Victims by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

upward, she rasped once before pitching backward. Both of us lunged; we each caught an arm, eased her inside her home.
    She woke up on the way to the nearest armchair. Milo stayed with her while I fetched water.
    When I held the glass to her lips, her mouth opened with all the volition of a marionette. I took her pulse. Slow, but steady.
    I eased more water into her mouth. She dribbled. Put her head back. The eyes rolled again.
    After a few seconds, her pulse normalized and some color returned to her face. She stared up at us. “What?”
    Milo held her hand. “I’m Lieutenant Sturgis—”
    She said, “Oh. You. So where’s Louie?”

    It took another few minutes for her to settle into grief-stricken numbness.
    Milo sat holding her hand; I worked the water glass. When she said, “No more,” I returned the glass to the kitchen.
    Spacious sunlit kitchen, shiny granite, stainless steel. The rest of the apartment was done up nicely, too, furnished with timeless furniture, maybe a few real antiques, unremarkable but inoffensive seascapes. A double set of sliding glass doors granted an oblique view of blue swimming pool bleeding to bluer Pacific. The sky was clear, the grass around the pool was clipped, birds flew, a squirrel scampered up a magnificent Canary Island pine.
    Marlon Quigg had arrived at a nice place in middle age.
    At least one person cared about him. I knew I shouldn’t be judging but that made his monstrous end seem even worse than Vita’s.
    Belle Quigg said, “Oh, God, God, Louie’s probably … also gone.”
    “Louie’s your dog,” said Milo.
    “More like Marlon’s dog, the two of them were like … we got him as a rescue, Louie loved everyone but mostly he loved Marlon. I loved Marlon. Britt and Sarah loved Marlon, everyone loved Marlon.”
    She grabbed Milo’s sleeve. “Who would hurt him—was he robbed?”
    “It doesn’t look that way, ma’am.”
    “What, then? What? Who would do this? Who?”
    “We’re gonna work real hard to find out, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to be the one to deliver such terrible news and I know this isn’t a good time but if I could ask you some questions?”
    “What kind of questions?”
    “The more we know about Marlon the better we can do our job.”
    “I love Marlon. We’ve been together twenty-six—oh, God, our anniversary is next week. I already made reservations. What am I going to do?”
    Two bouts of sobbing later, Milo said, “What kind of work did Marlon do?”
    “Work?” said Belle Quigg. “Yes, he worked, of course he worked, Marlon wasn’t a bum—why, did one of those bums kill him?”
    “Those bums?”
    “They call them homeless, I call them bums because that’s what they are. You see them at Sunset and PCH, panhandling, drunk. The light’s long, gives them plenty of time to come up and beg. I never give them a dime. Marlon always gave them something.”
    “Why would you suspect one of them?”
    “Because they’re bums,” said Belle Quigg. “I always told Marlon that. Don’t encourage them. He has a soft heart.”
    “The crime occurred over in Temescal Canyon—”
    “The Little Indians Camp! I told Marlon not to walk there at night! That just proves what I was saying. Anyone can walk in, what’s to stop a bum? You want to find them? Go down to Sunset and PCH.”
    “We’ll definitely check that out, ma’am. Is there anyone else we should be thinking of?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Anyone Marlon might’ve had conflict with, say at work?”
    “Never.”
    “What kind of work did he do?”
    “Marlon was an accountant.”
    “Where?”
    “Peterson, Danville and Shapiro in Century City. He handled one major client, the Happy Boy supermarket chain. Marlon did a great job, always got the best performance ratings.”
    “How long had he been working there?”
    “Fifteen years,” she said. “Before that he worked for the city—DWP—but only for a year, while he was waiting to take his CPA. Before that, he was a