Guilt (9 page)

She said, “A father preserving his own child’s bones?” She looked at me.

I said, “You know the drill: Anything’s possible.”

“God, I hope that’s not how it turns out. These past few days are already testing my detachment mettle.”

“If there were faint tool marks could they be spotted under the wax?”

“I think so but I’ll find out when I get them magnified. I’ll x-ray every single one, maybe we’ll get lucky and internal damage due to disease will show up, or a subtle injury. The nice thing—God, that sounds horrible—is that fresh infant skeletal remains have the best chance of yielding genetic material.”

Milo said, “Fresh, as opposed to the first ones.”

“DNA’s been extracted from eons-old tissue so I’m guardedly optimistic on those, as well.”

“That like nervously calm?”

She grinned. “Kind of. Anyway, Mommy and Baby should be easy enough to verify.”

“Good,” said Milo. “I like answers.”

M
ilo and I drove back to his office, where he searched missing persons for a match to the dead woman. By three p.m., twenty-eight possibilities had surfaced. By six, each lead had fizzled. An initial foray into one of the national data banks proved fruitless but there were other lists. So many women unaccounted for.

My phone rang. Service operator letting me know that Holly Ruche had canceled her appointment.

“Any reason given?”

“No, Doctor, but she did sound kind of tense. You’d think that would be a bad time to cancel, huh?”

I agreed and amended my date book.

Milo was staring at a phone-photo he’d taken of the dead woman. He said, “Even if her main squeeze doesn’t miss her, someone will. Time to go back to the media. Starting with that reporter.” He checked the blue-bound murder book he’d begun on the old bones, found what he was looking for. “Kelly LeMasters, you’re my new girlfriend. And that’s saying a lot.”

He punched numbers, barked, “Sturgis, call me.” Moments later, his office phone rang.

I said, “That was quick.”

“The old charm kicking in.” He switched to speaker.

Deputy Chief Maria Thomas said, “How’s it going on the two you picked up today?”

“Just started, Maria.”

“Run the details by me.” Not sounding the least bit curious.

He gave her basics.

She said, “How are you planning to I.D. your adult vic?”

“The usual way.”

“Meaning?”

“Our pals in the press. Just left a message for the
Times
reporter.”

“What message?”

“To call me back.”

“When she does,” said Thomas, “undo it.”

“What?”

“Tell her you were just touching base on the old one, don’t give her anything on the new ones.”

“Why would I touch base without new info?”

“Figure something out.”

“What’s going on, Maria?”

“You know the answer.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“Think.”

“Edict from on high?”

“An administrative decision has been made.”

“Why?”

“Can’t get into that, nor can I advise you how long it’ll be operative.”

“On the first bones you couldn’t wait to play
Meet the Press
. In fact, you did it without letting me—”

“Flexibility,” said Thomas, “is the hallmark of good management.”

“What the hell changed?”

“Nothing changed. The cases aren’t the least bit similar.”

“Exactly, Maria. The first one
was
ancient history. With these new ones I might actually get a lead by going public.”

“Or not,” said Thomas.

“What’s the risk?”

“As I said, the cases are structurally different. The first bones were perceived as a human-interest story. Historical, quaint, however you want to put it.”

“A dead baby is quaint?”

“No one likes a dead baby, Milo, but the consensus is that we probably don’t have a
murdered
baby, are most likely dealing with natural causes, some sort of extreme grief reaction. The consensus is also that lacking media input you’d never close it, but that with media exposure you had a minimal chance. Obviously, that hasn’t panned out, so much for good press for the department.”

“This is about P.R.?”

“Have you seen the latest city council budget proposals?”

“I avoid smut.”

“Some of us don’t have that luxury and trust me, it’s bad, we’re talking across-the-board slash-and-burn like I’ve never seen before. Given that, some touchy-feely closure on a poor little baby would’ve been nice.”

“That doesn’t answer my first question, Maria. Why a blackout on the new ones? Closing real murders is gonna make us look even better.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Meanwhile, do not talk to the
Times
, or anyone else in the media.”

“How do I I.D. my adult victim, let alone a sack of bones?”

“Did your adult victim appear homeless or otherwise a lowlife?” said Thomas.

“No, and that’s exactly why I figured—”

“If she’s not a throwaway, someone will report her missing.”

“So I wait.”

“You do your job and obey directives.”

“Whose secret are we keeping, Maria?”

“Stop whining. Some things are better left unsaid.”

“Not in my business.”

“We’re in the same business.”

“Are we?” he said.

She snickered. “It didn’t take long, did it? The outrage, the self-righteousness, the lonely warrior tilting against windmills.”

“Who’s tilting? I just want to—”

“Listen and listen well because I’m only going to explain it one more time: There’s a strong desire among those responsible for the decisions that govern your professional life to avoid getting lurid with this particular case at this particular juncture.”

“Lurid as in …”

“Yuck-stuff,” she said. “As in more baby bones start popping up all over the place because psychotics get stimulated by coverage. Go ask your shrink friend, he’ll tell you about that kind of thing.”

“Yuck-stuff,” he said, “that just happens to take place in a high-end neighborhood. A dead woman and baby bones in Nickerson Gardens would be a whole different story.”

“Discussion over,” said Thomas.

Click
.

Milo swiveled and faced me. “You’re an ear-witness. That actually happened.”

I said, “Your point about which neighborhood got to her. May I?”

As I pulled my chair up to his computer, he rolled his back to give me room.

A check of
viprealestate.net
subheaded
cheviot hills
pulled it up in nanoseconds.

Last year, Maxine Cleveland, a recently retired county supervisor, had purchased a “thirteen room Mediterranean manse” on an oversized lot on Forrester Drive in the “leafy upscale district of Cheviot Hills.”

A onetime public defender long considered hostile to cops, Cleveland had morphed into a law-and-order stalwart following the chief’s
endorsement of her reelection and some well-placed fund-raisers arranged by the chief’s retired-anchorwoman wife.

Cleveland and her labor-lawyer husband had only lived in the Cheviot house for seven months before putting it up for sale. Both had accepted jobs in D.C., she as an assistant attorney general, he as chief counsel for the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.

Cleveland’s first assignment would be heading a task force on financial shenanigans in the banking arena and the real estate website wondered if she could be objective, given a drop in the value of her investment due to the recession. An economic slump brought on, in part, by Wall Street’s addiction to junk mortgages.

I said, “Toss in two DBs a short hop away and it won’t be much of a broker’s carousel.”

“Idiots,” he growled. “Okay, go home, no sense sitting and watching me type.”

I moved out of the way and he bellied up to his keyboard. Entering his password, he logged onto NCIC. The screen froze. He cursed.

I said, “What about the jogger—Heather Goldfeder?”

“What about her? My resident geniuses said she didn’t know the victim.”

“She didn’t know the victim but the way the bones and the body were dumped suggests a bad guy familiar with the park. She runs there regularly so it’s possible she’s seen something or someone she doesn’t realize is relevant. A man casing the area or loitering near the jogging path.”

He loosened his tie, yanked it off. “I was going to get to her once I finished with missing persons.”

His phone rang again. Kelly LeMasters sounding excited about “touching base.”

Instead of picking up, he sat there and listened as LeMasters emphasized her interest in the old bones, offered an additional cell number, and hung up.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s do it.”

“Do what?”

“Check out little Heather.”

“You changed your mind.”

“I hate typing.”

He phoned the Goldfeder home. Heather’s father picked up, Milo introduced himself then listened for a while.

“Yes, I know that had to be difficult, Mr. Goldfeder
 … Doctor
Goldfeder, sorry … yes, I’m sure it was. Which is one reason I’m calling you. We happen to have an expert psychologist and he’s available to offer some crisis …”

He hung up shaking his head.

I said, “No-go?”

“Quite the contrary, definite yes-go. ‘About time you people considered the human factor.’ ”

“Thanks for calling me an expert.”

“Onward.”

I
pulled up in front of the Goldfeder home at ten the following morning. Going it alone because Milo felt “the pure psych angle would work best.”

The two-story Spanish Colonial was three blocks south of the dead woman’s dump site. Two white Priuses shared the driveway with an identically hued Porsche Cayenne SUV. One of the hybrids bore a Santa Monica College decal on the rear window. That vehicle was dust-streaked, its interior a jumble of paper, empty bottles, rumpled clothing. The other two were spotless.

I climbed a geranium-lined walkway to a stout oak door, raised a brass lion’s-head knocker and let it drop gently onto the wood. The man who answered wore green surgical sweats, baggy in most places but snug around bulky shoulders and lifter’s arms. Fifty or so, he had thinning dark hair, a small face conceding to gravity, a gray goatee more stubble than beard.

“Dr. Delaware? Howard Goldfeder.” The hand he offered was outsized, smooth at the palms, pink around the cuticles from frequent
washing. I’d looked him up last night: ENT surgeon with a clinical professorship. Same for his wife, Arlene, Department of Ophthalmology.

Heather’s Facebook page had showed her as a pixie-faced cutie nearly overwhelmed by a storm cloud of dark hair. The page was thinly utilized, with only a smattering of friends. Favorite activities: running, more running. Phys. ed. major at SMC.

“Doctor,” I said.

“Howard’s fine.”

“So is Alex.”

“Given the context, I’ll stick with Howard and Dr. Delaware.”

“What context is that?”

“You’re here to work, I’m here as Heather’s dad. Speaking of which, how about we get things straight from the outset: Are you here to counsel my daughter about finding a corpse or to pry information out of her for the police? I’m asking because I thought it was a little weird for that lieutenant to offer the services of a psychologist out of the clear blue. Also, I did a little checking and you’re a serious guy, we’re both faculty crosstown. Why would someone with your credentials work for the cops? Do you have some sort of research project going on?”

I said, “I work with them, not for them, because I find it satisfying. In terms of your main concern, which is understandable, Lieutenant Sturgis would love any new information but my focus is going to be on Heather’s well-being. How’s she doing?”

Howard Goldfeder studied me. “Okay, I guess.”

“You have your doubts?”

“She can be a high-strung kid. C’mon in.”

“Anything else I should know before I talk to her?”

“My opinion is she exercises too much.”

The living room was vault-ceilinged, furnished in overstuffed chenille, suede, and brass-accented mahogany. A U-shaped staircase rose to a landing. Rails, risers, and newel posts gleamed. The furniture looked as if it was rarely used, every pillow plumped and dimpled, as if styled for a photo shoot. Persian rugs lay as flat as if they’d been stenciled
onto the wide-plank floor. Mullion windows sparkled, fireplace tools glinted. If dust was present, it was hiding in fear.

Howard Goldfeder said, “My wife’s working, she’s an eye surgeon. I’ll go get Heather; if you need me, I’ll be in my study. How long do you figure this will take?”

“Probably no more than an hour.”

“I can handle that.”

I said, “What did Heather tell you about finding the body?”

“She was running,” said Goldfeder. “Like she usually does. Every day, rain or shine, she’s out the door between seven and nine, depending on her class schedule, does her six miles religiously. Sometimes she ups it as high as ten a day.”

“Rigorous.”

“That’s just morning, her afternoon run’s another three, four. That she does at the track at school.”

“Was she a high school athlete?”

“Not even close, couldn’t get her involved in anything extracurricular, she started after she graduated.” His lips pursed. “Obviously, you’re wondering if she’s got an eating disorder and honestly, we don’t think so. She doesn’t take in a lot of calories, true, and she’s vegan, I’m always on her to get more iron. But she’s always been a small eater and we have plenty of meals together so we can tell what she’s ingesting. In terms of bingeing and bulimia, there’s absolutely no sign of that. Her teeth are as perfect as the day her braces came off and I had her pediatrician look at her electrolytes just in case I was missing something and she’s in peak condition. Yes, she’s on the thin side, but she’s always been that way, just like my wife and my wife’s entire family. My side’s all the fatties, which is why I need to watch.”

Patting a flat abdomen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“In terms of finding the body—”

Goldfeder’s meaty shoulders drooped. “That was some drawn-out answer to a simple question, huh? I guess I’m not too concerned with a onetime thing like the body. It’s the general stuff that concerns me. Like the fact that she’s incredibly compulsive about her running but with
everything else she slacks off totally. I won’t even tell you her GPA, it’s clearly way below what she’s capable of. That’s why she’s at SMC instead of the U.”