Stephanie Cranner gaped at him. 'This is unbelievable. You're saying...'
'I'd be less concerned about your well-being if I knew what happened.'
'What happened was Ev and I had... words. A fight. It was my fault, I lost it. Got physical and started shoving at him, kept shoving, really shoving hard. He took it for a while, then finally he shoved me back.'
'With his fist?'
'With his hand,' she said, showing Milo a smooth palm. She wore two rings on each hand. Cheap stuff -thin gold, semiprecious stones. No diamond solitaire.
'His open hand did that?'
'Yes, it did, Lieutenant. Because I was charging him and the movement - all the force, we collided. Believe me, he was a lot more upset than me. Got down on his knees and begged forgiveness.'
'Did you grant it?' said Milo.
'Of course I did. There was nothing to forgive.' She thumped a firm bosom. 'I started it. He was defending himself.'
Milo sipped iced tea and let several moments pass.
'Lunching alone, today,' he said.
'He's in a meeting.'
'Ah.' Using the old shrink word, again. After riding Alex about it for years, he'd found it a useful tool.
'He is,' said Stephanie Cranner. 'If you don't believe me, you can check.'
'And you were in the mood to be alone.'
'Is that a crime?'
'What got you so upset that you shoved him, Ms Cranner?'
'I don't see why I have to talk about it.'
'You don't.'
'Then I won't.'
Milo smiled.
She said, 'You're not going to let go of this.'
'I've got a job to do.'
'Look,' she said, 'if you have to know, the fight was about Julie. Which is exactly why you're wasting your time looking at Ev.'
She folded her arms across her chest, looked smug. As if that explained it all.
Milo said, 'You lost me, Ms Cranner.'
'Pu-leeze,' she said. 'Don't you get it? Ev loved Julie. Still does. That's what ticked me off. He loves me but he also - he can't get Julie out of his head. Even with her being... since she died, he can't...' A blush spread from her neck to her hairline, a reaction so sudden and deeply pigmented that it appeared cartoonish.
'Since she died he can't what?' said Milo.
Stephanie Cranner mumbled.
'Pardon?'
'You know.'
Milo said nothing.
'Shit,' said Stephanie Cranner. 'Me and my big mouth.' Her fingertips grazed his sleeves. She batted her lashes and nipped her hair and shot him a sick smile. 'Please, Lieutenant, don't tell him I said anything about... please don't tell him, he'd...'
She stopped herself.
Milo suppressed his own sick smile, knowing what had been coming. He'd kill me.
'He'd be unhappy,' she said, too emphatically. 'I had no right to tell you, you've got me to say things I don't mean.'
'Let's leave it at this: Since Julie, Mr Kipper's changed.'
'No. Yes. Not just in that way. Mainly emotionally. He - he's distant. It's all part of the same thing.'
'Emotionally,' he said. Another shrink's trick. Echoing.
She said, 'Yes! Ev cared for Julie so much that he can't put her out of his mind and... give himself over.'
She drew back her arm, hurled the remaining piece of pretzel across the plaza. More of an assault than altruism; pigeons scattered. The mustard-crusted dough rolled, teetered, came to a halt.
She said, 'I knew about Julie when I started going with him.'
'Knew what?'
'That they still saw each other once in a while. I was cool with that. I figured it would fade. And Ev tried. He wanted to give himself to me, but...'
She blinked away tears, put on her sunglasses, showed Milo her profile.
'They kept seeing each other,' he said.
'It was nothing sneaky. Lieutenant. Ev was always open about it. It had always been part of the deal.' She turned abruptly, faced Milo, again. 'Ev loved Julie so deeply that he couldn't let go of her. There's no way he would have done anything to hurt her, let alone kill her.'
He managed to keep her there for another fifteen minutes, shifted the topic to her work and learned she was a U. grad, working as a secretary while she studied, nights, for a Pepperdine MBA. Smart, with big plans.
Seeing herself and Kipper as a potential power couple in the financial world.
She gave him nothing more about Kipper and Julie. He handed her his card.
She said, 'I really have nothing else to tell you.'
Figuring she'd toss it the moment he was gone, he left the plaza, amazed that someone so young and good-looking and bright would accept the contingencies Ev Kipper had saddled her with.
Probably something to do with her own upbringing, but that was Alex's world. Back in his unmarked, he phoned Alex at home, recounted the interview.
Alex said, 'I'm inclined to agree with her.'
'That level of passion? Julie and Kipper get divorced but nine years later Kipper can't let go? His feelings for her are so intense that once she's dead, he can't get it up? Doesn't all that imply an unhealthy emotional situation, Alex? Toss in Kipper's temper - and now we know he acts out physically - and doesn't that add up to an explosive situation? like I told Cranner, domestic violence and homicide ain't strangers.'
'I'm not saying Kipper couldn't have lost it and gotten violent with Julie. But that's not the crime scene we've got. Julie's murder was thought-out, cold and calculated just like all the others. Stalking, an optimal kill site, the use of a preselected weapon, pseudosexual posing. If Kipper had done it, he wouldn't have demeaned Julie. On the contrary, he'd have arranged her body in as dignified a manner as possible. The only thing that would get me to change my mind is some link between Kipper and Erna Murphy. Also, the same type of guitar string was used on Julie and Levitch. That would mean Kipper murdered Levitch to cover for Julie. And that sounds like a bad movie.'
'Life sometimes imitates bad art,' said Milo. 'Why not? A well-dressed man like Kipper would blend in with the concert crowd at Szabo and Loh's. And Julie and Levitch were the only ones the string was used on.'
'You have your doubts about the psychic-cannibal scenario? What about Faithful Scrivener? All those reviews of our victims.'
'Artistic types get reviewed... it's not a matter of doubt, I'm exploring alternatives.'
'Okay,' said Alex.
'I'm sure you're right. But Kipper being that freaked out over Julie bugs me. Not just the impotence but his defying the cops by hammering late at night. To me that says boundaries are loosening. I wouldn't want to be Stephanie. I'm not sure she sees the danger.'
'Your instincts are good. If you think she's in serious danger, warn her.'
'Basically, I did... okay, I'm gonna check in with Petra, then see how the motor lab's doing on Kevin
Drummond's Honda. Thanks for listening.'
'My pleasure.'
'Robin still in San Francisco?'
'Last I heard,' said Alex.
Keeping his voice even, but Milo knew the question had been out of line. No time to get distracted. Stay on course.
If only he could decide what 'on course' meant.
He didn't apologize, no sense apologizing. Instead he said, 'Anything turns up, I'll let you know'
'I'd appreciate that,' said Alex, back to his friendly voice. 'This one's a twister, isn't it?'
Always, the therapist.
Eric Stahl snapped off fifty one-handed pushups, followed by another four hundred conventionals. That level of exertion seldom made him sweat, but this time, he was soaked - anticipation of the visit to Donald Murphy?
Stupid, he should be able to control it. But the body didn't lie.
He showered, dressed in one of his four black suit-white shirt-gray tie combos and drove to Sun Garden Convalescent Home in Mar Vista.
The place was a coffee-colored two-story building with dark brown trim. Inside was a lobby covered in flocked green paper. Ancient people lolled in wheelchairs.
Then: the hospital smell.
Vertigo stabbed Stahl. He fought the urge to bolt, kept his posture boot-camp rigid, yanked his lapels in place, and walked to the front desk.
The woman in charge was a middle-aged Filipina who wore a white coat over her floral dress. In Saudi Arabia, a lot of the servants had been Filipinas - little more than slaves, really. People in a worse situation than him.
This one's badge said she was CORAZON DIAZ, UNIT ASSISTANT.
Hospital lingo for clerk.
Stahl smiled at her, worked hard at being a regular guy, told her what he was after.
'Police?' she said.
'Nothing serious, ma'am. I just need to speak with one of your patients.'
'We call them guests.'
'The guest I'm looking for is Donald A. Murphy.'
'Let me check.' Computer clicks. 'Floor two.'
He rode a very slow elevator up to the second floor. More flocked walls but no mistaking this for anything but what it was: a ward. A nursing station was positioned at the center, and a couple of women in red uniforms stood around chatting. Then one long corridor lined by rooms. Two gurneys in the hall. Rumpled bedding on one.
Stahl struggled to maintain.
Even as he approached the nurses, they didn't stop talking. He was about to ask them for Donald Murphy's room number when he noticed a whiteboard above the station. Names inked in with blue marker, not unlike the case list at the station..
Two-fourteen.
He made his way up the hall, passing rooms occupied by very old people, some in wheelchairs, others bedridden. Waves of television noise hit him. The click-click of medical apparatus.
The smell, even stronger up here. The generic chemical reek, mixed with vomitus, fecal stench, sick sweat, and a host of odors he couldn't identify.
His skin had turned clammy, and another attack of imbalance nearly doubled him over. He stopped midway up the corridor, pressed a palm against the fuzzy wallpaper, breathed in, out, in, out. Felt light-headed but a little better, and kept going to 214.
Open door. He went in and closed it behind him. The man on the bed had tubes running in and out of his nose and arms. A bank of monitors above his pillow proved he was alive. Catheter hosing trailed from under the sheets to a bottle on the floor filled with amber fluid.
The Navy said CPO Donald Arthur Murphy (ret.) was sixty-nine years old but this guy looked a hundred.
Stahl checked the patient's wrist bracelet. D.A. MURPHY, the correct birth date.
His own heart pounding, he forced his way past the anxiety and studied the man on the bed. Erna's father had a withered, triangular face topped by dry, wild white hair. A few of the hairs bore the remnants of their original color: a faint ginger at the roots. Murphy's hands were large and thick and liver-spotted. His nose was a mass of gin blossoms. His toothless mouth had collapsed.
Eyes closed. Still as a mummy. No respiration Stahl could make out, but the monitors said otherwise.
He said, 'Mr Murphy?'
No reaction from the body on the bed or the equipment.
All the effort for nothing. He stood there, wondering who to talk to when another wave of vertigo hit him and a full-body sweat washed over him like hard surf - too strong to control, shit, this one was going to get him.
He spotted a chair. Made it over just in time. Closed his eyes...
A foghorn brought him out of it.
'Who are you and what do you think you're doing here?'
Stahl's eyes opened, traveled to the clock above the medical monitors. He'd been out for just a few minutes.
'Answer me,' demanded the same voice. Brassy, female - a blaring tuba of a voice.
He turned, faced the source.
Older woman - mid to late sixties. Big, broad-shouldered, heavyset.
Her face was a near-perfect sphere, topped by a puffy, sprayed bulb of champagne-colored waves. Made up heavily, way too much rouge and eye shadow. Burgundy lipstick did little to enhance her rubbery lips. She wore a grass green knit suit that had to be expensive, with big crystal buttons and white piping on the lapels. Too tight for her line-backer's frame, she seemed to be bursting out of it. Matching shoes and purse. Crocodile purse with massive rhinestone clasp. The rock on her sausage-like ring finger was no rhinestone. Blinding white, humongous. Diamond earrings, a pair of stones in each. A string of huge black pearls encircled a turkey-ringed neck.
