Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

Leah said, “Detective Sturgis?”

Milo said, “Mr. Graydon-Jones, from your rÉsumÉ, you seem like an intelligent guy—”

“Hold on,” said Stratton amiably. “Is this going to get personal?”

Leah said, “Of course, Jeff, doesn’t it always?” She looked at her watch. “Listen, I’m really pressed. If we can’t plow through this quickly, let’s just forget it and we’ll let your client take his chance with not knowing what’s going on until pretrial discovery.”

“Mellow out, Lee,” said Stratton. Every white hair was in place, flowing over his ears. His tie was printed with golf clubs. He wore a wrist bandage. “No need for sarcasm or egregious vituperativeness.”

Leah looked at Milo. “Try to watch your vituperativeness, detective. For all our sakes.”

Milo frowned at her.

“Go on,” she said impatiently.

Stratton smiled. Graydon-Jones maintained a deer-in-the-headlights expression.

“Okay,” said Milo, placing both hands on the table. They covered a good part of it. Stratton tried not to stare at them.

“Okay . . . Mr.—um, Graydon-Jones, like I said, you’ve got an impressive rÉsumÉ, people in the know say you’re a real insurance demon. So we’re a little puzzled as to why you keep letting Curtis App call the shots.”

Graydon-Jones glanced at Stratton.

Stratton shook his head.

Graydon-Jones said nothing.

Leah looked at her watch.

Graydon-Jones looked up at the ceiling.

I said, “Go for it,” into the mike.

Milo said, “He’s blaming everything on you, friend. Including the drugs. He says you’re the one got him into dope. You were a big user during the seventies. You corrupted him. He also says it was your idea to launder dope through Advent and Enterprise and that you interfaced with narcotics dealers in England and France and Holland and sold them insurance policies that helped them organize their money laundering—”

“Bloody lies!” said Graydon-Jones. “That was just a contract like any other, I had no idea who they were. Curt sent them—”

Stratton touched his hand, and he stopped talking.

Milo said, “I’m just telling you what App says. He also claims he had nothing to do with Karen Best’s death, that he wasn’t even present when she died, and that you and Terry Trafficant and Joachim Spretzel strangled her—”

“Oh, bloody bullshit. Spretzel was a faggot, and Trafficant wasn’t even—”

Another touch from Stratton.

“Trafficant wasn’t even there?” said Milo.

No answer.

“Okay, let me finish App’s story: He and the three of you were partying with Karen, he left to urinate, and when he came back she was dead in your arms and the rest of you confessed to killing her. He says—hold on—” Pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, he held it out of everyone’s view. “Um, um, um—here we go: He says the only reason he got involved in covering up her death was that he was worried someone had seen Karen with him and that you threatened to expose his drug usage to his wife and to tell her he’d been fooling around with Karen and some other young girls. He panicked because he’d been doping and drinking and thought he’d be criminally liable and when M. Bayard Lowell and Denton Mellors came in, shortly after, unexpectedly, and Lowell said Karen should be buried and forgotten about, he went along with it. He’s willing to plea-bargain to aiding and abetting and a suspended sentence, in exchange for testifying against you in Karen Best’s homicide. He’s also willing to trade information on your drug peddling in return for reduction of his drug charges.”

He put the paper back in his pocket.

Graydon-Jones said, “Bullshit. He never said any of that.”

“Call his lawyer,” said Milo. To Stratton: “See if he takes your call.”

Stratton said, “Maybe I will.”

Leah looked at her watch.

“Bloody lies,” said Graydon-Jones.

“I have to say App’s story makes sense, Mr. Graydon-Jones,” said Leah. “You were the one who drove up to Sanctum with all those tools and garbage bags. You were the one who attempted to murder three people so they wouldn’t excavate Karen Best’s grave. If you had nothing to hide about Karen Best, why risk all that?”

“Because Curt told me—”

Stratton said, “My client has nothing further to say.”

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