Free Rage by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

city.”
    “Greatest
generation. How large is the property?”
    “Twelve
acres, with lots of trees and rare plants she put in over the years.”
    “Sounds
nice.”
    “It’s
getting a little run-down,” she said. “And the house is way too big for her.
Still clearing your consults?”
    “They’re
clear.”
    “Good
for you.”
    Before
she left, I’d asked if she wanted me to join her for part of the trip. “If it
was up to me, Alex, you could stay the whole time, but Gram’s possessive. It’s
a ritual with her— ’special time’ with each of the grandkids.”
    At
thirty-nine, Allison was the youngest grandkid.
    “Am I
keeping you from anything?”
    “Not
a thing,” I said, wondering if that were true.
    “Consults
work out okay?”
    “As
good as can be expected.”
    “So
what else is up, baby?”
    I
deliberated telling her about Duchay’s call. “Nothing exciting. What time does
your flight arrive?”
    “That’s
one of the reasons I’m calling. Gram asked me to extend my visit for another
two weeks. It’s hard to tell her no.”
    “She’s
ninety-one,” I said.
    “The
rooms smell like camphor and I feel a hundred and twenty. I’m getting
serious cabin fever, Alex. She turns in for bed at eight.”
    “You
could make snow angels.”
    “I
miss you,” she said.
    “Miss
you, too.”
    “I
was thinking maybe we can do something about it. Gram has a friend coming from
St. Louis tomorrow so she’ll be occupied for three days. The hotels in New York
are running a post–New Year’s special. Big discounts and free upgrades.”
    “When
do you want me there?” I said.
    “Really?”
she said.
    “Really.”
    “That’s
great— you’re sure?”
    “Hey,”
I said. “I need special time, too.”
    “Oh,
boy,” she said. “You don’t know what you’ve just done for my spirits. Is there
any way you could make it by tomorrow? I could take the train and be at the
hotel by the time you arrived.”
    “Which
hotel?”
    “When
I traveled with my parents we always stayed at the St. Regis. The location’s
perfect— Fifty-fifth off Fifth— and they’ve got butler service on every floor.”
    “Nice
touch, if the butler’s not intrusive.”
    “He
won’t be if we bunk in and never call him.”
    “Which
bunk do I get?” I said. “Upper or lower?”
    “I
was thinking more in terms of share-zies.”
    “I’ll
bring a flashlight and we’ll play pup tent.”
    “Alex,
it’s incredibly flexible of you to do this.”
    “Not
in the least,” I said. “I’m acting out of pure self-interest.”
    “That,”
she said, “is the best part.”
    * * *
    I
booked a nine a.m. flight out of LAX, scrounged at the back of my closet for
the gray tweed overcoat I never wore, found a similarly neglected pair of
gloves and scarf, packed a carry-on, and went for a run.
    Beverly
Glen was seventy degrees and clear, let’s hear it for winter. Weather’s a
trivial reason for living somewhere unless you’re honest.
    I set
out hoping for endorphin-laced serenity. My brain had other ideas and I
wondered about Rand. My body stayed tight and heavy as I huffed and kicked up
dust and my brain pulled a split screen: looking out for passing cars on one
side, as time flashed back on the other.
    When
I returned home, I called Milo’s house. No answer. Then, I tried the Westside
substation and asked for Lieutenant Sturgis. It took awhile for Milo to come on
the line and I was still breathing hard.
    “Didn’t
know you cared,” he said.
    “Ha.”
    “What’s
up?”
    “I’m
meeting Allison in New York. Tomorrow.”
    He
murdered a few bars of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” “Where you staying?”
    “St.
Regis.”
    “Nice.
The last time the department sent me to New Yawk was for that post-911 security
seminar, and they vouchered me at a shitty dive in the thirties. While you’re
there, get me a Knicks shirt at the NBA store.”
    “No
prob.”
    “I
was kidding, Alex. The Knicks ?”
    “Optimism’s
good for the