Jonathan Kellerman – Monster

Heidi. A narcotics record. That started me off in a whole new direction.

Viewing life through a new set of glasses… The door swung open and Milo shot out, wiping his forehead and waving a sheet of paper full of his cramped, urgent

handwriting. Body-outline logo at the top. Coroner’s gift-shop stationery.

“Heidi’s home address,” he said. “Let’s go.”

We headed for the elevator.

“Where’d she live?”I said.

“West Hollywood, thirteen hundred block of Orange Grove.”

“Not far from Plummer Park, where we met with her.”

“Not far from my own damn house.” He stabbed the elevator button. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

“Who’s in charge?” I said. “Sheriff or Highway Patrol?”

“Highway Patrol on the killing itself,” he said. “I reached Whitworth at the scene.

He said feel free to check out her house. He’s staying there, wants to make sure they scrape whatever physical evidence they can off the road before traffic thickens up.”

“They shot her and butchered her right there on the freeway?”

“Turnoff. Wide turnoff. Far enough and dark enough for cover.”

“Crimmins would know the road well,” I said. “Growing up in Treadway. But still, it was risky, right there in the open.”

“So they’re loosening up-maybe losing it, like you said. Peake’s massacre wasn’t exactly well thought out. He left goddamn bloody footprints. Maybe Crimmins is starting to freak, too.”

“I don’t know. Crimmins is a planner. The escape says he’s still pretty organized.”

He shrugged. “What can I tell you?” The elevator arrived and he threw himself in.

“Did the coroner have anything to add?” I said.

“The bullet’s still in there, he’ll go digging. Ready for me to drop you off now?”

“Not a chance,” I said.

“You look wiped out.”

“You ‘re not exactly perky-fresh.”

His laugh was short, dry, reluctant. “Want some chewing gum?”

“Since when do you cany?” I said.

“I don’t. The attendant-Lichter-gave me a pack. Says he started doing it for any cops who come in. Says he’s gonna retire next year, feels like spreading good cheer and fresh breath.”

Outside the morgue, the air was warm, thick, gasoline-tinged. Even at this hour, the freeway noise hadn’t abated. Ambulances shrieked in and out of County General.

Derelicts and dead-eyes walked the street, along with a few white-coated citizens who didn’t look much better off. Above us, on the overpass, cars blipped and dopplered. A few miles north, the interstate was quiet enough to serve as a killing ground.

I imagined the car pulling abruptly to the side-not the yellow Corvette; something large enough to seat three.

Crimmins and Peake. And Heidi. Riding along.

A captive? Or a passenger.

The dope conviction.

I thought of the meeting at Plummer Park.

My roommate’s sleeping, or I would’ve had you come to myplace.

Would a live roommate be waiting for us at the Orange Grove address? Or…

My mind flashed back to the freeway kill. Heidi out of the car, surprised, asking

Crimmins what was up. Or immobilized-bound, gagged-and terrified.

Crimmins and Peake haul her out. She’s a strong girl, but they control her easily.

They walk her as far as they can from the freeway. To the edge of the turnoff, everyone swallowed by darkness now.

Last words or not?

Either way: pop. A searing burst of light and pain.

What was the last thing she’d heard? A truck whizzing by? The wind? The racing of her pulse?

They let her fall. Then Crimmins gives a signal and Peake steps forward.

Blade in hand.

Summoned.

Camera. Action.

Cut.

My guts pogoed as I got in the unmarked, wanting to sort it all out, to make sense of it before I said anything to Milo. He started up the engine, sped through the morgue lot, and turned left on Mission. We roared off.

Orange Grove showed no signs of ever having hosted citrus trees. Just another L.A. street full of small, undistinguished houses.

The house we came to see was hidden behind an untrimmed ficus hedge, but the green wall didn’t extend to the asphalt driveway and we had a clear view all the way to the garage. No vehicles in sight. Milo drove a hundred feet down and we returned on foot. I waited by the curb as he made his way up the asphalt, gun in hand, back to the garage, around the rear of the wood-sided bungalow. Even in the darkness I could see scars on the paint. The color was hard to make out, probably some version of beige. Between the house and the ficus barrier was a stingy square of dead lawn.