Flesh And Blood by Jonathan Kellerman

I drove home. Robin’s truck was gone, and I was ashamed for being happy about that. Hurrying into my office, I called Milo.

“The gun that killed Jane was registered, all right,” he said. No greeting, no preliminaries. “And guess who?”

I said, “Charles Manson.”

“Lauren. She bought it two years ago at a Big Five on San Vicente— not far from her apartment. She probably figured in her line of work, she could use protection. Or maybe she was just another single woman wanting the security of firepower. Looks like she lent it to her mother, and stepdad got hold of it.”

“Another unfortunate accident.”

“So far, that’s how it’s going down, Alex.”

“What will Mel Abbot be charged with?” I asked.

“The D.A.’s office is brainstorming because it’s a tricky situation—old helpless guy like that. No one dares question Abbot until he has a lawyer, but he’s in no shape to hire one of his own volition. He’s also too rich to qualify for a public defender, but they may assign him a temporary PD anyway. In addition to an advocate from competency court. Ruiz and Gallardo are searching for relatives, someone willing to assume responsibility. Meanwhile, Abbot’s got a comfy bed in the jail ward at County,and the shrinks say it’ll be a few days before they can even try to get an accurate picture of his mental status.”

“Once he gets an attorney, then what?”

“No one’s eager to make a show case out of it. My guess is he’ll be quietly committed.”

“Nice and neat,” I said.

“If you call a dead woman and a pathetic old guy ending his days on the funny farm neat.”

“Everything’s relative,” I said. “Unfortunately, I just made a mess.”

“What are you talking about?”

I described my afternoon.

He didn’t answer, but I had a pretty good idea about the look on his face.

Finally: “You followed him again}””

“I know,” I said. “But this time, I was really careful. He definitely didn’t see me. The main thing is what I saw.”

“You think Bugger’s personally escorting a hit man.”

“You had to see the guy. He sure doesn’t look like a brain surgeon—”

“Whatever he is, Alex, if he flew in today from New York, he didn’t kill Jane last night in Sherman Oaks.”

“Granted. But he could’ve killed Lauren. And Michelle and Lance. Maybe there’s a team.”

“Musical mafiosi,” he said.

“That’s how I’d do it if I had the money. Use pros the locals don’t know, cover my tracks by transporting them back and forth.”

“All that flying means paperwork, Alex. If the guy is a professional—a really heavy hitter—he’d have to worry about that. And like I said, if you’re the contractor—a supposedly law-abiding fellow like Dugger— why would you also pick the guy up at the airport yourself! Take him out to lunch in plain view, then truck him straight to Daddy’s place in broad daylight and give someone the opportunity to snap pictures?”

“So you have no interest in looking at the passenger list?”

“That,” he said, “would require a warrant. And grounds—”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “He likes black ’cause he’s a priest, lost his collar. Tony Duke flew him out for spiritual guidance.”

“Listen, Alex, I appreciate all you’ve—”

“Want me to toss the photos?”Pause. “You have clear shots of this joker’s face.” “Clear enough. In duplicate.”

He made a sound—not a sigh, too weary for a sigh. “I’ll come by tonight.”

He didn’t.

26

BY TEN THE following morning my phone was still silent.

Either my Brooklyn Pizza lens work had paled in comparison to some new lead Milo was chasing or, given the benefit of a good night’s sleep, he’d decided the snapshots were a waste of time. Still, it was unlike him not to call.

Robin was smiling again, and we’d made love this morning—though I’d felt some distance. Probably my imagination.

When in doubt, torment your body. I put on running clothes, stepped out into a cold, wet morning, and struggled clumsily up the canyon. Shoes squeaking on still-dewy vegetation, stumbling along the earthen patchwork laid down by a fast-shifting sky.

When I returned the house was echoing hollowly, silent but for the whine of the circular saw from Robin’s studio. I changed into a sweatshirt, old jeans, and grubby shoes, stuck a Dodgers cap on my head, and left.

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