The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34) - Jonathan Kellerman Page 0,86

“Keeps life interesting.”

“What does?”

“When order is disrupted.”

“Hah. I sure disrupted my family. When I finally snuck out of the closet, Dad came close to stroking out…so ol’ Peter wasn’t up to Suzy’s intellectual aspirations and she tossed him over for someone who was?”

“That’s the bet I’d take. He got replaced and eliminated.”

“By Susie and The Brain, or just The Brain?”

“Nothing suggests she was violent.”

“If she had no beef with Kramer, why would The Brain bother? Didn’t sound like he was serious competition.”

“Not for the time being,” I said.

“The Brain worried she might change her mind and took out death insurance? That’s pretty savage.”

“Or he’s got over-the-top dominance needs and decided to get rid of a complication.”

“And then Susie became a complication? What, she failed an achievement test? Forgot to put on her body shaper?”

“Or he simply got bored with her,” I said. “He was ready to end it but she wasn’t, because to her the relationship was more than romance. It represented what she thought was a new life. Feeling smart. That garage doesn’t look like full-time lodgings. She probably drifted back and forth between it and The Brain’s place. But then he kicked her out permanently. She found out he was going to the wedding and decided to confront him—”

“Or he was part of the wedding party.”

“Garrett?” I said. “Fine, either way. She threatened to show up, he said, No prob, see you there, wear that sexy red dress, we’ll have fun, discuss our issues. Instead, he sent Mike Lotz to take care of her. A junkie who also ended up replacing Pete Kramer. That can’t be coincidence, Big Guy. Maybe The Brain had something to do with Lotz being hired.”

“What kind of influence would he have?”

“He could be a longtime resident, comfy cozy in a penthouse, with access to vulnerable students like Cassy Booker.”

Maybe Amanda Burdette; I kept that to myself.

Milo said, “Older guy, gets all intellectual with younger women, gets into their pants…until he ditches them.”

“Easy to see why Lotz had to die. Addicts aren’t known for discretion so once he carried out his mission, he became a liability.”

“Or Mr. Cerebral just gets off on killing people.”

“They’re not separate issues,” I said. “View the world as your solo stage, everyone else becomes a prop.”

He returned to staring at the street. “Goddamn building. That obsequious little bastard Pena still isn’t returning calls. Same for the woman he gave me in Columbus—Masio—and everyone else I’ve tried at Academo. CCTV’s rarely a big deal. These people are starting to smell bad.”

Turning the ignition key violently, he revved the unmarked’s engine. “What to do before I get to death-knock poor Mrs. Koster has just made itself obvious.”

“Onward to the wilds of Westwood Village.”

“You are quite the brain, yourself.”

CHAPTER

35

Staying on the Glen to Wilshire, he headed west, gliding along the Wilshire Corridor, a stretch of wannabe New Yorkish high-rises between Comstock and Westwood Boulevard.

As he entered the Village, he said, “The way you put it before, housecleaning. That’s cold, kiddo. You’re supposed to be the sensitive guy but you talk about the worst stuff like it’s business as usual.”

Interesting point. Working with him had probably armored me with a carapace of sorts.

I said, “If you’d prefer, I can dredge up a pout and some tears.”

He laughed again, softer, less corrosive, covered the distance to the Strathmore complex far too quickly.

Parking illegally across the street, he said, “You’re getting one more chance to do this politely, Bob,” and tried Pena’s number. No answer.

I said, “Maybe he’s on vacation. Enforced or otherwise.”

“Or worse.” He groaned and put his palms together. “Merciful God, please don’t tell me Bob’s also been housecleaned by The Phantom of Westwood.”

We got out and headed for Building B. Just as we arrived, the doors opened and two girls emerged.

U. sweatshirts, short-shorts, lace-up boots, long hair swinging in rhythm with spangled smartphones.

“I’ll be penniless in New York,” said one. Enjoying the notion.

“I’ll be penniless in Los Gatos,” said her friend, equally buoyant.

They hurried off, laughing. Milo shook his head and reached for the door.

I was closer and caught it.

He muttered, “Reflexes,” strode past me, crossed the entry, and beelined to a ground-floor door marked Manager.

No resistance from the knob. He stormed in, leaving me to catch the door.

Bob Pena was sitting at an ugly woodite-and-chrome desk, eating a sandwich. As Milo charged toward him, his eyes bugged.

“Bon appétit, Bob. Don’t choke. Yet.”

Pena put down the sandwich and gaped. Homemade meal resting on a bed of waxed paper: bologna on