Kind of far-fetched but as long as we’re theorizing . . .”

“What’s
that?”

Daney
hesitated.

“Sir?”

“This
goes way back, Detective. To the boys’ hearings. I was spending a lot of my
time on the case because the defense asked me to be there as support. Cherish
and I attended everything and I got to look at the evidence.”