Compulsion by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A

point of flippancy, innocent bystanders twitching with what
had
to be guilt, psychopaths offering renditions of shock and grief so convincing you wanted to cuddle them and feed them soup.
    But it was hard not to be impressed with the heaving of Mancusi’s rounded shoulders and the racking squalls that nearly lifted him off a threadbare ottoman. Behind him was a wall fitted with a Murphy bed.
    Ella Mancusi had baked her own birthday cake. Maybe her son was remembering.
    When he stopped for breath, Milo said, “We’re sorry for your loss, sir.”
    Mancusi worked himself to his feet. The change in his complexion was sudden and convincing.
    From indoor pallor to green around the edges.
    He hurtled six feet to a shabby kitchenette and vomited into the sink.
    When the heaves stopped, he splashed water onto his face, returned to the ottoman with raw eyes and strands of pale hair plastered to a greasy forehead. A fleck of vomit had landed on his shirt, just beneath a wrinkled collar.
    Milo said, “I know this is a hard time to talk, but if there’s anything you can tell us-”
    “What could I
tell
you!”
    “Is there anyone – anyone at all – who’d want to hurt your mother?”
    “Who?”
    “That’s what we’re-”
    “She was a
teacher
!” said Mancusi.
    “She retired-”
    “They gave her an
award
! She was tough, but fair, everyone loved her.” He wagged a finger. “Want the
grade
? Do your
work
! That was her motto.”
    I wondered how that had meshed with a son who lived on disability and borrowed rent money.
    C student, if he applied himself.
    Milo said, “So there’s no one you can think of.”
    “No. This is… this is insane.”
    The vomit fleck fell to the carpet, inches from Milo’s desert boot.
    “Insane nightmare.” Mancusi lowered his head. Gasped.
    “You okay, sir?”
    “Little short of breath.” He sat up, breathed slowly. “I get that way when I’m stressed.”
    Milo said, “If you don’t mind, we’ve got a few more questions.”
    Mancusi said, “What?”
    “After your father passed, did your mother have any romantic relationships?”
    “Romantic? She liked books. Watched a few soap operas. That was her romantic.” He flipped his hair, cocked his head, smoothed a peroxide strand from a sweat-soaked brow.
    Effete symphony of movements that recalled the posturing Ed Moskow had observed.
    “Any close friends, male or female?”
    Mancusi shook his head, noticed the vomit fleck on the floor, and raised his eyebrows. The carpet was grease-stained, fuzzed by crumbs and dust bunnies. Some sort of beige, darkened to the hue of a smoker’s teeth.
    “No social life at all?” said Milo.
    “Nothing. After she retired, Mom liked to be by herself. All the L.A. Unified bullshit. She put up with it for thirty years.”
    “So she became a private person.”
    “She was
always
a private person. Now she could be
herself.
” Mancusi stifled a sob. “Oh, Mom…”
    “It’s a tough thing to deal with,” said Milo.
    Silence.
    “Did your mother have any hobbies?”
    “What?”
    Milo repeated the question.
    “Why?”
    “I’m trying to know her.”
    “Hobbies,” said Mancusi. “She liked puzzles – crosswords, Sudoku. Sudoku was her favorite, she liked numbers. She had a math certificate but they had her teaching social studies.”
    “Any other games?”
    “What do you mean? She was a teacher. She didn’t get… this didn’t happen because of her hobbies. This was a… a… a
lunatic.
”
    “So no hobbies or interests that might have gotten her into debt?”
    Mancusi’s watery brown eyes drifted to Milo’s face. “What are you
talking
about?”
    “These are questions we need to ask, Mr. Mancusi. Did your mom buy lottery tickets, do online poker, anything of that nature?”
    “She didn’t even own a computer. Neither do I.”
    “Not into the Internet?”
    “Why are you
asking
this? You said she wasn’t robbed.”
    “Sorry,” said Milo. “We need to be thorough.”
    “My