Rage (14 page)

“What
time was the first walk?” said Milo.

“We
eat early . . . maybe eight, eight-thirty a.m.”

“What
kind of job was he looking for?”

“Anything,
I guess. He had no real skills.”

“C.Y.A.
rehabilitation,” I said.

Daney’s
husky shoulders bunched. “Don’t get me started.”

Milo
said, “Sir, your wife says Rand left at five p.m. to meet the supervisor. But
the site closes down by noon.”

“I
guess Rand was misinformed, Detective. Or someone misled him.”

“Why
would they do that?”

“People
like Rand tend to be misled.” He consulted his watch again and stood. “Sorry, I
need to get going.”

“One
more question,” said Milo. “I’m going to be contacting Rand’s family. Any idea
where to start?”

“Don’t
bother to start,” said Daney. “There’s no one. His grandmother died several
years ago. Complications of heart disease. I was the one who informed Rand.”

“How’d
he react?”

“Just
what you’d imagine. He was extremely upset.” He glanced at his Jeep. “I don’t
know if any of this was useful, but I thought I should tell you.”

Milo
said, “I appreciate it, sir. You didn’t want your wife to know
because . . .”

“No
sense upsetting her. Even if it was relevant, it would have nothing to do with
her.”

“Is
there anything else that might help me, sir?” said Milo.

Daney
jammed his hand in his pocket. Looked at the Jeep again. Ran a hand across the
steel needles of his beard. “This is . . . ticklish. I really
don’t know if I should be bringing it up.”

“Bring
what up, sir?”

“Rand
was found far from home, so I was thinking, maybe that
truck . . . what if someone
did
take him for a ride?” He
tried to tug at an eighth-inch beard hair, finally managed to pincer one
between his fingernails, pulled, stretched his cheek.

“A
dark pickup,” said Milo. “That ring any bells?”

“That’s
the thing,” said Daney. “It does, but I’m really not
comfortable . . . I know this is a murder investigation, but if
you could be discreet . . .”

“About
what?”

“Quoting
me as the source,” said Daney. He bit his lip. “There’s a whole lot of history
here.”

“Something
to do with eight years ago?”

Daney
pulled at his cheek again. Created a lopsided frown.

“I’ll
be as discreet as possible, sir,” said Milo.

“I
know you will . . .” Daney turned as a truck loaded with bags of
fertilizer drove onto the lot. Dark blue. A stick-on sign said
Hernandez
Landscaping.
Two mustachioed guys in dusty jeans and baseball caps got out
and entered the doughnut stand.

Daney
said, “See what I mean, pickups are all over. I’m sure it’s no big deal.”

“Give
it a shot, anyway, Mr. Daney. For Rand’s sake.”

Daney
sighed. “Okay . . .” Another sigh. “Barnett Malley— Kristal
Malley’s father drives a dark pickup. Or at least he used to.”

“Eight
years ago?” said Milo.

“No,
no, more recently. Two years ago. That’s when I ran into him at a True Value
hardware store not far from here. I was buying parts to fix a garbage disposal
and he was loading up on tools. I noticed him right away but he didn’t see me.
I tried to avoid him but we encountered each other at the register. I let him
go ahead of me, watched him leave and get into his truck. A black pickup.”

“You
two talk?” said Milo.

“I
wanted to,” said Daney. “Wanted to tell him I could never really understand his
pain but that I’d prayed for his daughter. Wanted to let him know that just
because I’d reached out to Troy and Rand didn’t mean I didn’t understand his
tragedy. But he gave me a look that said ‘Don’t go there.’ ”

He
hugged himself.

“Hostile,”
I said.

“More
than that, Doctor.”

“How
much more?” said Milo.

“His
eyes,” said Daney. “Pure hatred.”

* * *

We
watched the white Jeep drive off.

Milo
said, “Barnett Malley. It has now officially gotten messy. So how would an
ambush fit the time frame— and the call to you an hour and a half after he left
the Daneys’?”

“Rand
could’ve lied to the Daneys about going to the construction site.”

“Why
would he do that?”

“Because
he had a meeting before the one with me and didn’t want them to know about it.
With Barnett Malley.”

“Why
would he do that?”

“I
told you he sounded troubled. If guilt was weighing him down and he was trying
to prove he was a good person, who better to ask for forgiveness than Malley?”

“Daney
said he was freaked out by being watched.”

“But
the next morning he looked better. Maybe he’d somehow made contact with Malley,
decided to take positive action. State law requires notification of victims’
families when a felon’s released, so Malley would’ve known Rand was out. What
if Malley kept an eye on Rand, confronted him face-to-face during Rand’s first
trip to the site at eight a.m.? They agreed to meet later and Rand invented the
appointment with the construction supervisor as cover.”

“Not
an ambush,” he said. “He gets in Malley’s truck voluntarily, then it goes bad.”

“Rand
was impressionable, not very smart, eager for absolution. If Malley came across
friendly— forgiving— Rand would’ve been eager to buy it.”

“Okay,
let’s think this through. Rand hooks up with Malley around five p.m., Malley
drives him into the city, drops him off at the mall, and Rand calls
you
to
set up another meeting? Why, Alex?”

First
time using the victim’s first name. Some kind of transition had taken place.

I
said, “Don’t know. Unless, Rand and Malley had made peace and Rand decided to
keep the process going.”

He
rubbed his face vigorously, as if washing without water. “Not much of a peace
if Malley shot him. What, Malley dropped him off, then picked him up again?”

“Maybe
Malley had more to talk about.”

“The
two of them rode around together schmoozing about the bad old days, Malley
decided to off him rather than let him eat pizza with you? Even if we can
explain all that, the big question remains: If this is all about payback, why
would Malley wait eight years?”

“Maybe
he was willing to wait for both boys to get out but a C.Y.A. gangbanger beat
him to Troy.”

“So
he bides his time on Rand.” He drank coffee. “According to Daney, Malley was
still heated up two years ago.”

“Malley
wanted the death penalty,” I said. “Some wounds never heal.”

“Theory,
theory, theory. So, now what? I intrude on a couple who lost their kid in the
worst possible way because hubby gave Daney a dirty look two years ago and he
drives a black pickup?”

“It
could be touchy,” I said.

“It
could require some serious psychological
sensitivity.
”

I
took a bite of Danish. A few minutes ago it had tasted great. Now it was
deep-fried dust.

“Do I
have to spell it out, Alex? I’d rather you do it and I’ll watch.”

“You’re
not worried my presence will disrupt?”

“The
defense saw you as pro-prosecution, so maybe the Malleys will remember you
fondly for the same reason.”

“No
reason for them to remember me at all,” I said. “Never met them.”

“Really?”

“There
was no reason to.” Funny how defensive that sounded.

“Well,”
he said, “now there’s a reason.”

M
ilo phoned DMV for current licenses and registrations
on Barnett and Lara Malley.

Nothing
for her. Barnett Melton Malley had a Soledad Canyon address, out in Antelope Valley.

“The
birth date fits,” he said. “One vehicle, a ten-year-old Ford pickup. Black at
the time of registration.”

“Soledad’s
forty, fifty miles from Van Nuys,” I said. “After what they went through, I can
see them wanting to get out of the city. Rural area like that, Lara would need
to drive, so why isn’t she licensed?”

“They’re
not living together and she moved out of state?”

“A
tragedy like that can drive people apart.”

“I
can think of a giant wedge,” he said. “Kristal was snatched from under her nose.
Maybe hubby blamed her.”

“Or,”
I said, “she blamed herself.”

As we
returned to the city, Sean Binchy called in. Van Nuys Division had no record of
any call from the Daneys about Rand’s disappearance.

“No
big surprise,” said Milo. “He wasn’t officially missing, so it wasn’t filed.”

“What’s
the current status of your felonious friend theory?”

“Have
I abandoned it completely because Barnett Malley owns a black truck? Like Daney
said, plenty of pickups in the Valley. But Malley had good reason to hate Rand.
I’d be an idiot to ignore him.”

“When
were you planning on visiting him?”

“I
was thinking tomorrow,” he said. “Late enough to avoid the morning rush but
early enough not to get tied up coming back. First, I’m gonna try to find out
where he works. If I get lucky and it’s somewhere closer, I’ll call you.”

He
scribbled in his notepad, returned it to his pocket. “Or even luckier, some
mitigating factor will emerge. Like an ironclad alibi for Malley.”

“You
don’t want it to be him,” I said.

“Hey,”
he said. “How about lunch? I’m thinking tandoori lamb.”

* * *

We
stopped at the station first, where he cleared his messages and ran Barnett
Malley through NCIC and the other criminal databases and came up empty. Same
for Lara Malley.

I
stayed on my feet, expecting we’d soon leave for Café Moghul. But he just sat
there, eyes closed, passing the phone from one hand to the other until he
called the Hall of Records downtown and asked for a clerk who owed him a favor.
It took awhile to get through but once he connected, the conversation was
brief. When he hung up, he looked weary.

“Lara
Malley’s deceased. Seven years ago, suicide by firearm. Women are shooting
themselves more, nowadays, but back then it was a little unusual, right? Pills
were the ladies’ choice.”

“Not
always, if the ladies were serious,” I said.

“Mommy
cashes in a year after Kristal’s murder. Enough time to see life wasn’t getting
any better. The Malleys ever get any therapy, Alex?”

“Don’t
know.”

He
began punching his computer keyboard as if it was a sparring partner, logged
onto the state firearms registration file. Squinted and stared and copied
something down and drew his lips back in a strange, hollow smile that made me
glad I wasn’t his enemy.

“Mr.
Barnett Melton Malley has amassed quite an arsenal. Thirteen shotguns, rifles,
and handguns, including a couple of thirty-eights.”

“Maybe
he lives alone in a secluded area. He’d have more reason than most to be
vigilant.”

“Who
says he lives alone?”

“Same
answer,” I said. “If he started a new family, he’d want to protect it.”

“Angry,
bitter guy,” he said. “Loses his entire family to violence, moves out to the
boonies with a stash of firepower heavy enough to outfit a militia. Maybe he’s
in
a militia— one of those survivalist yahoos. Am I overreaching if I use the
term ‘high risk’?”

“If
he intended to murder someone, why would he register his weapons?”

“Who
says he registered
all
of them?” He fumbled in a desk drawer, pulled out
a wooden-tipped cigar, rolled it between his palms.

“The
way Rand was shot,” he said. “Contact wound, left side of the head, the killer
at approximately the same height. Taken by surprise like you suggested. That
conjure up an image?”

“The
killer was sitting to his left,” I said. “Close to him. As in the driver’s seat
of a vehicle.”

He
pointed the cigar at me. “That’s the channel that switched on in
my
head.
In terms of premeditation, maybe Malley
didn’t
think it out. Maybe he
started out wanting to talk to Rand. To confront the guy who’d ruined his life.
We both know victims’ families sometimes crave that.”

I
said, “Malley had eight years for that, but perhaps Rand’s release triggered
old memories.”

“Malley
picks him up, drops him off, drives around and finds out he’s still got
unfinished business with Rand. They drive up somewhere in the hills and
something goes wrong.”

“Rand
wasn’t articulate. He said the wrong thing to Malley and triggered big-time
rage.”