Silent Partner: An Alex Delaware Novel by Jonathan Kellerman

Author:Jonathan Kellerman [Kellerman, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Thrillers
ISBN: 0755342828
Amazon: B000FBJDBQ
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2003-05-20T05:00:00+00:00

The animals followed us as if heading for the Ark. A homemade pathway of railroad ties and cement squares bordered by unkempt hedges and sick-looking dwarf citrus trees took us to a small, asphalt-shingled house with a wide front porch littered with boxes and old machine parts. Next to the house an ancient Dodge coupe sat on blocks. The structure looked out on a flat half-acre of dirt yard fenced with chicken wire. More goats and poultry paced the yard. To the rear of the property was a ram-shackle henhouse.

The barnyard smell had grown intense. I looked around. No neighbors, only sky and trees. We were atop a hill. To the north were smog-glazed hints of mountaintop. I could still hear the freeway, providing a bass line to the treble clucks of the chickens.

Leaning against one of the fence posts was a bag of feed corn. Crotty stuck his hand in, tossed a handful of grain into the yard, and watched the birds scramble.

“Frigging greedy bastards,” he said, then gave them some more.

Old MacDonald’s farm on the edge of the urban jungle.

We climbed onto the porch.

“This is all frigging illegal,” Crotty said with pride. “Breaks every frigging zoning law in the books. But my compadres down the hill are all illegals living in noncode shacks. Love my fresh eggs and hate the authorities—hell if they’re going to rat. I pay their little kids to clean up the coop, two bucks an hour—more greenback than they’re ever gonna see otherwise. They think I’m some kind of frigging great white father.”

“Great white shark,” muttered Milo.

“What’s that?”

“Some of those little kids are pretty sharp.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but they do know how to work their little tushies off, so I pay ’em. All of them think I’m the greatest frigging thing since sliced bread. Their mamacitas are so grateful, they bring me food all wrapped in aluminum foil—they love aluminum foil. Good stuff, too, no fast-food shit—menudo and sweet tamales like you used to be able to get over on Alvarado before the corporate frigs took over.”

He pushed open a screen door, walked into the house, and let it slam shut. Milo caught it. We entered.

The house was small and unlit, crammed so full of junk there was barely room to walk. We inched our way past stacks of old newspapers, towers of cardboard boxes and raw-wood fruit crates, jumbles of clothing, an upright piano painted with gray primer, three ironing boards bearing a collection of clock radios in various stages of disassembly. The furniture that managed to coexist with the clutter was cheap, dark wood and overstuffed chairs sleeved with antimacassars and doilies. Thrift shop fare.

The floor was pine, trodden gray, splintered in several places by dry rot. A mantel above the bricked-in fireplace bore porcelain figurines, most of them chipped or missing limbs. The clock on the mantel wall said Coca-Cola. It was frozen at seven-fifteen.

“Sit,” said Crotty. He brushed newspapers off an easy chair and sank down. A cloud of dust rose and settled like dew.

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