Compulsion by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page B

mother did not gamble.”
    “Was she a person of regular habits?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Did she have routines – like coming out the same time each morning to collect the paper.”
    Mancusi sat there, eyes glazed, not moving.
    “Sir?”
    “She got up early.” He clutched his belly. “Ohh… here we go again.”
    Another rush to the sink. This time, dry heaves left him coughing and panting. He opened a space-saver fridge, took out a bottle of something clear that he uncapped, and swigged. Returned with the liquid still in hand.
    Diet tonic water.
    Grabbing a section of his own gut, he squeezed hard, rolled the adipose. “Too fat. Used to drink G and T’s, now it’s just sugarless T.” He drank from the bottle, failed to suppress a belch. “Mom never gained a pound from the day she was married.”
    “She watched her diet?” said Milo.
    Mancusi smiled. “Never had to, she could eat pasta, sugar, anything. I get it from Dad. He died of a heart attack. I need to watch myself.”
    “The old cholesterol.”
    Mancusi shook his head. “Mom – did they hurt her?”
    “They?”
    “Whoever. Was it bad? Did she suffer? Tell me she
didn’t.
”
    “It was quick,” said Milo.
    “Oh, God.” More tears.
    Milo handed him a tissue from the mini-pack he always brings to notifications. “Mr. Mancusi, the reason I asked about your mother’s social life is we do have an eyewitness who describes the assailant as around her age.”
    Mancusi’s fingers flexed. The tissue dropped.
“What?”
    Milo repeated Edward Moskow’s description of the killer, including the blue plaid cap.
    Mancusi said, “That’s nuts.”
    “Doesn’t ring a bell?”
    Mancusi flipped his hair again. “Of course not. Dad had a bunch of caps like that. After he went bald and didn’t want sun on his head. This is totally
insane.
”
    Milo said, “What about a black Mercedes S600? That ring any bells?”
    “Don’t know anything about cars,” said Mancusi.
    “It’s a big four-door sedan,” said Milo. “Top-of-the-line model.”
    “Mom wouldn’t know anyone with a car like that. She was a
teacher,
for God’s sake!”
    “Please don’t be offended by this next question, Mr. Mancusi, but did your mother know anyone associated – even remotely – with organized crime?”
    Mancusi laughed. Kicked the vomit fleck. “Because we’re Italian?”
    “It’s something we need to look into-”
    “Well, guess what, Lieutenant: Mom
wasn’t
Italian. She was German, her maiden name was Hochswelder. Italian was Dad’s side, he grew up in New York, claimed when he was a kid he knew all kinds of Mafia guys. Had all these stories.”
    “What kind of stories?”
    “Bodies tossed out of cars, guys getting shot in barber chairs. But no way, no, that’s nuts, those were just stories and Mom
hated
them, called them ‘coarse.’ Her idea of suspense was
Murder, She Wrote,
not
The Sopranos.
”
    He returned to the kitchen, placed the tonic water bottle on a counter. “Gambling, gangsters – this is ridiculous.”
    “I’m sure it seems that way, but-”
    “There’s no reason for her to be dead,
okay
? No
reason,
no
fucking
reason. It’s stupid, insane, shouldn’t have happened – could you stand up?”
    “Pardon?”
    “Stand up,” said Mancusi. “Please.”
    After Milo obliged, Mancusi slipped behind him and yanked down on the Murphy bed. Halfway through, he breathed in sharply, slammed a palm into the small of his back, and straightened. “Disk.”
    Milo finished the job, revealing a wafer-thin mattress, gray sheets once white.
    Mancusi began easing himself down toward the bed. Sweat rolled down his cheeks.
    Milo reached out to help him.
    “No, no, I’m fine.”
    We watched as he lowered himself in stages. He ended up curled on the bed, knees drawn to his chest, still breathing hard. “I can’t
tell
you anything. I don’t
know
anything.”
    Milo asked him about other family members.
    Mancusi’s rapid head shake rocked the