Stan Bartell’s tan faded to blotchy beige. “What the—” He slapped his hand over his heart, then reached out toward the girl with both hands. “Baby, baby!”
The girl frowned, and said, “What, Dad?”
CHAPTER
3
Stan Bartell said, “Where the hell have you been?”
Kayla Bartell stared at her father as if he’d gone mad. “Out.”
“With who?”
“Friends.”
“I called your cell.”
Kayla shrugged. “I switched it off. The club was loud, I couldn’t have heard it anyway.”
Bartell started to say something, then drew her near and hugged her. She glanced at us, as if seeking rescue.
“Da-ad.”
“Thank God,” said Bartell. “Thank almighty God.”
“Who are these people, Daddy?”
Bartell let go of his daughter and glowered at us. “Leave.”
Milo said, “Ms. Bartell—”
“No!” shouted Bartel. “Out. Now.”
“Who are they, Daddy?”
“They’re no one.”
Milo said, “At some point, I’d like to talk to Kayla.”
“When pigs take the Concorde.”
*
When we reached the door, Bartell stood on his front steps and jabbed a remote control. The gates began sliding, and Milo and I barely made it through before they clanged shut.
Bartell slammed his door.
Milo said, “Your friendly neighborhood policeman, making friends and spreading good cheer wherever he goes.”
*
As we drove away, he said, “Interesting how Bartell assumed Gavin had done something to Kayla. You used the word ‘obsessive.’ ”
“Bartell’s hostility could just be resentment at someone sniffing around his angel. But obsessiveness can be a side effect of head injury.”
“What about that pigsty room? Kid’s mother claims he used to be neat. That fits with brain damage?”
“Catch a strong blow to the frontal lobes, and there can be all sorts of changes.”
“Permanent?”
“Depends on the severity of the injury. In most cases, it’s temporary.”
“Gavin got hurt ten months ago.”
“Not a good sign,” I said. “I’d like to know how he was functioning, in general. The student ID in his pocket was two years old. Assuming he dropped out, what’s he been doing since then?”
“Maybe getting on the bad side of the wrong people,” he said. “Getting obsessive. I’ll have another go-round with Sheila. Bartell said she was weird. You spot anything?”
“The context we saw her in, anything less than breakdown would be weird.”
“Yeah . . . I’ll check the father out when he gets back from Atlanta . . . I love my job—enough for one night. Drop me back at the Glen and nighty-night.”
I got onto Sunset and crossed the border into Holmby Hills. Milo said, “The big question right now is, who was the girl? And why impale her and not Gavin?”
“That and the way she was left says a sexual thing,” I said. “Eliminate the male, have your way with the female.”
“Think the coroner will find evidence of sexual assault?”
“If we’re dealing with a sexual psychopath, the impalement might suffice.”
“Surrogate penetration?”
I nodded.
“So maybe it’s a twisted thing,” he said. “Nothing to do with the victims, they were just a couple of kids happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“It could go that way,” I said.
He laughed softly. “And I volunteered for this one.”
“Who better than you?” I said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you’ll do a good job on it.”
He didn’t answer. I slowed down for a couple of turns, got on a straight stretch, and glanced at him. The merest excuse for a smile wormed its way across his lips.
“What a pal,” he said.
*
The following morning I had an early breakfast with Allison Gwynn before her first patient. Her office is in Santa Monica, on Montana, east of Boutique Row, and we met at a pastry shop nearby. It was 7:40 A.M., and the place hadn’t yet filled with people of leisure. Allison had on a white linen suit and white sandals that set off her long black hair. She never goes out without makeup and an assortment of serious jewelry. Today it was coral and gold, pieces we’d picked up on a recent trip to Santa Fe.
She was there when I arrived, had finished half a cup of coffee. “Good morning. Don’t you look handsome.”