Compulsion (28 page)

“And to me.”

The man’s name was Howard Ingles Zint.

Aka Floyd Cooper Zindt. Aka Zane Lee Cooper. Aka Howard Cooper Sayder.

Sixteen years ago, he’d been the “West Coast sales professional” for Youth In Action. The company, defunct for over a decade, had turned out to be a scam, taking cash for magazine subscriptions rarely delivered.

Zint arrived in L.A. in May, after a stint in Tucson, set about recruiting students from local schools. Concentrating on minority kids, using the racist logic that dark skin equaled poverty and poverty was a great motivator. When Antoine, Will, and Bradley met Zint, he was a smooth-talking thirty-five-year-old self-described “former college jock” able to sell anything.

Now he was a middle-aged inmate at the Supermax prison in Florence, Colorado.

The mug shot revealed a gaunt, white-bearded apparition with dead eyes.

Twenty-three hours a day in your cell could do that to you. Especially with ninety-two years left on a hundred-year sentence for abducting, beating, cutting, and molesting scores of boys.

Sixteen years ago, Zint hadn’t yet progressed to violence, was content to seduce his prey with cash and promises of video games, running shoes, cool athletic gear. For the older boys, hookups with “hot babes.”

It started off simply in L.A.: Zint picked the three laughing black boys up on a street corner, outlined their routes, collected them at the end of their shifts. Advanced them money, even though it was against the rules.

After trust was built up, he began pulling them off early, one at a time, where icy cans of beer, freshly rolled joints, and pills Zint assured them were just “for relaxation” awaited.

More cash was disbursed, then Zint played music from a boom box and watched, smiling, as the boys got all “hazy.”

“What I mean by that,” said Bradley Maisonette, “is even now I can’t be sure it actually happened. Even though yes, I know it did. Maybe on my own I never would’ve come to that conclusion, I don’t know, I really don’t know.”

I said, “But when Will told you…”

“After he tried to jump off the Long Beach pier, is when he told me. Second semester at college. I held him back, had to fight with him, he was always big. I said what the fuck you want to go and do that for? That’s when he told me.”

Deep breath.

“I saved his life, what does he do when he’s finished talking? Hauls off and hits me.” Rubbing his jaw. “I said, ‘Man, what the hell is wrong with you?’ He said, ‘You messed me up, my life ain’t worth saving.’”

Bradley Maisonette swiped at his eyes. “Big man, crying like a baby.”

I said, “He told you what Zint did to him and you remembered.”

“I always knew, I just kept it behind… some kind of curtain. Listening to Will woke up something in my mind – pushed the curtain aside. Like, what the
hell.
”

I said, “Did you let Will know?”

“Not then, no way, it was too… overwhelming. This was finals week. Will was depressed the whole time we were there, borrowing my notes, cheating off my tests in English. Really looking bad. And yeah, the depression started
after
Twan,
right
after, I should’ve figured it out, but…”

“Eventually you did tell Will what happened to you.”

“Yeah.” Shaking his head. “We were both blasted on rock. Will didn’t take to it. I did. He’s cheating off my tests and
he
ends up getting all respectable.” Throwing up his hands. “Here’s me.”

Milo said, “You’re talking, now, Bradley. You’re a good man.”

“Yeah, I’m a saint.”

“What happened to Twan?”

“What
happened
? He went with Zint, didn’t come back. Went into Zint’s van and the van drove off. Which was different, usually Zint parked on a quiet street, stayed in place to party. Like the van was his house – he had housekeeping stuff in there. Food, drinks, books, games, all kinds of shit.”

“Zint changed his style that day and drove off.”

“Don’t ask me where, I’ve been asking myself that for sixteen years.”

Maisonette sprang up, circled the room, wedged his head in a corner, stood that way for a while. When he returned to the table, he put his head down, closed his eyes.

His lips moved. After a while, sound came out. “First time.”

I said, “It was the first time Twan went into the van?”

Nod; his hair scraped the table. “Twan didn’t trust him. Twan was smarter than us. But that day…”

His eyes clenched. “Oh, God, this is so…” He flung one hand over his cheek.

Milo touched his shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Maisonette sat up, stared at something miles away. Sunken cheeks vibrated. His eyes were red and wet. “Twan went in there ’cause
we
said it was cool. Zint paid us fifty bucks to
convince
Twan it was cool. Will didn’t want to admit what happened to him, same with me. We told Twan it was cool to go in there and he did and we never saw him again and now nobody’s going to forgive me.”

Howard Zint, diabetic, tubercular, HIV-positive, made the deal from a prison infirmary bed.

Two extra candy bars a month and no additional sentence.

He told the tale concisely, with no emotion.

Antoine Beverly had resisted Zint’s overtures, tried to escape the van. Zint hit him in the face and Antoine’s head snapped back, colliding against the edge of a miniature slot machine Zint had just purchased.

Zint drove to the undeveloped wilderness north of the La Cienega oil fields and buried the boy on a dune, somewhere on the eastern edge of what was now the Kenneth Hahn Recreational Area.

Sixteen years later, he drew a map.

Development had resected the land in some places, augmented others. It took a while to find the spot.

Bones.

The autopsy revealed no serious head injury but did highlight multiple cut-marks on Antoine’s ribs.

Ever the con, Zint had reached for one more guilt-minimizing lie.

There was talk about negating the agreement and putting him on trial for murder.

Sharna and Gordon Beverly said, “Just give us Antoine and leave us alone.”

The funeral was held on a beautiful autumn morning. Over two hundred friends, relatives, and well-wishers, the predictable sprinkle of politicians, journalists, and “community activists” trawling for photo ops.

Bradley Maisonette was nowhere to be found and neither was Wilson Good. Good and Andrea had been staying at a motel in Tarzana, picked up their dog the day before we’d found Maisonette, left town for parts unknown.

Milo said, “Hopefully someplace without a pier.”

After the ceremony, we queued up to pay our respects.

Gordon Beverly clasped our hands, moved forward as if to embrace us, stopped himself.

Sharna Beverly pushed aside her veil. Her face was carved mahogany, her eyes clear and dry.

“You did it, Lieutenant.”

Taking Milo ’s face in both hands, she kissed each cheek. Lowered the veil.

Turned away and waited for the next person in line.

Robin pulled an all-nighter and had the mandolin bound and varnished six hours before her patron was due to arrive.

She wrapped it in green velvet, carried it to the dining room table.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

“He just called, definitely sounded off.”

She’d showered, towel-dried her curls, avoided makeup, put on a brown knee-length dress I hadn’t seen in years.

“I know,” she said.

“Know what?”

“Not exactly something Audrey would wear.”

Fooling with her hair.

I brewed coffee.

She said, “Decaf, right?”

I tried to occupy her with a guessing game.

What Kind of Car Will He Bring?

I’d looked up Dot-com on the Internet he’d helped develop. He was thirty-three, a Stanford grad and a bachelor, with a net worth of four hundred seventy-five million dollars.

Robin said, “I figured it was in that ballpark.”

“So what kind of wheels?”

“Who knows?”

“How about you, Blondie?”

Blanche looked up and smiled.

Robin said, “Could be anything – one extreme or the other.”

“Meaning?”

“Ferrari or hybrid.”

I thought:
Bentley or VW bus.

The coffee machine beeped. I fixed two cups. She took a sip, muttering, “I’m such a wimp,” got up and parted the living room shutters.

“Nice day,” she said. “Might as well wait outside.”

“Want to take your coffee?”

“Pardon – oh, sure, thanks.”

And the answer is: blue Ford Econoline van.

A large man in black jeans and T-shirt got out. Logo of Dot-com’s company on the shirt.

He saw us on the terrace. Studied the house. Walked to the rear of the van.

“Muscle,” I said. “In case you don’t want to give up the goods.”

“Not funny,” said Robin. But she smiled.

Large Guy opened the van’s rear doors. A ramp descended electrically. He reached in and guided out a wheelchair.

The figure in the chair was slight, pale, crew-cut, baby-faced.

Wearing a black sweatshirt with the same logo and blue jeans. Nothing much filled the jeans. As the chair rolled down the ramp, his body flopped. Held in place by a leather strap around his middle.

One of his fingers pushed a button. The chair rolled forward. Stopped.

He looked at the house, just as his driver had.

Taking in the steep, stone steps that lead to the terrace. On the other side, an acutely sloping grass and rock pathway.

Robin and I were attracted to the lot because of the slope. Joked about needing a lift when we get old.

The man in the chair smiled.

Robin rushed down.

She introduced me.

The man in the chair said, “Nice to meet you, Alex. Dave Simmons.”

Not sure what do with my hand, I half extended it.

Dave Simmons winked.

Robin said, “Dave, I’m so sorry about the lack of access.”

“Tom can always carry me.”

Tom rumbled, “You bet.”

“Just kidding, Tom. All I need is to see this masterwork.”

“I’ll bring it down.” Robin ran up the stairs.

Dave Simmons said, “Careful, don’t trip.” To me: “I didn’t want to shock her but I don’t usually talk about it. Last time she saw me, I was weak but maintaining, she probably didn’t notice. It comes and goes. Currently, it’s coming.”

“M.S.?”

“Something along those lines, but not exactly.” Simmons smiled. His face was unlined, his eyes wide and blue and merry. “I’ve always had a thing about being different, so now… oh, wow, that’s gorgeous.”

Robin held the instrument out to Simmons.

“Can’t,” he said. “Hands too weak.”

She moved it closer.

His breath caught. “Unbelievable, you’re a wizard – or whatever the female version of that is. Could you please turn it over… look at that maple. One piece, or am I missing the seam?”

“One piece,” said Robin.

“Must’ve been a great plank… got the fiddle-grain plus that vertical wave passing through it – like caramel.”

Simmons’s eyes closed briefly. When they opened, he strained, managed to get his head closer to the mirror-shiny surface. “Like a molten river flowing… where’d you find wood this spectacular?”

“An old violin maker retired. I’ve had it for years,” said Robin. “It gets better as it ages.”

“Sure, natural drying,” said Simmons. “Can’t replicate that with a kiln – I’ve been doing my research. It’s amazing, Robin. Thanks for creating it and thanks especially for having it ready so soon. My idea is to give it to a deserving musician. Run a benefit for something, have a raffle. No charge for the tickets, to qualify you’d have to play a classic bluegrass song at a certain level. We’d use virtuoso judges. Maybe Grisman or Statman, someone of that caliber. What do you think?”

“It’s a lovely idea, Dave.”

“I think it’s best, Robin. I really did intend to learn how to play, had a teacher all lined up.” A flicker of arm movement stood in for a shrug. “Best-laid plans.”

“I’m so sorry, Dave.”

“Hey, stuff happens. Then it un-happens. I’m staying positive.” He gave the mandolin another long, dreamy look. “Absolutely masterful, I’m blown away. Okay, Tom, we’d better get going. Nice to see you again, Robin. Keep it here until I get the details worked out. If you get any other ideas, let me know. Great to meet you, Alex.”

Tom took hold of the chair and began pushing it toward the ramp.

Robin ran to catch up. Placed her hand on Simmons’s arm.

He said, “Oh, one more thing. Could I ask when you see yourself finishing the rest of the quartet?”

“I’ll start today on the mandola.”

“Nine months seem reasonable?”

“Sooner, Dave.”

Simmons grinned. “Sooner is better.”

JONATHAN KELLERMAN is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to over two dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series,
The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club,
and
Twisted.
With his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored the bestsellers
Double Homicide
and
Capital Crimes.
He is the author of numerous essays, short stories, scientific articles, two children’s books, and three volumes of psychology, including
Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children.
He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California and New Mexico. Their four children include the novelist Jesse Kellerman. Visit the author’s website at www.jonathankellerman.com.