Survival of the Fittest by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A

smoking, finally looked at us. His eyes were as black as the eyeglass frames, still and flat as a stain. The room fogged with nicotine, then I heard an air conditioner kick in and smoke began rising toward a duct in the ceiling.
    Carmeli hiked his trousers up over black socks. His fingertips were stained amber.
    “So,” he said to Milo, “you are the new detective.” Lighter accent than the guard’s—Middle East tempered by upper-crust London.
    “Milo Sturgis, sir. Pleased to meet you.”
    Carmeli glanced at me.
    “This is Dr. Delaware,” said Milo. “Our psychological consultant.”
    I expected some reaction but Carmeli gave none. Finally he raised the flat, black eyes til they met mine. Another lungful of smoke.
    “Good morning, Doctor.”
    Everything on delay. Everything an effort. I’d met too many families of dead children to be surprised.
    “You will be analyzing the murderer, Doctor?”
    I nodded.
    “And anything else that bears analyzing,” said Milo.
    Carmeli didn’t react.
    “We’re sorry for your loss, sir.”
    “Have you learned anything?”
    “Not yet, sir, I just got the files. I thought I’d start by touching base and—”
    “Touching base,” said Carmeli, softly. “We are playing baseball.   .   .   . Your predecessors touched base with me, as well. Unfortunately, they struck out.”
    Milo didn’t answer.
    The cigarette was only half-smoked but Carmeli crushed it out. Both of his feet were flat on the ground. He drew them closer to the couch and his knees pointed sharply through his trousers. The shirt collar at least one full size too big, his Adam’s apple unusually sharp-edged, like a blade threatening to rip through his neck. A thin man who’d lost lots of weight.
    New cigarette. I noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, his fingers squeezing the paper cylinder so tightly it was almost an L. The other hand rested on the couch, curled into a fist.
    “A no-hitter,” he said. “So .   .   . we are touching base. What would you like to know, Mr. Sturgis?”
    “First of all, is there anything you want to tell me?”
    Carmeli stared at him.
    “Anything,” said Milo, “that’s occurred to you since Detectives Gorobich and Ramos spoke to you.”
    Continuing to stare, Carmeli straightened the bent cigarette, then lit up and shook his head. A very soft “No,” emerged from clenched lips. “Nothing.”
    “Then I’ll ask a few questions, sir. Please understand that some of them may be repet—”
    Carmeli cut him off with a wave of the cigarette. Smoke ribboned. “Ask, ask, Mr. Sturgis.”
    “Your work, sir. The Middle East situation. I’m sure you receive threats—”
    Carmeli laughed without changing the shape of his mouth. “I’m not James Bond, Detective. My title is deputy consul for community liaison. Did your predecessors tell you what that means?”
    “They said something about organizing events. The Israel Independence Day parade.”
    “Parades, Israel-bond luncheons, meetings at synagogues, talking to Hadassah ladies—do you know what Hadassah is?”
    Milo nodded.
    “Dear ladies,” said Carmeli. “Lovely people who plant trees in Israel. When wealthy donors want to have lunch with the consul general, I arrange it. When the prime minister comes to town to meet with the wealthiest of donors, I organize his itinerary. Double-O-Eight. License to cater.”
    The free hand shot through his thinning hair.
    “So you’re saying you never encounter—”
    “I’m saying there’s nothing controversial or dangerous about my work, Mr. Sturgis. I’m saying what happened to my daughter had nothing to do with my work or my wife’s work or our family and I don’t understand why the police simply can’t accept that.”
    His voice had risen but remained soft. He leaned his head to the right as if loosening a neck kink. The black eyes were unflinching. He smoked some more, hungrily.
    “Then again,” he said, “I’ve dealt with your department in the