The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34) - Jonathan Kellerman Page 0,51

didn’t contribute; we’d agreed to switch off for the day.

I’d pretended to embrace the idea but wasn’t fooling Robin. As we got back in the car for a return trip, she grinned and said, “Go ahead.”

“With what?”

“Hey, Blanchie, he thinks he’s being subtle.”

Both of the females in my life grinned. I switched on my phone.

Nothing from Milo.

Good. Bad.

* * *

—

On the return trip we hit the inevitable jams on the 101 when underpowered cars confront the rising grade and start wheezing. Just past Ventura—the origin of the fire—Robin fell asleep and Blanche followed soon after.

I tuned the radio to KJazz. A blues show was on, some high-powered Chicago stuff that felt too upbeat this close to a disaster zone. But then on came Houston Boines’s “Crying in the Courthouse.” Boines had lived to ninety-nine but his wail sounded authentic.

This song, about losing everything, fit just fine.

When we got home, I looked at my phone.

Still nothing.

Crying in the police station.

* * *

—

He called at ten forty p.m.

“Been normal?” he said.

“Better.” I told him about the pancakes.

He growled. “Sadist. For two nights I’ve been eating crap while watching Denny Rapfogel’s house. Nothing happened the first night but on the second his car was gone so I tried Sliva Cardell’s place. No Denny, but another guy showed up, black Bentley convertible. Ran his plates, hotshot mortgage broker. He cruised through the gate just like Denny had, got the same welcome from La Sliva, this time in a filmy nightgown. Maybe even more groin calisthenics than with Denny. So much for true love making her a suspect. Wanna lay odds I keep watching her and other guys don’t show up?”

“Think she’s a pro?”

“Selling another type of real estate? Could be. Anyway, thought you’d want to know. Now I’m heading out for pancakes.”

CHAPTER

19

Monday at eight, just as I was gearing up for a run, my phone rang.

My most frequent caller. “Never got ’em.”

“What?”

“What do you think? Flapjackos con jarabe. The plan was to try this morning, that place near Rancho Park, but something just came up. I’m scanning the daily death list and one from last night caught my eye. Strathmore Drive in Westwood.”

“Amanda’s street.”

“Amanda’s address. DB’s a white male, forty-three years old, named Michael Lotz. No detectives were called so it wasn’t flagged as suspicious. But still. Waiting for a callback from the uniform sergeant who took charge. Figured I’d shortcut it with the coroner by going through our new buddy Lopatinski but she was out…one sec…okay, hold on, that’s her.”

I waited, stretching hamstrings and quads, followed by a couple of deep bends and some work on the hips and the heels. Blanche padded in and I bent again to pet her. She rubbed her head against my ankles. I sat down on the battered leather patient couch, Blanche jumped up beside me and curled close to my chest.

Several more minutes before Milo came back on. “Lotz was sent to the crypt tagged as an O.D. No signs of foul play, paraphernalia near the body. He’s currently stacked in one of those fridge closets they use, Dr. Basia went and had a look. Guy’s arms are a mess of old scars and newer punctures. If nothing iffy comes up, they’re not planning on an autopsy.”

“The same address as Amanda doesn’t qualify as iffy to them. But to you…”

“Maybe it’s nothing but I can’t ignore it. After I talk to Dobbs—the sergeant—I’m taking a look at the scene.”

* * *

—

Two hours and ten minutes later, a text: Going over there. Ten thirty work ok?

I sent him a See you there, got out of my running clothes, took a quick shower, gulped coffee, and left.

* * *

—

Strathmore Drive is a short hilly side street that diagonals toward the U. One end dies at the campus’s western rim; the other bottoms at the shaggy eucalyptus windbreak, manicured grass, and neatly arranged headstones of a vast veterans’ cemetery.

The block was lined with multiple dwellings ranging from apartment buildings dubiously maintained because they housed students so-why-bother? and newer, larger structures.

I arrived before Milo, found the address, and scored the last parking spot, directly across the street.

Amanda Burdette lived in the largest building, a four-story mass that stretched to the sidewalk without aid of landscaping and took up a sizable chunk of the block. The slope of the street created the illusion of a behemoth on the verge of toppling. The complex was gray stucco except where occasional balconies painted blue-black jutted like bruises. Subterranean parking made up