Rage by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

fruit and reached for one of the bags.
    Daney
held on. “I’m okay, Cher.” Dark eyes sighted us over the groceries. He stopped
and placed the load on the ground.
    “Dr.
Delaware.”
    “You
remember.”
    “It’s
an unusual name,” he said, coming forward. His wrestler’s frame had taken on
fifteen or so pounds, most of them soft, and his thick, wavy hair was graying
at the temples. He wore a beard now, a stubbly silver thing, neatly trimmed
around the edges. His white polo shirt was spotless and pressed. So were his
blue jeans. Same color scheme as his wife.
    “Also,”
he said, “I read your report to the judge, so your name stuck in my mind.”
    Cherish
looked at him and went inside the house.
    “How’d
you come to read it?” I said.
    “Sydney
Weider wanted my opinion, as Troy’s counselor. I told her I thought it was a
careful document. You didn’t want to go out on a limb and say something
unscientific. But you clearly weren’t willing to give the boys a pass.”
    “A
pass on murder?” said Milo.
    “At
the time we were hoping for a miracle.”
    “We?”
    “The
boys’ families, Sydney, my wife, myself. It just seemed that putting the boys
away forever wouldn’t solve anything.”
    “Forever
turned out to be eight years, Reverend,” said Milo.
    “Detective . . .
what’s your name, please— ”
    “Sturgis.”
    “Detective
Sturgis, in the life of a child, eight years is eternity.” Daney ran a hand
through his hair. “In Troy’s case, a month was eternity. And now
Rand . . . unbelievable.”
    “Any
idea who might’ve wanted to hurt Rand, sir?”
    Daney’s
lips puffed. His toe scuffed one of the grocery bags and he lowered his voice.
“I don’t want my wife hearing this, but there probably is something you should
know.”
    “Probably?”
    Daney
eyed the front door of his house. “Could we find a place to talk later?”
    “Sooner’s
better than later, sir.”
    “Okay,
sure, I see your point. I’ve got a youth council meeting in Sylmar at two. I
could leave a little early and meet you in, say, ten minutes?”
    “Sounds
good,” said Milo. “Where?”
    “How
about at the Dipsy Donut on Vanowen, a few blocks west.”
    “We’ll
be there, Reverend.”
    “Both
of you?” he said.
    “Dr.
Delaware’s consulting on the case.”
    “Ah,”
said Daney. “Makes sense.”
    * * *
    “Told
you,” said Milo, as we drove away. “You’re still the opposing team.”
    “And
you?”
    “I’m
the sleuth assigned the honor of clearing Duchay’s murder.”
    “Want
me to wait in the car while you two bond?”
    “Right.
Wonder what the rev wants to keep from his wife.”
    “Sounds
like something that would scare her.”
    “Scary,”
he said, “is always interesting.”
    * * *
    The
doughnut stand was a flimsy white booth on a cracked blacktop lot, topped by a
six-foot, partially eaten doughnut with humanoid features. Brown plaster,
chipped in several spots, tried to resemble chocolate. Wild-eyed merriment said
the deep-fried creature loved being devoured. Three grubby-looking aluminum
table-and-bench sets were scattered on the asphalt. The signage had lost a
couple of letters.
    DI SY DON T
    Milo
said, “And here I was thinking she did.”
    The
place was full of customers. We went inside and breathed fat and sugar and
waited in line as three harried kids bagged and served oversized fritters to a
salivating throng. Milo bought a dozen assorted, finished a jelly and a
chocolate in the time it took to get back to the car.
    “Hey,”
he said, “it’s part of the job description. And chewing’s aerobic.”
    “Enjoy.”
    “You
say that but you’ve got this disapproving thing going on.”
    I
took a hubcap-sized apple Danish out of the box and got to work on it.
“Satisfied?”
    “Creative
people are never satisfied.”
    We
sat in the Seville where he polished off a jelly-filled.
    I
said, “Wonder what Rand did between six-thirty and nine.”
    “Me,
too. Forgot coffee, want