Free The Murder Book by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

Ingalls’s gut? Guilt or just alcohol?
    Milo found himself craving a drink.
    When he joined Schwinn and Ingalls, Ingalls was slumped on the couch, looking disoriented, saying, “What do I do now?”
    Schwinn stood away from the guy, detached. No more use for Ingalls. “There’ll be some procedures to go through — identification, filling out forms. Identification can wait till after the autopsy. We may have more questions for you.”
    Ingalls looked up. “About what?”
    Schwinn handed Ingalls his card. “If you think of anything, give a call.”
    “I already told you everything.”
    Milo said, “Was there anywhere else Janie mighta crashed?”
    “Like what?”
    “Like a crash pad. Somewhere kids go.”
    “I dunno where kids go. Dunno where my own kid goes, so how would I know?”
    “Okay, thanks. Sorry for your loss, Mr. Ingalls.”
    Schwinn motioned Milo to the door, but when they got there, he turned back to Ingalls. “One more thing: What does Melinda look like?”
    Basic question, thought Milo, but he hadn’t thought to ask it. Schwinn had, but he orchestrated it, timed everything. The guy was nuts but miles ahead of him.
    “Short, big tits — built big — kinda fat. Blond hair, real long, straight.”
    “Voluptuous,” said Schwinn, enjoying the word.
    “Whatever.”
    “And she’s Janie’s age?”
    “Maybe a little older,” said Ingalls.
    “A sophomore, too?”
    “I dunno what she is.”
    “Bad influence,” said Schwinn.
    “Yeah.”
    “Do you have a picture of Janie? Something we could show around?”
    “I’d have to have one, wouldn’t I?” said Bowie, making it sound like the answer to an oral exam. Pulling himself to his feet, he stumbled to his bedroom, returned moments later with a three-by-five snap.
    A dark-haired child around ten years old, wearing a sleeveless dress and staring at a five-foot-tall Mickey Mouse. Mickey giving that idiot grin, the kid unimpressed — scared, actually. No way to connect this child to the outrage on Beaudry.
    “Disneyland,” said Ingalls.
    “You took Janie there?” said Milo, trying to imagine that.
    “Nah, it was a school trip. They got a group discount.”
    Schwinn returned the photo to Ingalls. “I was thinking in terms of something more recent.”
    “I should have something,” said Ingalls, “but hell if I can find anything — if I do, I’ll call you.”
    “I noticed,” said Milo, “that there was no diary in Janie’s room.”
    “You say so.”
    “You never saw a diary or a date book — a photo album?”
    Ingalls shook his head. “I stayed out of Janie’s stuff, but she wouldn’t have any of that. Janie didn’t like to write. Writing was hard for her. Her mother was like that, too: never really learned to read. I tried to teach Janie. The school didn’t do shit.”
    Papa Juicehead huddled with Janie, tutoring. Hard to picture.
    Schwinn frowned — he’d lost patience with Milo’s line of questioning and gave the doorknob a sharp twist. “Afternoon, Mr. Ingalls.”
    As the door closed, Ingalls cried out: “She was my kid.”
    “What a stupid asshole,” said Schwinn, as they headed to Hollywood High. “Stupid parents, stupid kid. Genes. That’s what you were getting at, right, with those questions about school?”
    “I was thinking learning problems coulda made her an easier victim,” said Milo.
    Schwinn grumbled, “Anyone can be a victim.”
     
     
    The school was an ugly pile of gray-brown stucco that filled a block on the north side of Sunset just west of Highland. As impersonal as an airport, and Milo felt the curse of futility the moment his feet touched down on the campus. He and Schwinn walked past what seemed to be thousands of kids — every one of them bored, spaced, surly. Smiles and laughter were aberrations, and any eye contact directed at the detectives was hostile.
    They asked directions of a teacher, got the same icy reception, not much better at the principal’s office. As Schwinn talked to a