Compulsion (6 page)

“Unlike today’s generation,” said Milo.

“My two kids have great jobs but they’re overdrawn on their credit cards.”

“Maybe Mrs. Mancusi thought her son was irresponsible and that’s why she didn’t want to give him the house.”

“She wouldn’t have actually been giving it to him, just – ” Barone smiled. “Functionally, it’s the same thing, so maybe you’ve got a point. But if she didn’t trust him, she didn’t tell me. I can’t overemphasize how reserved she was. But polite. Ladylike. It’s so strange to think of her being murdered. Was it a robbery?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“You’re thinking the son wanted to push things along?”

“We’re not thinking anything yet.”

“Whatever you say.” Barone batted her lashes.

Milo got up. “Thanks for the copy. And for the nonbillable time.”

“Sure,” she said, touching his hand. “You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.”

During the ride down I said, “Must be the uniform – oops, you’re not wearing one.”

He said, “Nah, my cologne. Eau de schmo.”

It was four p.m. by the time we headed for the Prestige Rent-A-Car lot in Beverly Hills. During the drive, Milo called the motor lab. A couple of errant hairs and various wool, cotton, and linen fibers had showed up in the Mercedes, but no blood or body fluids. The car had been vacuumed recently by someone who’d taken care not to leave prints. The lab would be removing the door panels tomorrow but the tech cautioned Milo not to expect too much.

He said, “Story of my life,” and drove faster. “Ella’s estate was mostly her house. What do you think it’s worth?”

I said, “That part of Westwood? Million three, minimum.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Nice windfall for a loser like Tony.”

I said, “Ella wasn’t interested in reducing his tax burden and she stood by as he lost the apartment on Olympic and ended up in that dive.”

“Mommy thinks he’s a loser and he knows it.”

“Nothing like self-loathing to stoke rage,” I said. “And this was a healthy, youthful seventy-three-year-old who planned to be around for a while. Meaning extended poverty for Tony.”

The unmarked’s radio kicked in with a message to call the station.

“Sturgis, I’m on my way to a… who? Okay, tell them… tomorrow. Afternoon. I’ll call them in the morning to set up a time… handle them with care.”

Click.

“Antoine Beverly’s parents dropped by the station. Downtown told them I’m on the case, they want to meet me. Feel like sitting in? It could turn out to be a situation where psychological sensitivity is called for.”

“Sure, just give me a couple hours’ notice.”

He said, “Thanks – oh, man, look at all that chrome.”

Prestige Automotive Executive Services amounted to a cracked concrete lot covered by a canvas awning. Small-print signage, two dozen vehicles crowded nose-to-bumper, and a shed-like office to one side.

“All that chrome” was a mass of Porsches, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, a mammoth Rolls-Royce Phantom, a pair of Bentley GT coupes – smaller cousins to Nicholas Heubel’s stately sedan. Up in front, three Mercedes S600s.

Two silver, one black. A vacant slot next to the black car.

Iron posts marked both edges of the driveway. Between them, a limp length of chain snaked across the cement. A key lock was looped to a ring that passed through the right-hand post. Shiny, but cheap.

Milo’s laughter lacked amusement. “A gazillion worth of wheels and they use drugstore crap. I could pick this under the influence of any number of mind-altering substances.”

In the office, a small man around thirty sat next to a folding card table and listened to reggaeton. The tag on his blue shirt said
Gil.
The tattoos brocading his neck and arms said his pain threshold was high. His black hair was perfectly combed, his soul patch squared to the size of a Scrabble tile. On the wall were a tool-company calendar and
Playboy
centerfolds that made me feel like a ten-year-old kid.

Milo flashed the badge. The man switched off the radio. “Yeah, they told me you were coming.”

Milo said, “You’re off the beaten path, Mr…”

“Gilbert Chacon.”

“How do customers find you, Mr. Chacon?”

“We don’t rent to no customers. The rental lot’s on La Cienega. This is the ultra-luxury lot. We do calls from hotels, it’s all delivery.”

“Guest wants a car, you bring it to them.”

“Yeah,” said Chacon, “but we don’t deal with no guests, just the hotels, everything goes on the hotel bill.”

“So not much traffic here.”

“Nobody comes here.”

“Someone came here last night.”

Chacon’s mouth screwed up. “Never happened before.”

“What’s your security setup?”

“Chain and a lock,” said Chacon.

“That’s it?”

Chacon shrugged. “The police is what, a minute away? Beverly Hills, you got cops all over the place.”

“Is there a night watchman?”

“Nope.”

“Alarm system?”

“Nope.”

“All those fancy wheels?” said Milo.

Chacon reached back. His fingers grazed a clapboard wall. He must’ve liked the feel because he began stroking the wood. “The cars got alarms.”

“Including the Mercedes that got lifted?”

“It come with a system,” said Chacon. “They all do.”

“Was the system activated?”

Chacon’s hand left the wall and rested on the desk. His eyes floated up to the low plasterboard ceiling. “Supposed to be.”

Milo smiled. “In a perfect world?”

Gilbert Chacon said, “I’m the day supervisor, come at nine, leave at four thirty. At night, it’s up to the main lot what happens.”

“On La Cienega.”

“Yup.”

“Who has the key to the lock?”

“Me.” Chacon reached into his pocket and brought out a keychain.

“Who else?”

“The main lot. Maybe other people, I dunno. I just started working here a couple months ago.”

“So there could be copies of the key floating around?”

“That would be stupid,” said Chacon.

I said, “The lock looks new.”

Chacon said, “So?”

Milo said, “Someone did manage to unlock the chain. Boosted the Benz, put forty-three miles on it, cleaned it up, brought it back before nine, and laid the chain back in place – if it was in place when you got here.”

“It was.”

“What time was that?”

“Like I said, they want me here at nine.” Chacon’s eyes rose to the ceiling again.

“Maybe you were a little late?”

“That would be stupid.”

“So you arrived on time.”

“Yeah.”

“When you got here at nine, nothing unusual made you look twice.”

“Nope.”

“Who’s responsible for locking the chain at four thirty?”

“Me.” Chacon licked his lips. “And I did it.”

“What if a car comes back after four thirty?”

“If it’s from the main lot, they unlock and put it in.”

“That happen often?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about last night?”

Chacon got up and opened a file cabinet next to a watercooler. Miss January smiled down as he leafed through folders.

“Yesterday was no bring-backs. Right now, we only got one car out, period. Black Phantom over to the L’Ermitage on Burton. Some Arab sheik and his driver are using it for three weeks.”

“Business is slow?”

“It comes and goes.” Chacon’s eyes took another ride, this time from side to side.

Milo said, “Anyone come by recently, show interest in the cars?”

“Nope.”

“Know why we’re asking these questions, sir?”

“Nope. Sir.”

“The car was used in a murder.”

Chacon blinked twice. “You’re kidding. Who got murdered?”

“A nice old lady.”

“That’s bad.”

“Real bad,” said Milo. “She mighta been killed by a not-so-nice old man.” He described the blue-capped killer.

“No way,” said Chacon, over the music.

“You think it’s impossible an old guy would do something like that?”

“No, what I’m saying is I never saw no one like that.”

“How about anyone walking around the lot, checking out the wheels?”

Chacon shook his head. “It’s real quiet here, the only time someone comes is when a car’s broke and the main lot sends a mechanic.”

Milo turned off the music. The silence made Chacon blink repeatedly.

“No one loitered. Or just hung around? Anyone, even a homeless guy?”

“For sure no.”

“For sure?”

“There was someone I’d tell you.” Chacon reached for the radio dial. Thought better of it.

Milo said, “’Cause you want to cooperate.”

“Yeah.”

We returned to the car. Running Chacon’s name through the system brought up a Boyle Heights address, no outstanding wants or warrants. Three arrests ten years ago.

Two gang-related assaults and a burglary pled down to petty theft, all in Rampart Division.

“Old gangbanger,” I said.

“That’s who they put in charge of hot wheels.”

“He moved to a new neighborhood, works a straight job.”

“Reformed?”

“It happens.”

“But you think not,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“That question about the new lock. You’re wondering if he forgot to bolt up, found the chain down this morning, bought a replacement.”

“Mind reader,” I said. “Also, his eyes moved a lot.”

“Goddamn pinball machine. Maybe it’s worse and someone paid him to leave the chain off last night.”

“Or the killer picked it,” I said. “Cheap drugstore crap.”

He looked over at the shack. “A guy with Chacon’s past is wise to the drill, he’s got no motivation to give anything up. I get closer to the bad guy, I can come back with leverage, offer him a break on aiding and abetting.”

Once,
not
if.

Nice to see him thinking about the future.

The meeting with Antoine Beverly’s parents was set for noon the following day.

When I got to Milo’s office, a note on the door said
A: Rm. 6.

Largest room, at the end of the corridor. An
Interview in Progress: Do Not Disturb
sign dangled from the doorknob.

I knocked once and went in.

A middle-aged black couple sat across the table from Milo. A wallet-sized photo of a boy was placed in front of the woman and after she appraised me, her attention returned to the image.

The man next to her wore a stiff brown suit, a white shirt, and a gold tie secured by a silver clip. An American flag pin rode his lapel. His gray hair was tight; in front it faded to skin. Under a white thread of a mustache, his smile was obligatory.

The woman had on a charcoal pantsuit. High waved hair was one shade darker than her clothes. She drew away from the photo with reluctance and placed her hands flat on the table.

Milo said, “Mr. and Mrs. Beverly, this is our psychologist, Dr. Delaware. Doctor, Gordon and Sharna Beverly.”

Gordon Beverly half stood and sat back down. His wife said, “Pleased to meet you, Doctor.”

The pressing of cool dry flesh. I sat next to Milo.

He said, “Mr. and Mrs. Beverly brought me this picture of Antoine.”

I studied the picture, maybe longer than I needed to. Smiling, clear-eyed boy with a space between his incisors. Short hair, blue shirt, plaid tie.

“Doctor, I was just explaining that you were involved because of the complexities.”

Sharna Beverly said, “We could use a psychiatrist because if it wasn’t that maniac in Texas, it was
some
kind of maniac. I knew it from the beginning, kept telling those other detectives.” A silver-nailed finger touched the edge of the photo. “It’s been so long. No one
did
anything.”

“They tried,” said her husband. “But there were no leads.”

Sharna Beverly’s stare said he’d blasphemed. She turned to me. “I’m here to tell you what Antoine was like, so you’ll understand he didn’t run away.”

Milo said, “No one suspects that, ma’am.”

“They sure did sixteen years ago. Kept telling me he’d run away, run away. Antoine liked his practical jokes but he was a good boy. Our other boys went to college and that was Antoine’s plan. He especially looked up to his biggest brother, Brent. Brent has a degree in sound engineering and works on motion pictures. Gordon Junior is an accountant at the Water and Power.”

Gordon Beverly said, “Antoine wanted to be a doctor.”

“You probably heard this a million times,” said his wife, “but not knowing is the worst. Doctor, be honest with me. Knowing what you know about maniacs, what chance is there this devil in Texas is telling the truth?”

I said, “I wish I could give you a solid answer, Mrs. Beverly. But there’s no way to know. His story’s certainly worth pursuing. Every angle is.”

“There you go,” she said. “
Every
angle. That’s what I told those detectives sixteen years ago. They said there was nothing more to do.”

I glanced at the picture. A boy frozen in time.

Sharna Beverly said, “They should’ve had the courtesy to answer our phone calls.”

Gordon said, “They answered them at first, then they stopped.”

“They stopped pretty quickly.” Daring her husband to argue.

Milo said, “I’m really sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, Lieutenant. Let’s do something
now.
”

Milo said, “Getting back to what we were talking about, ma’am, how exactly did Antoine get that magazine job?”

“Magazine subscriptions,” said Gordon Beverly. “Nice white neighborhood, supposed to be safe.”

His wife said, “He’s not asking
what,
he’s asking
how.
Antoine found out at school. Someone put a flyer up on the bulletin board just before summer break. Antoine loved to work.”

“Antoine had ambitions,” said her husband. “Talked about being a surgical doctor. He liked anything scientific.”

Sharna Beverly said, “The flyer made it sound like easy money, magazines selling themselves, just jumping into people’s hands. I told Antoine that was foolish but he couldn’t be convinced. He copied down the number and went to a meeting on a Saturday. Took two friends, all of them agreed to do it. They got sent to Culver City, which in those days was all white. They worked five days steady and Antoine sold the most subscriptions. The following Monday is when Antoine never came home.”

I said, “Did Antoine or the other boys have any unpleasant experiences on the job?”

Sharna said, “Antoine said a couple of people called him nasty names and slammed the door in his face.”

Gordon said, “The N word. Other things along those lines.”

“Why they sent those boys into a white neighborhood,” said Sharna, “I’ll never understand. People in Crenshaw read magazines, too.”

“Supposed to be safer,” said her husband.

“Apparently it wasn’t,” she snapped.

He touched her elbow. She shifted away from contact. Ran a hand over the snapshot. “They threw those children in with strangers.”

Milo said, “Did the detectives sixteen years ago canvass the neighborhood where Antoine delivered?”

“They claimed they talked to everyone,” said Sharna. “If they didn’t, are they going to admit it?”

She folded her arms across her chest.

Milo said, “What was the name of the company that hired Antoine?”

Sharna said, “Youth In Action. They closed down after Antoine disappeared. At least in L.A.”

“Because of Antoine’s disappearance?”

“After Antoine, the schools wouldn’t let them advertise. I went to the library, used a computer to look them up, couldn’t find any mention of them. Did that yesterday, when I found out we were coming here. The only person I remember was a Mr. Zint, called to tell me how sorry he was. Sounded to me like he was worried we were going to sue him. Didn’t know anything helpful.”

I said, “Antoine worked with two friends.”

“Will and Bradley,” she said. “Wilson Good and Bradley Maisonette. Friends since kindergarten. They helped carry the coffin and cried like babies. Said Antoine was selling the most.” Reluctant smile. “Antoine had a way of talking you into anything.”

Milo wrote down the names.

Sharna Beverly picked up the photo and held it to her breast. Her fingers covered the top of Antoine’s face. His eternal smile made my eyes ache.

I said, “Did Brad or Will report anything unusual those five days?”

She said, “No, and I asked them. The van dropped them off one by one in Culver City. Antoine got off first and was supposed to be picked up last. When the time came, he wasn’t there. The van waited an hour, then drove around looking for Antoine. Then Mr. Zint took Bradley and Will back to the school, which is where he always picked them up. Then he called the police. Bradley and Will were shook up, Bradley especially. He already lived through a drive-by.”

Gordon said, “Not in our neighborhood. Visiting a cousin in Compton.”

Sharna said, “It was me, I’d go straight to Texas, put hot pokers on that devil, run one of those electrocuting lie detectors they use on the al-Qaidas at Guantánamo. That’d clear it up soon enough.”

She glared at her husband.

He fingered his flag pin.

“Lieutenant,” she said, “do
you
have any feeling about that story that devil’s telling?”

Milo said, “I wish I did, Mrs. Beverly. The sad truth is these lowlifes lie as easily as they breathe and they’ll do anything to get out of dying.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“This is gonna sound frustrating, ma’am, but I’m really starting at the beginning. Seeing as Bradley Masionette and Will Good were close to Antoine and the last people to see him, let’s start with them. Any idea where I can locate them?”

“It’s not in the file?”

“The file, ma’am, is rather incomplete.”

“Hmm. Well, Will coaches football at a Catholic school, don’t know which one.”

Gordon Beverly said, “St. Xavier.”

She stared at him.

“It was in the
Sentinel,
Shar. Few years back, he was coaching down in Riverside, moved here. I called him up, asked if he remembered anything more about Antoine. He said no.”

“Well, look at that,” she said. “What else don’t you tell me about?”

“No sense telling when there’s nothing to tell.”

Sharna Beverly said, “Bradley Maisonette did not turn out well. From what I hear, he’s spent most of his life in prison. Never did have a good family life.”

Gordon said, “We’re a tight-knit family. Antoine comes home all excited about all the big money he’s going to make, I was happy for him.”

Sharna said, “Magazines sell
themselves,
people love magazines more than
life
itself. I told him, ‘Antoine, what sounds too good to be true, is.’ I told him I needed to meet the people involved, make sure they weren’t taking advantage. Antoine threw a fit, jumping up and down, begging, pleading, ‘
Trust
me, Mom. Don’t
embarrass
me, Mom, no one else’s parents are putting their noses in.’ I said, ‘Everyone else is stupid so I should be?’ Antoine begs some more, turns on that smile of his.” Sidelong peek at the photo. She folded her lips inward.

“I told Antoine, ‘That’s the trouble today, no one gets involved.’ But the boy kept working at me, saying if I showed up Will and Brad and everyone else would be dissing him all summer. Then he brings out his report card, half A’s, half B’s, perfect in Conduct. Claiming that proved he was smart, could be trusted.”

She slumped. “So I gave in. Biggest mistake I ever made and I’ve been paying for it for sixteen years.”

Gordon said, “Honey, I keep telling you, there’s no reason to-”

Her eyes blazed. “You keep telling me and you keep telling me.” She got up, walked to the door, took care to close it silently.

Projecting more rage than if she’d slammed it.

Gordon Beverly said, “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, sir,” said Milo.

“She’s a good wife and mother. She didn’t deserve what she got.”

“What both of you got.”

Gordon Beverly’s face trembled. “Maybe it’s worse for a mother.”

“Well, that was fun,” said Milo, when we were alone in his office. “Now I got little fishhooks sticking into my heart and decent people tugging on them. Time to check out this Youth In Action, on the off chance they’re still in business and Mrs. B. missed it.”

She hadn’t. He got to work locating Antoine’s friends.

Wilson Good’s name pulled up several references to varsity football games at St. Xavier Preparatory High in South L.A. In addition to coaching, Good was head of the Physical Education Department.

Bradley Maisonette’s criminal record was extensive. Over a dozen narcotics convictions, plus the predictable larcenies that fed a life of addiction.

Maisonette’s last parole was eleven months ago. His downtown address was a government-financed SRO. Milo phoned his probation officer, got voice mail, left a message.

Pulling a panatela out of a shirt pocket, he peeled off the plastic and wet the tip but kept the cigar in his hand. “Something else you think I should do?”

“Why doesn’t Texas just send Jackson out here and dare him to point out the graves?”

“Because he’s a serious escape risk – tried four times, nearly succeeded once and injured a guard in the process. No way are they gonna let him out of their custody until some local department comes up with serious corroboration. So far, three of Jackson’s claims have turned out to be bogus – crimes he didn’t know were already solved. Bastard probably scans the Internet searching for open horrors he can cop to. Unfortunately, he can’t be written off yet because the stakes are high. If I could find Antoine’s damn file it might lead me somewhere.”

“Where are the detectives who worked it originally?”

“One’s dead, the other’s living somewhere in Idaho. At least that’s where his pension check goes. But he hasn’t answered my calls. Meanwhile, there’s Ella Mancusi, with a body barely cold. Why do I think I’m gonna break the Beverlys’ hearts?”

He placed the beginnings of Antoine’s new murder book in a drawer. Changed his mind and laid it next to his computer. “I’ve started surveillance on Tony Mancusi, got three brand-new uniforms who think they like plainclothes. Still no violent crime reports the night the Bentley got boosted and Mr. Heubel had the car washed and detailed the day Sean scraped it, so the chance of finding anything new is sub-nil. I’m putting
that
at the bottom of the drawer.”

“Any luck getting Ella some media exposure?”

“You know the
Times –
maybe yes, maybe no. Public Affairs say there should be something on the six o’clock news tonight.”

His phone rang. He listened, wrote something down, clicked off. “That was a message from one of Ella’s allegedly noninvolved cousins, wants to talk to me. He’s close, works at a lamp store on Olympic and Barrington. Maybe the gods are smiling.”

Brilliant Crystal and Lighting was a thousand square feet of glare.

Aaron Hochswelder met us at the door and announced that he owned the place, had sent his employees on a coffee break. He walked us to the rear of his showroom. Heat from scores of chandeliers seared the back of my neck. Blinding light evoked a near-death experience.

Hochswelder was in his sixties but still dark-haired, tall and gaunt with a horse-face and fox-eyes. He wore a green short-sleeved shirt, pleated khakis, spit-shined oxfords.

He said, “Thanks for coming quickly. I could be out of line here but I felt I should talk to you. I still can’t believe what happened to Ella.”

Milo said, “She was your cousin.”

“First cousin. Her father was my father’s older brother. She used to babysit me.” His attention was snagged by an unlit bulb in a Venetian chandelier. He reached up, twisted, brought forth a twinkle. “You have any idea who did it?”

“Not yet. Anything you can tell us would be helpful, sir.”

Aaron Hochswelder chewed his cheek. “I’m not really sure I should be saying this but have you met her son, Tony?”