Flesh And Blood

His head shot forward, and the eyes opened wide. “Daddy dearest – Oh, man, you have a devious mind.”

“He did call. Hours after Jane died.”

“Jane and Lauren both hated his guts. There’d be no reason for him to think anyone made him a beneficiary.”

“Any will come up for Lauren?”

“Not yet.”

“If she died intestate,” I said, “her estate will end up in probate and be up for grabs. I’m no lawyer, but my bet is that, as her closest living blood relative, Lyle will have a strong claim. Sure, getting through the paperwork will be a hassle, and there’ll be estate taxes to pay, but if those paintings are real, even a chunk would be serious money. Lyle’s hurting financially. A Picasso or two would do wonders.”

“He offs his ex and plants the gun in the old guy’s hand?”

“Like you said, no love lost between them.”

“C’mon, Alex. He can’t be stupid enough to do it and call me the same day. Talk about obvious.” He frowned. “But it wasn’t obvious, was it? Not till your warped mind seized upon it. You are one creative puppy.”

He began pacing along the side of the house. Low chatter from the front of the property created an irritating soundtrack: noise but no reason.

“Lyle’s calling you was blatant,” I said. “But, like you said, people get careless. Did he seem the subtle type to you? The guy’s angry, depressed, out of work, drinks, stomps around his property with a loaded shotgun. If that’s not a recipe for violence, I don’t know what is.”

“You’re saying he did Jane and Lauren? No big bad Duke conspiracy or Shawna cover-up?”

“Who knows?” I said. “The other thing to think about is everyone around Lauren is dying. Which fits with Jane not being more forthcoming because she did know something explosive. Either way, pinning it on Abbot seems awfully convenient.”

“For argument’s sake, let’s say Lyle was the shooter. He shows up and Jane just lets him in?”

“She might’ve. Even with tons of hostility, there was that early bond – the years they’d been together, familiarity, chemistry. I’ve seen it plenty of times working custody cases. The nastiest divorces. Two people trying to rip each other’s hearts out in court, then they find themselves alone and end up in bed. Maybe Lyle put on a big show of grief – that’s the one thing they shared. Lauren’s death. For all we know he didn’t even come to kill her. They started talking, Lyle segued into money talk like he did with you, Jane lost it, and one thing led to another.”

“So why’s the old guy still breathing?”

“Because Lyle’s no genius, but he did have an inspiration. Picture it this way: The argument begins downstairs. Jane orders Lyle out, he refuses. She rushes upstairs, thinking to lock herself in the bedroom, then call the police. Lyle goes after her, gets in the bedroom, shoots her. It’s dark, they could’ve wrestled from a spot near the bed – the hole in the wall. He misses that time but hits his mark twice, and Jane goes down. Abbot’s asleep – maybe deeply, he’s probably on medication. The gunshot wakes him. He sits up. Disoriented. A senile old man confronted with sudden loud noise and darkness. His consciousness is clouded anyway. He wouldn’t have focused immediately – Where were his glasses?”

“On his nightstand.”

“He could’ve seen nothing. Lyle spots him, considers killing him, realizes Abbot’s no direct threat, and comes up with a better idea: plant the gun near or in Abbot’s hand and leave quietly. He might’ve even pressed Abbot’s finger on the trigger and fired and that’s where the hole in the wall came from. Even if Abbot’s head does clear and he recalls some details, who’s going to believe him? What’s his story? A mystery intruder with no signs of forced entry? A bogeyman who leaves his weapon behind? But I’ll wager Abbot comes up with nothing. He’s out of it. A few days in the prison ward at County and he’ll probably be completely vegetative.”

A door slammed at the front of the house. We stepped forward to see the paramedics trundle Abbot out. The old man lay strapped on the stretcher, eyes closed, mouth agape. As the EMTs carried him across the motor court, they chatted and seemed relaxed. No threat from the cargo. Neighborly necks craned as Abbot was loaded into the ambulance. Siren sonata as the uniform at the gate cleared an exit path and the ambulance sped away. Two vans drove up. One white, with the coroner’s logo on the door, was allowed through the gates. The silver one with a network affiliate’s call letters on the roof next to a satellite antenna was waved to the curb.

“The party begins,” said Milo. “At least it’s Ruiz and Gallardo’s bash.”

“I can just hear tonight’s broadcast,” I said, as a young redhead in a yellow pantsuit stepped out of the news van. “‘A Sherman Oaks man was arrested today on suspicion of murdering his wife. Neighbors described Melville Abbot as friendly but feeble – ’”

“That’s still where the facts point, Alex.”

“Guess so,” I said. “And Ruiz and Gallardo do seem like nice guys. Why complicate their lives?”

“Oh, my,” he said. “What the hell went down during your childhood to make you enjoy complications?”

“When my mother was pregnant with me she got startled by an obsessive-compulsive pit bull.”

The woman in yellow approached with a cameraman and a soundman in tow. The boom hovered over her coiffure as she flirted with the uniform at the gate. Smiles all around, then the cop shook his head and the reporter pouted and the news crew drifted toward the growing clot of suburban observers.

Milo said, “Let’s get the hell out of here. Just walk straight through and don’t make eye contact. If Ms. Bubblehead chirps, remember she’s a vulture, not a canary.”

“You heading home?”

He laughed harshly. “You kidding? I love the goddamn Valley – hey, how about a nice little jaunt to Reseda.”

The commuter rush. Ventura Boulevard was constipated, and a glance at the freeway overpass revealed a chromium still life. Milo stayed on surface streets, sitting too straight in the driver’s seat, jaw muscles pumping, lips twisting, one big hand shoving aside the hair lick that shadowed his brow – repeating the futile gesture over and over.

Silent, talking to himself. Assessing the possibilities I’d inflicted upon him.

I might’ve felt guilty, but my mental camera was working overtime too, flashing images of Jane Abbot’s gray- green corpse. Then: the trussed bundle of ruin that had been Lauren’s final pose.

I tried to switch channels, but the alternative fare wasn’t any prettier. Michelle and Lance, burned to cinders. Shawna Yeager brutalized unthinkably, then kicked into a hidden grave. Agnes Yeager probably still pictured her only child’s beautiful face, but by now Shawna would be nothing more than bones.

Mothers and daughters. Entire families, disappeared…

Past Haseltine the traffic eased up. Milo said, “Finally.”

The same soil-and-paint smell, the same irate dogs.

When we reached the chain-link around Lyle Teague’s property, the sun was a brick-colored skullcap on a flat, gray pate of horizon, and the smear of illumination in the lower sky had dulled to excremental brown.

Grimy chemical light revealed the shabby neighborhood at its worst. A few kids with shaved heads lounged in front of the apartments across the street, slouching and drinking, enjoying delusions of immortality. Their grins shifted to fear and distrust as we pulled up. When Milo parked a bottle shattered against the curb. By the time we got out of the car, the kids were gone.

The beefy padlock on Teague’s front gate was in place, but the pickup with the chrome pipes and the overgrown tires was missing, and we had a view of the carport littered with machine parts and broken toys.

“Gone,” I said.

Milo peered through the chain-link diamonds. “This one I don’t scale. Let me call his number.”

As he reached for his cell phone, the house’s front door opened a crack, then wider as Tish Teague stepped out into the dirt, holding the hand of a brown-haired girl around five years old. The child’s eyes were open, but she looked sleepy. The second Mrs. Teague wore a baby blue tank top and too-tight white shorts that sausaged her hips. Her bra strap did the same for her torso, turning her into a mass of soft rolls supported by pasty, dimpled legs. Blue tattoo on the left biceps. Her hair was drawn up at the top, rubber-banded into an off-center thatch.

Milo waved, but she just stood there, bland, pale pudding of a face aiming for stoic.