Rage (27 page)

“At
least thirty days before,” I said. “So life stress made him do it?”

“We
see it all the time with substance abuse patients. People fighting impulses and
bad habits and doing fine. Then something hits them and they backslide.”

Murder
as a bad habit. Sometimes it boiled down to that.

M
onday night, I slept at Allison’s. She had six Tuesday
patients and I left just before eight. During the drive home, I tried the
Daneys’ house again. Still no answer.

Family
vacation with the foster kids? Homeschooling meant their schedule was flexible,
so maybe.

Or
had they encountered something nonrecreational?

I
drove through Brentwood and into Bel Air, turned off Sunset onto Beverly Glen.
Passing the road that leads up to my house, I continued north into the Valley.

* * *

Galton
Street was peaceful, a guy watering his lawn, a couple of kids chasing each
other, birds flittering. The noise from the freeway was a chronic, distant
throat-clearing. I came to a stop half a block up from the Daney property. The
redwood gate was shut and the fence blocked out everything but a peak of
roofline.

I
recalled how crowded the lot had been by three buildings. No room for parking,
any vehicles would have to be out on the street. Drew Daney’s white Jeep wasn’t
in sight. I had no idea what Cherish drove.

I
nudged the Seville forward, searched for a black truck or anything else that
seemed wrong. A dark pickup was parked two houses up.

Black?
No, dark blue. Longer than Barnett Malley’s truck, with an extra seat,
twenty-inch tires and chrome rims.

Plenty
of trucks in the Valley.

I
came to a stop ten feet from the gate, was about to turn off the engine when a
small, beige car pulled away from the curb across the street and raced past
with as much pep as four cold cylinders would allow.

Toyota
Corolla, lots of dents and pocks, a few Bondo patches on the doors. I caught a
split-second glimpse of the driver.

Long-haired
blond woman, both hands gripping the wheel. Cherish Daney’s eyes were fierce.

She
drove to the corner, came to a rolling stop, turned right, sped off.

A bit
of a head start but four cylinders wouldn’t be much challenge.

* * *

Morning
traffic was thin and I picked her up easily, hurrying west on Vanowen. Using a
slow-moving camper as a shield, I kept my eye on the little car’s sagging
bumper as it approached the Ventura Freeway East.

She
chugged up the on-ramp, lost momentum climbing, and slowed. I pulled ahead of
the camper, drove to the bottom of the ramp, and waited until she made it over
the hump. If a cop saw me, I’d have some explaining to do.

But
no cops in sight. Very few people in sight. The Corolla finally disappeared
from view and I shot forward.

Cherish
Daney merged nervously into the slow lane, swerved a bit as she switched to the
center. One hand to her ear; talking on a cell phone. She needed a half mile to
build up to seventy-five miles per, maintained that speed on the route through
North Hollywood, past Burbank and into Glendale, where she exited at Brand
Boulevard.

Maybe
this was nothing more than a shopping trip at the Galleria and I’d feel
foolish.

No,
the mall wasn’t open this early. The look I’d seen on her face said she wasn’t
thinking about bargains.

I
stayed two vehicles behind the Corolla on Brand and drove south.

Past
the Galleria. One mile, two, two and a quarter.

Suddenly,
without signaling, Cherish Daney yanked the Corolla’s wheel and bumped up into
the parking lot of a gravel-roofed coffee shop called Patty’s Place. A banner
on the window promised
Breakfast Special: Best Huevos Rancheros in Town!
Below
that:
Dip Into Our Never-Empty Coffeepot! Our Hotcakes Are Flappelicious!

Despite
all that culinary temptation, Glendale appeared skeptical— only three other
vehicles sat in the wide, sunny lot.

Two
compacts. A black pickup.

Cherish
pulled up alongside the truck. Before she got out, Barnett Malley was at her
side. He had on the same outfit I’d seen at his cabin plus a wide-brimmed
leather hat. Yellow gray hair streamed over his collar. His thumbs were hooked
in his belt and his long legs bowed.

Cowboy
Buckaroo.

Cherish
Daney was all city girl: fitted yellow top, black pants, high-heeled black
sandals. Her white blond hair, loose in the car, was now pinned in a chignon.

The
two of them moved toward one another, seemed about to touch, stopped just short
of contact. Without exchanging a word, they walked toward the restaurant, in
perfect step. When Malley held the door open for Cherish, she glided past him
without hesitation.

Used
to it.

* * *

They
stayed in there just short of an hour and when they left he held her elbow. My
diagonal watch-spot afforded a clear view of Patty’s Place, but I was too far
away to make out facial expressions.

Barnett
Malley held Cherish’s car door open, waited until she got behind the wheel
before entering the black pickup. She drove away, continued south on Brand, and
he followed soon after. I was third in the convoy, hanging a block behind.

They
drove to a Best Western near Chevy Chase Boulevard. Through the motel’s glass
facade two levels of rooms were visible above a bright aqua pool.

Barnett
Malley went in and Cherish Daney waited in her car. Seven minutes passed before
she got out of the Corolla, glanced around, tamped her hair. The Seville was
one of many cars in the motel lot and this time I was close enough to pick up
nuance.

Tight
face. She licked her lips repeatedly. Glancing at her watch, she patted her
hair again, tugged at her blouse, ran a finger across her lower lip. Inspecting
the digit, she rubbed it against a trouser leg. Then she locked her car, took a
deep breath, threw back her shoulders, and marched grimly toward the motel’s
entrance.

Thinking
about sins of the flesh? Or had the concept lost its punch?

* * *

She
reemerged alone forty-five minutes later. Still tense, slightly hunched, the
way she’d been the first time I’d met her. Arms clamped close to her body.
Racewalking to the Corolla, she backed out, sped away.

I let
her go and waited.

Malley
appeared after nine minutes. His hat was in his hand, his walk was loose and
easy, and he smoked a long, thin cigar.

I
followed him onto the 134 West. A mile or so later, he switched to the 5 North;
when he got on Cal 14 twenty miles later, I lowered my speed and put a couple
of eighteen-wheelers between us. He was pushing eighty-five and the next
twenty-three miles were consumed like fast food. When he got off at the Crown
Valley exit, I kept going, took the next exit, got back on the freeway, and
headed back toward L.A.

Like
Milo had said: This was his turf, nowhere to hide.

* * *

I was
home by one p.m. My cell calls to Milo’s house had been answered by his
machine. He wasn’t at his desk.

Allison
would be working for another couple of hours. The plan was we’d get together at
five, maybe see a movie. I fed the fish, tried to relax, got on the phone
again.

Milo
said, “Hey.”

“Malley
does leave his house,” I said. “All he needs is a bit of motivation.”

I
told him what I’d seen.

He
said, “This changes everything.”

A
t two p.m. Milo strode through the front door that I’d
left open. Grabbing an orange juice carton, he said, “I need fresh air.” We
went down to the pond.

“I
was trying to be well-adjusted,” he said. “As in sniff the petunias. Rick was
off so we went walking in Franklin Canyon, then grabbed some brunch at Urth
Café. All the beautiful folks, and me for contrast.” He touched his gut. “Whole
grain waffles— kind of takes the fun out of overeating.”

He
tipped the juice carton to his lips.

I
said, “Sorry to spoil your leisure.”

“What
leisure? Rick got called to stitch up a kid who fell out of a tree and the
whole time I was thinking about the case and faking mellow.” He tossed food
pellets at the water, muttered, “Come to Uncle Milo.” The koi swarmed and
splashed. “Nice to be appreciated.”

He
gulped until the juice was gone, kneeled and picked a few leaves out of the
mondo grass that rims the pond rocks. Ground them to dust between his fingers
before sitting down. “Malley and Cherish doing the nasty. Good old reliable
human frailty.”

“It
fits what Allison said about the Daneys not communicating well. With Cherish’s
skepticism about the black truck. She was downplaying Barnett as a suspect.”

“Diverting
attention from her boyfriend,” he said. “How do you think the two of them got
together?”

“Had
to be something related to Kristal.”

“They
were on opposite sides of the aisle.”

“Love
is strange,” I said.

“What,
they passed each other in the hallway and clicked? From everything we’ve heard,
Malley despised anyone on the defense team.”

“Apparently
anyone but Cherish.”

He
scratched his nose. “Think it’s been going on for eight years?”

“It’s
not brand new,” I said. “They were comfortable with each other.”

“Good
old Cherish, woman of the cloth. Meanwhile the cowboy’s cherishing
her
in
some sleazy motel.”

“It
was actually a pretty nice place,” I said. “AAA certification, swimming pool— ”

“Yeah,
yeah, and water beds that bounce to the rhythm of misbegotten passion. What is
it with these religious types, Alex?”

“There’re
plenty of decent religious folk doing good works. Some people are attracted to
religion because they’re struggling with forbidden impulses.”

“And
others see it as a way to make a buck. How much does the county pay to take
care of foster kids?”

“It
used to be five, six hundred a month per ward.”

“Not
a way to get rich,” he said.

“Five
hundred times eight kids is four thousand a month,” I said. “Which wouldn’t be
chump change to a divinity school dropout. Especially if it was supplemented by
other income.”

“Daney’s
other jobs. What’d he call them— nonprofits. He runs around to churches while
wifey does some motel-schooling.”

“Plus,
they might be getting supplementary fees. I’m not versed in the welfare regs,
but there could be a homeschooling allowance. Or extra money to take care of
kids with A.D.D.”

“So
they could be raking in decent dough.” He rolled his jaw. “Okay, Cherish and
Malley are a love connection. What does that say about the murders, if
anything?”

“The
only thing I can think of is that Troy had three visits before he was killed.
One from his mother, two from the Daneys. Theoretically, Cherish could’ve made
contact with Nestor Almedeira.”

He
put down the bag of fish food. Loosened a shirt button, slipped his hand under
the fabric, rubbed his chest.

“You
okay?” I said.

He
turned toward me. “Reverend Blondie acting as Malley’s emissary to arrange the
hit? She poses as a thirteen-year-old’s spiritual support and sets him up to be
cut like a hog? Jesus, that would make her a four-plus monster.”

“It’s
a hypothetical. It’s just as logical to assume Barnett knew Nestor from the
drug trade.”

“And
Cherish is just a plain old adulteress.” Another chest rub.

I
said, “Itch?”

“Self-administered
cardiac massage. If Cherish and Malley didn’t hook up during the six months it
took for the boys to be sentenced, when would they have the opportunity?”

“They
used to live pretty close to each other.”

“What,
a chance meeting at Kmart? One look at Cherish and Barnett goes from enraged
dad to lover boy?”

I
shrugged.

“Okay,
let’s put that aside and think about the next body: Lara. That could still be
what we theorized— Malley blamed her for Kristal, their marriage was falling
apart. But toss in a new girlfriend and you beef up the motivation. Wonder if
there was any life insurance out on Lara.”

“If
there was Malley didn’t use it to finance the good life.”

He
jotted in his pad. Picked up the bag and tossed more pellets to the fish.

I
said, “The new girlfriend wouldn’t have to be Cherish.”

“Barnett’s
a ladies’ man?”

“He
looked pretty jaunty exiting the motel and you felt there was chemistry between
him and Bunny MacIntyre. Cherish, on the other hand, seemed pretty tense.”