CHAPTER 13

Monday night, I reached Milo at his house. It was just after ten and his voice was thick with scotch and fatigue.

“It’s one a.m. in New York, dude.”

“I’m still on Pacific Standard.”

“What happened?”

“Allison’s grandmother needed her.” I filled him in.

“Sorry about that. What’s on your mind?”

“Just checking in,” I said.

“On Duchay? Turns out weekends at the construction site are for cleanup, but the supervisor said he’d never met Duchay. So either the story was bogus or Duchay was confused. Other than that, zippo to report. My working theory was that Duchay hooked up with some C.Y.A. bad guy buddy in order to do something bad. They got into conflict and the buddy did him.”

“What makes you think he was planning anything?”

“Because eight years in lockup is a Ph.D. in bad. The reason I figured a buddy was because Duchay’s pattern was criminal collaboration.”

“One crime’s a pattern?”

“When it’s a crime like his. And you need to consider this, Alex: The plan may have involved you. As in target.”

“Some theory,” I said.

“Step back and try to be objective,” he said. “A convicted thrill murderer phones you out of the blue, says he wants to talk about his crime but won’t give details. If it was really some confession-absolution deal, why wait eight years? He could’ve written you a letter. And why you? He had spiritual advisers- do-gooders who’d love to grant him absolution. The whole thing smells, Alex. He lured you out.”

“Why would he want to hurt me?”

“Because you were part of the system that sent him away for eight years. And his knife wounds say it wasn’t a vacation. Nine sticks, Alex, and three had gone deep. There were scars on his liver and one of his kidneys.”

Margaret Sieff- the woman Rand had called “Gram”- had been clear about my allegiance.

Randolph’s laywer said you weren’t necessarily on our side.

Maybe she’d transmitted that to Rand. Or Lauritz Montez had. He’d seen me as a prosecution tool, had gone along with Sydney Weider’s petition to keep me away from the boys.

Milo said, “Does your silence indicate I’m making sense?”

“Anything’s possible,” I said. “But he didn’t sound hostile over the phone.”

“I know, just troubled.”

“Back when I evaluated him there was no hostility, Milo. He was meek, cooperative. Unlike Troy, he never tried to manipulate me.”

“He had eight years to stew, Alex. And don’t forget: He cooperated and still got sent to hell. You know what C.Y.A.’s like. No more status offenders and mischief makers. This year there were six murders in the system.”

“Liver scars,” I said.

“Even with that, most people would think Duchay got off easy for what he did. But try telling that to the guy who went through it. I’m thinking one very bitter twenty-one-year-old ex-con. Maybe he had plans to pay lots of people back and you were first on the list.”

“Why do you have doubts about him hooking up with a prison buddy?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said it was your working theory.”

“Lord, I’m being parsed,” he said. “No, I haven’t abandoned the basic premise. I just haven’t come up with any buddies Duchay met in lockup yet. C.Y.A guy I spoke to said he had no gang affiliations, was ‘socially isolated.’ ”

“Any disciplinary problems on his record?”

“Quiet, compliant.”

“Good behavior,” I said.

“Yada yada.”

“So what’s next?”

“Talk to people who knew him, try to get a fix on his movements that day. I had Sean hit every store on Westwood for three blocks north of Pico to see if anyone spotted Duchay lurking around. Nada. Same for the Westside Pavilion, so if he went in there, he didn’t make an impression. Tomorrow morning I visit Reverend and Mrs. Andrew Daney.”

“Reverend and Reverend,” I said. “They were both studying to be ministers.”

“Whatever. I talked to her- Cherish, there’s a name for you. She sounded pretty broken up. All those good intentions blown to bits.”

“Why’d you take the case on, big guy?”

“Why not?”

“You don’t care much for the victim.”

“Who I like or don’t like has nothing to do with it,” he said. “And I am deeply hurt by your intimations to the contrary.”

“Yada freaking yada,” I said. “Seriously, you can pick and choose. Why this one?”

“I picked it to make sure you’re not in continuing danger.”

“I appreciate that but- ”

“A simple thanks will suffice.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Try to enjoy the sunshine until Dr. Gwynn returns.”

“What time are you seeing the Daneys tomorrow?”

“Not your problem,” he said. “Sleep in.”

“Should I drive?”

“Alex, these people were advocates for the boys. That could make you not their favorite person.”

“My report wasn’t a factor in the decision to certify them as juveniles. Which, I should point out, is exactly what their lawyers were asking for. There’s no logical reason for me to be targeted.”

“Strangling and beating a two-year-old wasn’t logical.”

“What time?” I said.

“The appointment’s for eleven.”

“I’ll drive.”


***

I picked him up at the station at ten-thirty and took the Sepulveda Pass out to the Valley. He said nothing as we crossed Sunset and passed the spot where Rand Duchay’s body had been found.

I said, “Wonder how he got from the Valley into the city.”

“Sean’s checking the buses. Probably a waste of time. Like so much of what we do.”


***

The Galton Street address where Drew and Cherish Daney advised spiritually was in a blue-collar Van Nuys neighborhood, a few blocks from the 405. The sky was the color of newspaper pulp. Freeway noise was a constant rebuke.

The property was fenced with redwood tongue-and-groove but the gate was open and we entered. A boxy, pale-blue bungalow sat at the front of the eighth-acre lot. At the rear were two smaller outbuildings, one a converted garage painted a matching blue, the other, set slightly back, an unpainted cement block cube. The free space was mostly pavement, broken by a few beds of draft-friendly plants edged with lava rock.

Cherish Daney sat in a lawn chair to the left of the main house, reading in full sun. When she saw us she shut the book and stood. I got close enough to read the title: Life’s Lessons: Coping with Grief. A piece of tissue paper extended from between the pages.

Her hair was still white-blond and long, but the teased-up bulk and side-wings of eight years ago had been traded for bangs and simplicity. She had on a white, sleeveless top over blue slacks and gray shoes, the same silver chain and crucifix she’d worn that day at the jail. Most people put on weight as they get older but she had reduced to a hard, dry leanness. Still a young woman- mid-thirties was my guess- but fat’s a good wrinkle filler and her face had collected some tributaries.

The same sun-bronzed complexion, the same pretty features. Noticeable curve to her back, as if her spine had bowed under some terrible weight.

She smiled without opening her mouth. Red-rimmed eyes. If she recognized me, she didn’t say so. When Milo gave her his card, she glanced at it and nodded.

“Thanks for seeing us, Reverend.”

“Sure,” she said. A screen door slammed and the three of us turned toward the sound.

A girl, fifteen or sixteen, had come out of the main house and stood on the front steps holding what looked to be a school workbook.

Cherish Daney said, “What do you need, Valerie?”

The girl’s return stare seemed resentful.

“Val?”

“Help with my math.”

“Of course, bring it over.”

The girl hesitated before walking over. Her wavy black hair trailed past her waist. Plump build. Her face was dusky, round, her gait stiff and self-conscious.

When she got to Cherish Daney, she alternated between looking at us and pretending not to.

“These men are police officers, Val. They’re here about Rand.”

’’Oh.”

“We’re all very sad about Rand, aren’t we, Val?”

“Uh-huh.”

Cherish said, “Okay, show me what the problem is.”

Valerie opened the book. Sixth-grade arithmetic. “These ones. I’m doing them right but I’m not getting the right answers.”

Cherish touched the girl’s arm. “Let’s take a look.”

“I know I’m doing them right.” Valerie’s fingers flexed. She rocked on her feet. Glanced at Milo and me.

“Val?” said Cherish. “Let’s focus.” Touching Valerie’s cheek, she guided the girl’s eyes toward the book.

Val shook off the contact but stared at the page. We stood there as Cherish attempted to unravel the mysteries of fractions, speaking slowly, enunciating clearly, skirting the line between patience and patronizing.

Not losing her patience during Valerie’s lapses of concentration. Which were frequent.

The girl tapped her feet, drummed her hands on various body parts, wriggled, craned her neck, sighed a lot. Her eye contact was hummingbird-flighty and she kept glancing over at us, shooting her gaze to the sky, then down on the ground. The book. The house. A squirrel that scampered up the redwood fence.

I’d gone to school for too long to resist diagnosis.

Cherish Daney stayed on track, finally got the girl to focus on a single problem until she achieved success.

“There you go! Great, Val! Let’s do another one.”

“No, I’m okay, I get it now.”

“I think one more’s a good idea.”

Emphatic head shake.

“You’re sure, Val?”

Without answering, Valerie ran back toward the house. Dropped the workbook and cried out in frustration, bent and retrieved it, flung the screen door open and disappeared.

“Sorry for the interruption,” said Cherish. “She’s a terrific kid but she needs a lot of structure.”

“A.D.D.?” I said.

“It’s that obvious, huh?” Now she stared at me with wide blue eyes. “I know who you are. The psychologist who saw Rand.”

“Alex Delaware.” I held out my hand.

She took it readily. “We met at the jail.”

“Yes, we did, Reverend.”

“I guess,” she said, “our paths cross at sad junctures.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Both our occupations.”

“I suppose… actually, I’m not a minister, just a teacher.”

I smiled. “Just a teacher?”

“It comes in handy,” she said. “For homeschooling. We homeschool the kids.”

Milo said, “Foster kids?”

“That’s right.”

“How long do they stay with you?” I said.

“No set time. Val was supposed to be with us for sixty days while her mother was evaluated for detox. Then her mother O.D.’d and died and all of Val’s relatives live in Arizona. She barely knows them- her mom ran away from home. Top of that, they weren’t interested in taking her. So she’s been with us nearly a year.”

“How many fosters do you care for?”

“It varies. My husband’s shopping over at Value Club. We buy in bulk.”

“What was the arrangement with Rand Duchay?” said Milo.

“The arrangement?”

“With the state.”

Cherish Daney shook her head. “That wasn’t a formal situation, Lieutenant. We knew Rand was being released and had nowhere to go so we took him in.”

“The county had no problem with his being here?” said Milo. “With kids?”

“It never came up.” She stiffened. “You’re not going to cause problems for us, are you? It wouldn’t be fair to the kids.”

“No, ma’am. It was just a question that came to mind.”

“There was never any danger,” she said. “Rand was a good person.”

Same claim he’d made. Neither Milo nor I answered.

Cherish Daney said, “I don’t expect you to believe this, but eight years transformed him.”

“To?”

“A good person, Lieutenant. He wasn’t going to be with us long term, anyway. Just until he found a job and a place to stay. My husband had made inquiries with some nonprofits, figuring maybe Rand could work at a thrift shop, or do some landscaping work. Then Rand took the initiative and came up with the idea of construction. That’s where he went Saturday.”

“Any idea how he ended up in Bel Air?”

She shook her head. “He’d have no reason to be there. The only thing I can think of is he got lost and someone picked him up. Rand could be very trusting.”

“He never phoned you?”

“He didn’t have a phone,” she said.

He’d called me from a pay booth.

Milo said, “How close is the construction site?”

“Up a few blocks on Vanowen.”

“Not very far, in terms of getting lost.”

“Lieutenant, Rand spent his entire adolescence in prison. When he got out he was extremely disoriented. His world was a buzz of confusion.”

“William James,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Pioneer of psychology. He called childhood a blooming, buzzing confusion.”

“I probably learned that,” said Cherish. “I took psychology in seminary.”

Milo said, “So you kept in regular contact with Rand while he was in custody.”

“We did,” she said. “Right after Troy died, we initiated contact.”

“Why then?”

“Initially, we were more involved with Troy because we knew him before the trouble.”

“The trouble being Kristal Malley’s murder,” said Milo.

Cherish Daney looked away. Her stoop became more pronounced.

“How’d you know Troy before, Mrs. Daney?”

“When my husband and I were students, part of our community service seminar involved identifying needs in the community. Our apartment wasn’t that far from 415 City, so we knew its reputation. Our faculty adviser thought it would be a good place to find kids with needs. We talked to Social Services and they identified several prospects. Troy was one of them.”

“Rand wasn’t?” I said.

“Rand never got his name on any lists.”

“Troublemaker lists?” said Milo.

She nodded. “We met with Troy a couple of times, tried to get him involved with church or sports or a hobby, but we never really connected. Then, after… he must’ve mentioned us to his lawyer because she contacted us and said it would be a great time to start counseling him spiritually.”

Bible in a cell. Smooth talk about sin.

“Why didn’t you connect initially?” said Milo.

“You know how it is. Kids don’t always take to talking.”

She looked to me for confirmation. Before I could offer any, Milo said, “Being arrested help Troy’s communication skills?”

She sighed. “You think we’re naive. It’s not that we were unaware of the enormity of what Troy had done. But we recognized that he’d also been victimized. You met his mother, Doctor.”

“Where is she?” I said.

“Dead,” she said. Snapping off the word. “After Troy’s body was ready for burial, the Chino coroner’s office contacted us. They couldn’t find Jane and we were the only other people on his visitor list. We contacted Ms. Weider but she no longer worked for the Public Defender. Troy’s body sat at the morgue until our dean agreed to donate a plot in San Bernadino where some of the faculty members are buried. We conducted a service.”

She touched her crucifix. Suddenly, tears streamed down her face. She made no effort to dry them. “That day. My husband and myself and Dr. Wascomb- our dean. A beautiful, sunny day and we watched cemetery workers lower that pathetic little coffin into the ground. A month later, Detective Kramer called us. Jane had been found under a freeway ramp, one of those homeless encampments, wrapped up in a sleeping bag and plastic tarp. Which is the way she always slept, so the other homeless people didn’t think anything of it until she still hadn’t budged by noon. She’d been stabbed sometime during the night. Whoever killed her wrapped her back up.”

She shuddered, pulled out the tissue paper bookmark and wiped her face.

Milo said, “How long was that after Troy’s death?”

“Six weeks, two months, what’s the difference? My point is, these were lost boys. And now, Rand.”

“Any idea who’d want to hurt Rand?”

She shook her head.

“What was his mood like?”

“Disoriented, as I told you. Reeling from freedom.”

“Not happy at all about getting out?”

“To be honest? Not really.”

“Did he have any plans other than getting a job?”

“We were taking things slowly. Helping him settle in.”

“Could we see his room?”

“Sure,” she said. “Such as it is.”


***

We followed her through a compact, tidy living room; a dim galley kitchen and eating area; then a low, narrow corridor. One bedroom, the master, with barely enough room for the furniture that filled it. A single bathroom served the entire house.

At the end of the hall was a windowless space, eight-foot square. Cherish Daney said, “This is it.”

Cheap paneling covered the walls. Capped off pipes sprouted from the vinyl floor.

Milo said, “This used to be a laundry room?”

“Service porch. We moved the washer and dryer outside.”

A framed Bible scene- Nordic Solomon and two Valkyrian women claiming motherhood of the same fat, blond infant- hung over a foldable cot. A white plastic lamp sat on a raw wood nightstand. Milo opened the drawers. Well-thumbed Bible on top, nothing in the bottom.

A dented footlocker served as a closet. Inside were two white T-shirts, two blue work shirts, a pair of blue jeans.

Cherish Daney said, “We never even got a chance to buy him clothes.”

We walked back to the front of the house. She peered through a window. “Here’s my husband. I’d better go help him.”

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