Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

“Why did he tell you this?”

“So I’d be part of it! Just as he’d made me part of Karen’s murd—death. And to frighten me—it worked, believe me. Scared the shit out of me. I caught the first plane out of the country, back to England. That’s how I can prove I wasn’t there when it happened—I have my old passport. Look at the date on the bleeding thing and compare it to the date of Barnard’s murder!”

“How long did you stay away?” said Milo.

“Two weeks.”

“Where’d you go?”

“To my mother’s, in Manchester. Curt found me, sent me a newspaper clipping. About Barnard’s murder. Then he had Denny killed a few months later.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know App was behind it?

“Because he sent me another clipping. On Denny. Clear warning. He’s a monster, bestowing favors, then yanking them away.”

“Sounds like he kept bestowing them on you,” said Milo. “Career, and all that.”

“Yes, but I never knew why, never knew if it would end. I knew I couldn’t escape him . . . so I stayed put, kept my mouth shut, did my job—earned every bleeding penny of that salary. But now I see why he really kept me around.”

“Why’s that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? As a scapegoat. If things ever came to light, he’d have someone to dump it all on.”

“Scapegoat?” said Milo. “It was you drove up there in that van with a hacksaw and plastic bags.”

Graydon-Jones froze. Then his body tilted toward Milo.

Stratton reached out to restrain him. Graydon-Jones waved him off.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “Twenty-one years I’ve lived in terror of the man. That’s why I did the things I did. I was scared.”

CHAPTER

47

Thirty hours left on the clock. We’d had dim sum at a barnlike place on Hill Street, and it hadn’t settled well. I sat alone in that same observation room. No one had cleaned the glass since Graydon-Jones’s session, and it was fogged with a distillation of sweat and fear.

Curtis App’s counsel was an older man named MacIlhenny, fat and slovenly with the eyes of a sleepy snake and a custom-tailored gray suit that looked cheap on him. He’d managed to get App out of jail clothes. Despite the white cashmere V-neck and the black Swiss cotton shirt, the producer looked weak and insubstantial. Just a few days in jail had wiped out years of Malibu tan.

Leah was inside with them, along with her boss, a grim deputy DA named Stan Bleichert.

MacIlhenny grunted, and App lifted a piece of paper and began to read.

“My name is Curtis Roger App, and I am about to offer into the record a statement prepared by myself, under no duress or coercion, under the guidance of my attorney, Landis J. MacIlhenny, Esquire, of the law firm of MacIlhenny, Bellows, Caville and Shrier. Mr. MacIlhenny is present with me for moral support during these trying times.”

He cleared his throat, flirted briefly with the camera. For a moment I thought he’d call for the makeup girl.

He said, “I am not nor have I ever been a murderer, nor do I condone the act of murder. However, I am in possession of information that came my way, by means of no criminal activity on my part, that if pursued competently could lead to the criminal prosecution of another individual and/or individuals for violation of California State Penal Code 187, first-degree murder. I am willing to offer such information in return for compassionate consideration of my current status including immediate release from prison, under reasonable bail, to my family and loved ones, and in return for reduction of present and pending charges.”

Folding the paper.

Looking up.

Bleichert addressed MacIlhenny. “Okay, it’s on the record, now let’s talk reality.”

“Sure,” said MacIlhenny. His voice was a bullfrog croak and his eyebrows tangoed when he talked. “Reality is, Mr. App is a prominent member of the business community and there’s no rational reason to confine him—”

“He’s a flight risk, Land. He was apprehended just about to board a helicopter with a connecting flight to—”

“Tsk, tsk,” said MacIlhenny, very gently. “Not apprehended. Surprised. At that point in time, Mr. App was aware of no criminal investigation of any sort. Surely, you’re not saying that absent such information he wasn’t free to travel at will, like any other United States citizen?”

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