Survival of the Fittest by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

sat up. Inhaling the third cigarette, he talked through the smoke.
    “She tried to deceive us about it. Wearing it when she left the house, then pulling it out the moment she got on the school bus. Or if not then, in class. Or losing it—we went through several replacements. We had her teachers make sure she wore it. So she began leaving it in her ear but switching it off. Sometimes she remembered to switch it back on when she came home but usually she didn’t, so we knew—she was a sweet child, Mr. Sturgis. Innocent, not good at sneaking. But she did have a will. We tried reasoning with her, bribing her. Nothing worked. Finally, we came to the conclusion that she preferred not hearing. Being able to shut the world out, create her own world. Does that make sense to you, Doctor?”
    “Yes, I’ve seen that,” I said.
    “My wife has, too. She’s a teacher. In London she worked at a school for special children, said many kids with problems enter their own private worlds. Still, we wanted Irit to know what was going on around her. We never stopped reminding her to use it.”
    “So that day,” said Milo, “even though she was wearing it, you don’t know if it was switched on.”
    “My guess would be that it was off.”
    Milo thought, rubbed his face again. “Thirty percent in one ear at best. So even with the aid, it’s likely she couldn’t hear much of what was going on around her.”
    “No, not much.” Carmeli smoked and sat straighter.
    “Was Irit very trusting?” I said.
    He took a deep breath. “You need to understand, Doctor, that she grew up in Israel and in Europe, where things are much safer and children are much freer.”
    “Israel’s safer?” said Milo.
    “Much safer, Mr. Sturgis. Your media play up the occasional incident, but outside of political terrorism, violence is very low. And in Copenhagen and London, where we lived later, she was also relatively free.”
    “Despite being the child of a diplomat?” I said.
    “Yes. We lived in good neighborhoods. Here in Los Angeles, a good neighborhood means nothing. Nothing prepared us for this city—certainly, Irit was trusting. She liked people. We taught her about strangers, the need to be cautious. She said she understood. But she was—in her own way she was very smart. But also young for her age—her brother is only seven but in some ways he was the older child. More .   .   . sophisticated. He’s a very gifted boy.   .   .   . Would Irit have gone with a stranger? I’d like to think no. Am I sure?” He shook his head.
    “I’d like to speak to your wife,” said Milo. “We’ll be talking to your neighbors, as well. To find out if anyone noticed anything unusual on your street.”
    “No one did,” said Carmeli. “I asked them. But go ahead, ask them yourself. In terms of my wife, however, I insist on drawing some ground rules: You may not imply in any way that she could be responsible, the way you implied with me.”
    “Mr. Carmeli—”
    “Do I make myself clear, Detective?”
    His voice was loud, again, and his narrow torso had tensed, the shoulders up, as if he was prepared to strike out.
    “Sir,” said Milo, “I have no intention of adding to your wife’s stress and I’m sorry if I offended you—”
    “Not a hint, ” said Carmeli. “I won’t permit you to speak to her, otherwise. She has experienced enough pain in her life. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I’ll be present when you speak to her. And you may not talk to my son. He’s too young, has no business with the police.”
    Milo didn’t answer.
    “You don’t like this,” said Carmeli. “You think I’m being .   .   . obstructionistic. But it’s my family, not yours.”
    He sprang up, stood at attention, eyes fixed on the door. A dignitary at a boring but important function.
    We rose, too.
    “When can we meet Mrs. Carmeli?” said Milo.
    “I’ll call you.” Carmeli strode to the door and held it open. “Be brutally