Flesh And Blood

CHAPTER 22

WE RAN TO the front door. I tried the knob. Bolted. Milo pounded, rang the bell. “Mr. Abbot! It’s the police!”

No answer. The space to the right of the house was blocked by a ficus hedge. To the left was an azalea-lined flagstone pathway that led to the kitchen door. Also locked, but a ground-floor window was half open.

“Alarm screen’s in place,” said Milo. “Doesn’t look like it’s been breached. Wait here.” Unholstering his gun, he ran around to the back, returned moments later. “No obvious forced entry, but something’s wrong.” Replacing the weapon and snapping the holster cover, he flipped the screen on the partially open window, shouted in: “Mr. Abbot? Anyone home?”

Silence.

“There’s the alarm register,” he said, glancing at a side wall. “System’s off. Okay, boost me.” I cupped my hands, felt the crush of his weight for a second, then he hoisted himself in and disappeared.

“You stay put, I’m going to check it out.”

I waited, listening to suburban quiet, taking in what I could see of the backyard: a blue corner of swimming pool, teak furniture, old-growth trees screening out the neighboring property, pretty olive green shadows patching a lawn skinned in preparation for fertilizer… Someone had plans for a verdant spring.

Eight minutes passed, ten, twelve. Why was he taking so long? Should I return to the car and call for help? What would I tell the dispatcher?

As I thought about it, the kitchen door opened and Milo beckoned me in. Sweat stains had leaked through the armpits of his jacket. His face was white.

“What’s going on?” I said.

Instead of answering he showed me his back and led me through the kitchen. Blue granite counters were bare but for a carton of orange juice. We hurried through a floral-papered breakfast nook, a butler’s pantry, the dining room, past all that art, and Milo ran past the elevator into the living room, where Melville Abbot’s trophies were gloomed by blackout drapes.

He vaulted up the stairs, and I followed.

When I was halfway up, I heard the whimpering.

Abbot sat propped in bed, cushioned by a blue velvet bed husband, hairless skull reflecting light from an overhead chandelier, slack lips shellacked with drool.

The room was huge, stale, someone’s vision of Versailles. Gold plush carpeting, mustard-and-crimson tapestry curtains tied back elaborately and topped by fringed valances, French Provincial replica furniture arranged haphazardly.

The bed was king-sized and seemed to swallow Abbot. The bed husband had slipped low against a massive swirl of rococo headboard of tufted yellow silk. Lots of satin pillows on the bed, several more on the carpet. The chandelier was Murano glass, a snarl of yellow tendrils crowned by multicolored glass birds. A small Picasso hung askew above the crest of the headboard, next to a dark landscape that could’ve been a Corot. A folded wheelchair filled one corner.

The straggling white puffs of Melville Abbot’s hair had been battened down by sweat. The old man’s eyes were vacant and frightened, lashes encrusted with greenish scum. He wore maroon silk pajamas with white piping and LAPD-issue handcuffs around his wrists.

To his left, a few feet from the bed, red-brown splotches Rorschached the gold carpet. The largest stain spread from under Jane Abbot’s body.

She lay on her left side, left arm stretched forward, legs drawn upward, ash hair loose and fanned across the thick pile. A silver peignoir had ridden up, exposing still-sleek legs, a sliver of buttock swelling beneath black panties. Bare feet. Pink toenails. Graying flesh, green-tinged, purplish suggestions of lividity at ankles and wrists and thighs, as dead blood pooled internally.

Her eyes were half open, filmed, the lids swollen and blueing. Her mouth gaped, and her tongue was a gray garden slug curling inward. One ruby-crusted hole blemished her left cheek; a second punctuated the hairline of her left temple.

Milo pointed to the floor next to the nightstand. A gun, not unlike his 9 mm, near the draperies. He drew the clip from his trouser pocket, put it back.

“When I got here, he was holding it.”

Abbot gave no indication of hearing. Or comprehension. Saliva trickled down his chin, and he mumbled.

“What are you saying, sir?” said Milo, drawing closer to the bed.

Abbot’s eyes rolled back, reappeared, focused on nothing.

Milo turned to me. “I walk in and he points the damn thing at me. I almost shot him, but when he saw me he let go of it. I kept trying to find out what happened, but all he does is babble. From the looks of her, she’s been dead several hours. I’m not pushing him without a lawyer present. It’s Van Nuys’s case. I called them. We should have company soon enough.”

Mel Abbot groaned.

“Just hold on, sir.”

The old man’s arms shot out. He shook his wrists, and the cuffs jangled. “Hurts.”

“They’re as loose as they can be, sir.”

The chocolate eyes turned black. “I’m Mr. Abbot. Who the hell are you?”

“Detective Sturgis.”

Abbot stared at him. “Sherlock Bones?”

“Something like that, sir.”

“Constabulary,” said Abbot. “State trooper stops a man on the highway – have you heard this one?”

“Probably,” said Milo.

“Aw,” said Abbot. “You’re no fun.”