Read Online Gone by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online Page B

rumors.”
    “You’re saying he could sue me?”
    “I’m saying that Mr. Peaty is not suspected of anything. He may be a material witness and we’re not even sure of that. This is what we call a background check. We do it all the time to be thorough. Mostly it ends up going nowhere.”
    Ertha Stadlbraun considered that. “Some job you’ve got.”
    Milo suppressed a smile. “If you were in danger, I’d tell you. I promise, ma’am.”
    Another hair pat. “Well, I’ve got nothing more to tell you. Wouldn’t want to be careless and spread
rumors.
”
    She stood.
    Milo said, “May I ask a few more questions?”
    “Such as?”
    “When he comes home from work, does he ever leave again?”
    Her chest heaved. “He’s an innocent lamb but you want to know about his schedule… oh, never mind, you’re clearly not going to tell me the truth.”
    She turned her back on us.
    “Does he ever leave once he’s home?” said Milo.
    “Not that I’ve seen but I don’t keep tabs.”
    “What about last night?”
    She faced us again, shot a disgusted look. “Last night I was busy cooking. Three whole chickens, green beans with onions, yams, coleslaw with bacon shreds, four pies. I freeze early in the week so I can relax on Sunday when the kids come to visit. That way I can defrost Sunday morning before church, get back and heat up and we have a real dinner, not that greasy fast food.”
    “So you didn’t notice what time Mr. Peaty came in.”
    “I
never
notice,” she said.
    “Never?”
    “I might see him come in occasionally.”
    “What time does he usually get here from work?”
    “Six, seven.”
    “And weekends?”
    “Far as I can tell, weekends he stays inside all day. But I’m not going to promise you he never leaves. It’s not like he’d stop by to say hello, him with those eyes aiming down like he’s counting ants on a hill. I
certainly
can’t tell you about last night. While I cooked, I had music on, then I watched the news, then I watched the Essence Awards, then I did a crossword and went to sleep. So if you’re looking for me to alibi that nut, forget it.”
     
CHAPTER 10
     
    M uch has been made of geographical profiling —
criminals remaining within a comfort zone. Like any theory, sometimes it pans out, sometimes it doesn’t and you get killers prowling the interstate or venturing far from home so they can establish a comfort zone
far
from prying eyes.
    With any alleged rules about human behavior, you’re lucky if you do better than chance. But the four-minute drive from Peaty’s apartment to Michaela Brand’s place on Holt was hard to ignore.
    Her building was a mint-green fifties dingbat. The front was an open carport set behind oil-specked concrete. Six parking slots, unoccupied but for a dusty brown Dodge minivan. The facade was spanned by two olive-green diamonds. Speckles in the stucco caught afternoon light. Way too giddy.
    A bank of key-lock mailboxes set into the wall just south of the parking area bore no names, only unit numbers. No manager designation. Michaela’s compartment was shut tight. Milo squinted through the slot. “Lots of stuff inside.”
    Her apartment was at the back. Louvre windows as old as the building were a burglar’s dream. The glass slats were folded shut but green curtains had been left slightly parted. Dark inside, but the outlines of furniture were clear.
    Milo began knocking on doors.
     
     
    The only tenant at home was a woman in her twenties wearing a stiff, brandy-colored wig and a calf-length denim jumper over a white, long-sleeved sweater. The wig made me wonder about chemotherapy, but she was buxom and her gray eyes were clear. The same kind of lightly freckled complexion Michaela Brand had been blessed with. Open face tightened by surprise.
    I saw the side curls and yarmulke on the squirming blond boy she was holding and got it: Some Orthodox Jewish women covered their natural hair out of modesty.
    The badge made her press her son to her