Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 24

Chapter

24

We walked away from Sterling’s house with Milo shaking his head and studying the sidewalk.

I said, “Not what we expected.”

“He’s either a total psychopath daring me to investigate him or a sincere loudmouth. I’ll get on those accounts but you know what it’s gonna accomplish.”

“Nothing to hide, nothing to learn.”

In the unmarked, he said, “What’s your take on him?”

“My guess would be sincere.”

He started up the engine, looked back, pulled onto San Vicente, and U-turned around the median after a woman walking two Frenchies had passed.

“Not as cute as Blanche. Not even close.”

“When I see her, I’ll pass that along.”

A couple of miles later, he said: “Yeah, I’d also guess Sterling was being righteous. Open-book kinda guy, loves to hear himself talk. Guess that wouldn’t go over well with Whitney.”

“Despite that,” I said, “she had a child with him.”

“And according to Sterling, she planned it. What, she saw him as good breeding stock?”

“Maybe she’d observed him with his other kids and thought he was good dad material in the short run.”

“Not a candidate for romance, just good sperm? If so, she was pretty calculating. Interesting woman, our Whitney. In any event, if Sterling’s clean, who the hell killed her? Or paid to have it done?”

I said, “She embraced secrecy. That could’ve simply been her temperament. But she might have closed up because something in her past was too dark to share. Abuse, a stalker.”

“Problem is how do I find out? Most cases I hear plenty from friends and family but Donna Batchelor’s all the family Whitney had and we saw how little she knows. And what she told us syncs with what Sterling and Whitney’s boss said: no pals.”

I said, “You could try looking into conflict at any previous jobs. A relationship that went bad. Call her boss and find out where she came to them from. Also, the one personal thing Whitney did divulge to Sterling was that she hated her mother. That could’ve been because Donna was hard to get along with. But Donna was married twice so Whitney’s resentment could’ve been due to some issue with her stepfather.”

“Mr. Batchelor,” he said. “The old blended-family thing. Donna’s not gonna admit any problems and he’s dead.”

“There could be stepsibs. Another potential powder keg.”

“True,” he said. “Why the hell didn’t I think of that? You don’t mind if I use your computer.”

Not a question, a statement. I chose to take it as a compliment.

—

I sat on my battered leather couch while he hunched at my desk and typed hard enough to make the keyboard rattle.

Step one was learning the full name of Donna Batchelor’s second husband. Easily accessed by scanning marriage records.

Donna Killeen had been wed fourteen years ago to Rolf Edward Batchelor Jr. Civil ceremony in the chambers of a Superior Court justice named Leon McCarry.

Milo said, “I knew McCarry. All business, not the type to get celebratory. Someone had an in.”

He ran a search on Batchelor. Thirty-five years older than his bride; well into old age but still working. Attorney and certified public accountant, office address on Wilshire and Rimpau in Hancock Park. Home address not far from there, on Las Palmas Avenue.

He said, “I had McCarry sign a warrant at home once. He lived the next block over, on June. There’s the in.”

Step two was a dive into county property tax rolls. The newlyweds had lived at the groom’s place for eight years, after which Donna Batchelor was assessed at the West Hills address.

Milo said, “Downsizing.”

The chronology narrowed the time frame for step three, and within seconds, he’d pulled up a coroner’s summary listing the manner of Rolf Edward Batchelor Jr.’s death as natural causes ( adenocarcinoma of the prostate ).

Time for the inevitable shift to the public arena. Keywording rolf edward batchelor obituary yielded a tribute published by Legacy.com, a subsidiary of Forest Lawn Memorial Park.

First came the deceased’s educational achievements. Cum laude graduation from UC Berkeley, law degree from UC Hastings, MBA from USC business school, CPA certification a year later. Next came a brief list of Rolf Batchelor Jr.’s predictably respectable civic activities.

At the bottom: the crux.

Predeceased by loving wife Helen, survived by loving wife, Donna, and son Rolf III.

“Not an everyday moniker,” said Milo, assaulting the keys. “Okay, here we go, Portland, Oregon…oral surgeon…here’s his picture.”

The faculty headshot of Rolf Batchelor, D.D.S., M.D., supplied by Oregon Health and Science University, featured a full-faced, ruddy, apple-cheeked man in his forties with a bushy rust-and-silver beard and sparse gray hair drawn back into a ponytail that dangled over his shoulder. Black T-shirt under a white coat. Broad smile.

Associate professor, specialty: maxillofacial reconstruction with a focus on accident and burn victims. Multiple side trips to Colombia where he’d worked on the shattered visages of cartel victims.

Milo called the listed number. A receptionist said, “I think he’s in, one moment, please.”

Twenty seconds later a soft, slightly nasal voice said, “This is Rolf Batchelor. Police? Something came up with my sister?”

Milo introduced himself and gave a capsule explanation.

Batchelor said, “Wow, after all this time. I kept waiting for someone to call me and when they didn’t, figured it wasn’t going to happen. I thought of contacting the police but didn’t have anything to offer. The whole thing was so incredibly shocking. Not only poor Whitney but Jarrod floating around in a boat.”

“How’d you learn about it?”

“From Donna. Whitney’s mom. She was so agitated I could barely make out what she was saying. When I finally understood, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It took me a long time to wrap my head around it.”

“You knew Jarrod.”

“No, never met him, but any child going through something like that? Horrible. So why are you calling now, Lieutenant—was it Stargill?”

“Sturgis.”

“Like the biker thing. I went once. So what’s come up with regard to my sister?”

“You viewed her as that.”

“You’re surprised because we were steps? Well, yeah, I did. I welcomed having a sib, being an only for so long.”

“You were close.”

A beat. “We got along really well but when our parents married I was already in med school up here and Whitney was like…eight, nine? So with my being away, we didn’t see each other very often. But the times I was home, we had fun. Whitney was a super-bright kid, we used to play two-handed bridge, chess, do puzzles, math games.”

I’d been scrawling notes, showed one to Milo.

He said, “What was Whitney like as a person?”

“Like I said, super-smart, but also super-shy. I used to feel protective of her. Because of her being so quiet and to herself. Donna seemed to think there was something wrong with that, she kept prodding Whitney to quote ‘come out of your shell, you’re not a hermit crab.’ I assume you’ve met Donna.”

“We have.”

“Not the most…pliable person. How’s she doing? Has she remarried?”

“No.”

“That surprises me,” said Batchelor. “She seemed to need having someone to talk to. My dad was perfect for her, a great listener.”

Another note.

Milo said, “Good marriage?”

“Oh yes,” said Batchelor. “Dad had been torn up by my mom’s death and Donna brought him out socially. She was also much younger and I guess today you’d call her arm candy.”

He chuckled. “Dad liked making an appearance.”

“Sounds like you haven’t had much contact with Donna.”

“Not since my dad’s funeral. She was invited to our wedding but didn’t make it. So yeah, it had been a while when she called to tell me about Whitney. Then she emailed me about Whitney’s funeral and I attended.”

“You were close to Whitney,” said Milo. “Donna, not so much?”

“Well,” said Rolf Batchelor, “to be honest, Donna and I didn’t mesh super-easily. It’s not that we had conflict but some people you just don’t…the main thing is Donna was good to Dad. Nor did she ever try to put a wedge between Dad and myself, nothing like that. She and I just didn’t…mesh is the best term for it. But Whitney, she always seemed so vulnerable. Being shy and to herself.”

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

“From what Donna told me Jarrod’s father sounds like a pretty good bet. I assume you know about the custody battle.”

“We do, Doctor.”

“I mean that would seem to be a logical point of departure, no?” said Batchelor. “As far as anyone else, I have no idea.”

“What about Whitney’s former boyfriends.”

“Hmm,” said Rolf Batchelor. “Can’t say I’m aware of any. Then again, when Whitney was of dating age, I was here working and doing a lot of travel.”

“When’s the last time you and Whitney spoke?”

“Probably…a couple of years before she died? She emailed me Jarrod’s birth announcement, I emailed her back and sent her a baby gift. Monogrammed blanket, my wife picked it out. Whitney called to thank me and we chatted but not for very long. Whitney wasn’t one for small talk.”

“We’ve heard she wasn’t one for talk, period.”

“I suppose you could say that, Lieutenant. But it really does take all types.”

“Agreed, sir. We’re just trying to find out who might’ve resented her.”

“So you’ve cleared Jarrod’s father.”

“It’s an ongoing investigation. What did Whitney tell you about Jarrod’s father?”

“Nothing,” said Rolf Batchelor. “The only reason I know about him is through Donna. I know this probably sounds strange, my considering Whitney my sister but having so little contact with her. Part of that was me. Living my own life, working. But part of it was Whitney’s choice.”

“She refused contact?”

“Like you said, she wasn’t one for conversation. I don’t want to stigmatize her and I’m sure not qualified to get psychological, but you do take some psychiatry in med school and I remember coming across this term and thinking that sounds like Whitney.”

“What term was that, Doctor?”

“Schizoid personality type,” said Batchelor. “It sounds worse than it is. Not schizophrenic or anything like that. And maybe it’s just some jargon label the shrinks thought up for really shy people. Like I said, it takes all types. Silicon Valley’s full of people like Whitney and they’re changing the world.”

His voice had risen. Armor-plated by defensiveness.

Milo said nothing.

Batchelor said, “Do I wish we could’ve stayed in touch more? Very much so. I’m not blaming it on Whitney, I had my own life…. Things get away from you.”

Lowered volume. Faltering. Cracks in the armor.

“They sure do, Doctor. So no one you can think of who’d resent Whitney?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Okay, thanks. If you don’t mind, I’d like to run some names by you. Please tell me if they mean anything to you.”

“Sure.”

“Gerald Boykins.”

“Nope.”

“Jamarcus Parmenter.”

“Nope.”

“Paul O’Brien.”

“I’ve got a colleague by that name. Emeritus professor of endodontics. He’s like eighty-eight years old so I’m assuming he’s not who you’re referring to.”

“No, sir. One more: Marissa French.”

“Nope, never heard of her. Who are all these people?”

“Their names have come up, sir.”

“Not Whitney’s friends?”

“No, sir.”

“Too bad,” said Rolf Batchelor. “I was hoping she’d finally found some.”