Flesh And Blood

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.”

CHAPTER 23

MILO SCANNED THE bedroom as we waited. I could see nothing but tragedy, but his trained eye located a bullet hole on the wall facing the bed, just to the right of the wheelchair. He drew a chalk outline around the puncture.

Mel Abbot continued to hunch stuporously in the bed, cuffed hands inert. Milo wiped his chin a couple of times. Each time Abbot yanked his face away, like a baby repelling spinach.

Finally, the howl of sirens. Three black-and-whites on Code Two, a Mutt-and-Jeff detective duo from Van Nuys Division named Ruiz and Gallardo, a squadron of cheerful, bantering paramedics for Mel Abbot.

I stood on the landing and watched the EMTs set up their mobile stretcher. Milo and the detectives had moved out of the bedroom, out of the old man’s earshot, talking technical. Sidelong glances at the old man. A moist slick of snot mustached Abbot’s upper lip. Jane’s corpse was within his line of vision, but he made no attempt to look at her. A paramedic came out and asked the detectives where to take him. All three cops agreed on the inevitable, the prison ward at County General. The short D, Ruiz, muttered, “Love that drive to East L.A.”

“No place like home, ese,” said Gallardo. He and his partner were in their thirties, solidly built, with thick black hair, perfectly edged and combed straight back. He was around six-two, Ruiz, no more than five-eight. But for the height differential they could have been twins, and I began thinking of them as outgrowths of some Mendelian experiment: short detectives, long detectives… Anything to take my mind off what had happened.

It didn’t work – my head wouldn’t shake off images of Jane Abbot’s final moments. Had she known what was coming, or had the flash of the gun been sensation without comprehension?

Mother and daughter, gone.

A family, gone.

Not a happy family, but one that had cared enough, years ago, to seek help…

A restraint strap unbuckled with a snap, and the EMTs advanced on Abbot. He began to cry but offered no resistance as they eased him onto the stretcher. Then he gazed down at the body and screamed, and waxy arms began striking out. One paramedic said, “Now, come on,” in a bored voice. Snap snap. The paramedics went about their work, speedy as a pit crew, and Abbot was immobilized.

I ran downstairs, retraced the path through the house and out the kitchen door to the flagstone pathway. The sun was relenting, and the lowest quadrant of the sky was striped persimmon. A few neighbors had come out to stare, and when they saw me they edged closer to the gates. A uniform held them back. Someone pointed, and I ducked out of view, stayed close to the house, which was where Milo found me.

“Taking the air?”

“Breathing seemed a good idea,” I said.

“You missed the fun. Abbot managed to slip an arm out and grab hold of one of the EMTs’ hair. They shot him up with tranquilizer.”

“Poor guy.”

“Pathetic but dangerous.”

“You really think he did it?”

“You don’t?” He slapped his hands on his hips. “I’m not saying it was premeditated, but hell, yeah. He was holding the gun, and that hole in the wall fits with a shot fired from the bed. My best guess is it happened last night. They probably had the gun in a nightstand, somehow he found it, was using it as a teddy bear, Jane entered the bedroom, freaked him out, and boom.”

“Suburban security goes bad.”

“We see it all the time, Alex. Usually with kids. Which is what Abbot really is, right? The nightstand drawer’s within arm’s reach. There’s another gun in there – older revolver, a thirty-eight, unloaded. So maybe Jane was being careful. But not careful enough. She forgot about the clip in the gun.”

“Tragic accident,” I said. “You’re the detective.”

He stared at me. “Spit it out.”

“Jane was an experienced caretaker. I can’t see her letting him get near a gun.”

“She had her hands full, Alex. People get careless. Perfectly competent parents turn their backs while Snookums toddles over to the pool.”

He stared down the length of the house. “There’re no signs of forced entry, there was a box of loose jewelry in Jane’s dresser and a nice fat safe in the bedroom closet, combination-locked. Not to mention all those paintings. Ruiz and Gallardo’s first order of business will be to see if the gun was registered. Solid citizens like them aren’t likely to own an illegal piece. If it was theirs, that pretty much clinches it.”

He took baby steps, turned in a small, tight circle, hitched his trousers. “Least I know why she didn’t return my calls.”

“You’re right about the art,” I said. “If it’s real, it’s worth a fortune. One hell of an estate. One hell of a community property. I wonder who inherits.”

He rotated, faced me, eyes half closed but alert, like those of a resting guard dog. “And the point is…”

“Mel Abbot’s only child died ten years ago, Jane’s, just a few days ago. Now Mel will be declared incompetent and someone else will be placed in charge of all the assets. Probably a court-appointed conservator. My guess is relatives will start lining up. I wonder who’s next in line, from a legal standpoint.”

“Some cousin from Iowa. So what?”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Jane mentioned a prenup, but that could’ve applied only to divorce, not death. If Mel’s will signed everything over to Jane, that would’ve put Lauren in place to inherit. But with Lauren dead, her closest living relative could step up to the plate. And look who just called you and asked about Lauren’s finances.”