Read Online Over the Edge by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
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were Deco-tinged columns of pink and white granite, seven to ten storeys tall, built in the forties and fifties, when people took earthquakes seriously and shied away from genuine skyscrapers.
The structure we stopped at was older and smaller", four storeys of red-roofed Italianate wedding cake, a rare remnant from the turn of the century, when Wilshire had been residential. The chauffeur swung up the circular driveway in front of the mansion and parked. The entry door was a nine-foot nest of gargoyles in mahogany. To its right were two discreet brass plates. The first said SOUZA AND ASSOCIATES. A LEGAL CORPORATION. The second listed Souza's name and those of a dozen other lawyers.
Antrim ushered me into an arched hall decorated with dried plants and western art, down a corridor floored in black-and-white marble checkerboard, and through the open doors of a small elevator. He operated it with an old-fashioned lever and unlatched the door at the fourth floor.
We exited to a landing carpeted in silver plush, at the top of a winding carved staircase. High, spotless windows offered a view of what once were formal gardens and now served as the parking lot. In the distance were the elegant, shaded avenues of Hancock Park.
The chauffeur beckoned toward a doorway and led me into an anteroom hung with more western art. In the centre of the room was a small writing desk, unoccupied. To the right was a large oil of a depressed-looking Indian on an equally morose horse; to the left, a carved door. He knocked on the door.
The man who answered was medium-sized, sixtyish, and balding, with a wide, blocky body and large, thick hands. He was heavy without being fat, and his low centre of gravity suggested he'd be hard to topple. His features were broad and strong - he'd photograph better than life - his skin was steam room pink, and what hair he did have was cropped, coarse, and sandy. He was in shirtsleeves. The shirt was white Egyptian cotton, monogrammed on the pocket and tucked into navy blue trousers of exquisite cut. Navy suspenders banded a barrel chest. His tie was muted blue and yellow paisley; his shoes were as glossy and black as the Rolls.
'Here's the doc,' said Antrim.
'Thank you, Tully,' said the bald man sonorously, 'you can go now.' He stepped forward, emitting a light citrus scent, and grasped my hand.
'Dr. Delaware, I'm Horace Souza. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.'
'No problem. How's Jamey?'
He gave my hand a hard squeeze and let go.
'I saw the boy a couple of hours ago. Psychologically he's at rock bottom. And this is just the beginning. Once the police hold their press conference, he'll cease to be James
Cadmus and will don a new persona: the Lavender Slasher. Monster of the Month.'
I experienced a sudden, sinking feeling, like being dropped down one of those bottomless shafts that crop up in bad dreams. It wasn't shock, or even surprise; since I'd talked to Milo, the worst-case scenario had slithered in and out of my brain like some nasty little snake. But now the serpent had emerged brazenly, bared its fangs, and struck, murdering hope.
'I can't believe it,' was all I could say.
'I've had trouble believing it myself. I was at his christening, Doctor. He was a fat little babe, a handful and a half.'
He kneaded his chin between thumb and forefinger.
'I'm very worried about him, Doctor. He's been unstable for some time, and once the arrest is made public, any remaining coherence will shrivel. You know the times we're living in. The public wants blood. He'll be lynch mob fodder. The DA is in the process of filing on two counts of murder one with six more to follow shortly. Multiple homicide is special circumstances, which means the gas chamber if it's not handled correctly. By correctly, I mean organisation, teamwork. Can I count you on my team, Doctor?'
'Just what is it you think I can do?'
'Let's discuss that. Please come in.'
His sanctum was a large corner room brightened by French
The structure we stopped at was older and smaller", four storeys of red-roofed Italianate wedding cake, a rare remnant from the turn of the century, when Wilshire had been residential. The chauffeur swung up the circular driveway in front of the mansion and parked. The entry door was a nine-foot nest of gargoyles in mahogany. To its right were two discreet brass plates. The first said SOUZA AND ASSOCIATES. A LEGAL CORPORATION. The second listed Souza's name and those of a dozen other lawyers.
Antrim ushered me into an arched hall decorated with dried plants and western art, down a corridor floored in black-and-white marble checkerboard, and through the open doors of a small elevator. He operated it with an old-fashioned lever and unlatched the door at the fourth floor.
We exited to a landing carpeted in silver plush, at the top of a winding carved staircase. High, spotless windows offered a view of what once were formal gardens and now served as the parking lot. In the distance were the elegant, shaded avenues of Hancock Park.
The chauffeur beckoned toward a doorway and led me into an anteroom hung with more western art. In the centre of the room was a small writing desk, unoccupied. To the right was a large oil of a depressed-looking Indian on an equally morose horse; to the left, a carved door. He knocked on the door.
The man who answered was medium-sized, sixtyish, and balding, with a wide, blocky body and large, thick hands. He was heavy without being fat, and his low centre of gravity suggested he'd be hard to topple. His features were broad and strong - he'd photograph better than life - his skin was steam room pink, and what hair he did have was cropped, coarse, and sandy. He was in shirtsleeves. The shirt was white Egyptian cotton, monogrammed on the pocket and tucked into navy blue trousers of exquisite cut. Navy suspenders banded a barrel chest. His tie was muted blue and yellow paisley; his shoes were as glossy and black as the Rolls.
'Here's the doc,' said Antrim.
'Thank you, Tully,' said the bald man sonorously, 'you can go now.' He stepped forward, emitting a light citrus scent, and grasped my hand.
'Dr. Delaware, I'm Horace Souza. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.'
'No problem. How's Jamey?'
He gave my hand a hard squeeze and let go.
'I saw the boy a couple of hours ago. Psychologically he's at rock bottom. And this is just the beginning. Once the police hold their press conference, he'll cease to be James
Cadmus and will don a new persona: the Lavender Slasher. Monster of the Month.'
I experienced a sudden, sinking feeling, like being dropped down one of those bottomless shafts that crop up in bad dreams. It wasn't shock, or even surprise; since I'd talked to Milo, the worst-case scenario had slithered in and out of my brain like some nasty little snake. But now the serpent had emerged brazenly, bared its fangs, and struck, murdering hope.
'I can't believe it,' was all I could say.
'I've had trouble believing it myself. I was at his christening, Doctor. He was a fat little babe, a handful and a half.'
He kneaded his chin between thumb and forefinger.
'I'm very worried about him, Doctor. He's been unstable for some time, and once the arrest is made public, any remaining coherence will shrivel. You know the times we're living in. The public wants blood. He'll be lynch mob fodder. The DA is in the process of filing on two counts of murder one with six more to follow shortly. Multiple homicide is special circumstances, which means the gas chamber if it's not handled correctly. By correctly, I mean organisation, teamwork. Can I count you on my team, Doctor?'
'Just what is it you think I can do?'
'Let's discuss that. Please come in.'
His sanctum was a large corner room brightened by French
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