Killer (13 page)

“Westwood.”

“Address.”

“Don’t know it by heart.”

“It’s in her file.”

“Yes.”

“File’s back at your house.”

Nod.

“Then that’s where I’m aiming this chariot.”

Instead of heading to my office, he said, “First things first,” and continued through the house and out to the garden and Robin’s studio.

She was working the table saw, so the two of us stood just inside the door. When the roar died, she removed her goggles, brushed dust off a rectangle of spruce. “Big Guy.”

Milo said, “Hey.”

Wiping her hands, she came forward. Blanche followed. “I’d like to say great to see you, Milo, but I’m sensing bad news.”

He told her.

She shrugged. “Those things, you never know.”

“The perfect woman.”

Finally, something I could agree with.

The three of us convened around the kitchen table. Blanche settled at Milo’s feet. He scratched her head absently. “If you had K-9 training, pooch, I’d take you along.”

Robin said, “Take her where?”

I said, “He’s going to confront Sykes.”

Milo reiterated his logic.

Robin said, “Makes perfect sense. Thank you.” To me: “Really, honey, what’s the choice, continue in limbo?”

“I’m not sure this will get us out of limbo.”

“What’s your approach?” said Milo. “Doing therapy with her?”

I said nothing.

Robin fooled with my hair. “Honestly, Alex, the only other solution I see is you put her out of her misery, yourself.” Sly smile. “Or I do it. Come to think of it, I’ve got all sorts of implements of destruction back at the studio.”

Milo clamped his hands over his ears and began humming.

Robin laughed, pulled his left hand free, placed her mouth near his lips. “And then I fill a bathtub with sulfuric acid, after which I take the bitch and—”

“Save it for the movie version, kid. Alex, get me that address.”

I said, “When are you planning to do it?”

“She’s a doctor, probably works late, I want to catch her at home, maybe tennish.”

“Tonight?”

“You see any reason to prolong this? Gonna get myself a nice hearty dinner, something rib-sticking—hey, maybe ribs, that joint on Centinela—no, kids, don’t offer to provide sustenance, I need a little alone time. Collecting thoughts, as it were.”

“Ding dong,” I said. “Homicide calling.”

“Hey,” he said, “if she’d succeeded, she woulda met me, anyway.”

After Milo left, Robin and I returned to the kitchen table.

I said, “So.”

She said, “I suggest we adopt Plan B.”

I said, “What’s A?”

“Sitting around, our tummies in a knot, waiting for Big Guy to call and tell us what happened.”

“Where’s your sense of fun? What’s B?”

“Enjoy life—maybe a rib-sticking meal of our own. If anyone can clear up this mess it’s him, so why worry?”

“You can eat?”

“I’d sure as heck like to try. And please don’t ask what happens if he doesn’t convince her. We’ll deal with that if and when it comes up.”

“Fine. Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s decide once we’re on the road.”

“Okay,” I said. “Sorry.”

“For being a potential victim? I think not, Alex. I think the only one who needs to apologize is that insane monster.”

“I live,” I said, “with the perfect woman.”

“Far from it, darling.” She punched my shoulder lightly. “But I’m way better than most.”

We decided on Thai food at a storefront café on Melrose, were finished at nine forty-five. By now, Milo would be at Connie Sykes’s place, watching, waiting.

I asked Robin if she wanted to drive around a bit.

She said, “You bet, beats us obsessing.”

“Appreciate the kindness.”

“What kindness?”

“Using the plural.”

“What, you think I’m an Iron Maiden? This is nerve-racking for me, too. I’m just trying to utilize all those coping skills some psychologist taught me.”

We cruised west into Beverly Hills, traversing Rodeo, stopping a few times so Robin could check out window displays.

“Name it, it’s yours, Tsarina.”

“Thank you, Sugar Daddy.” Adopting a southern drawl. Unfortunate choice; my gut tightened. I looked at the dashboard clock.

Ten twenty-three. By now, Milo would be—

Robin said, “Let’s go home, watch some tube, if he doesn’t call by midnight, I’m assuming all is well and our dreams are going to be a lot better than hers.”

Ten after midnight. Lights out.

“Love you, babe, thanks for your patience.”

“Love you, too, Alex. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Three minutes later, I was swimming in worst-case scenarios, jumped when the phone rang.

Milo said, “It’s me. You’re safe.”

“You’re sure—”

“
Trust
me, you’re
safe
. My life, on the other hand, just got a whole lot more complicated.”

Connie Sykes’s residence was a one-story brick Tudor on a hilly dead-end street between Wilshire and Sunset. A cobbled driveway hosted the cream-colored Lexus.

Nice quiet location, mature trees lining the curb. Walking distance to the U. made it a good fit for a young professor’s family, back when professors could afford Westwood. The house was set farther back from the curb than its neighbors, shrouded by shrubs and a four-story deodar cedar. Ideal setup for someone who craved privacy.

A typical custody evaluation would have led me to visit the place. No need for that in
Sykes v. Sykes
and the house had remained an abstraction—an address in a file.

Until now I hadn’t realized how close it was to my home: five-minute drive, ten if commuters jammed up the Glen.

Walking distance if you were fit and so inclined.

It would’ve been easy enough for Connie to take a little hike under cover of darkness. The locked gate at the bottom of my road would
have impeded a vehicle but a stalker on foot could’ve found a way around.

But that wasn’t Connie’s style; she was a delegator.

Now she was on the receiving end of someone else’s plan.

Three black-and-whites parked diagonally across the street kept me well back from the yellow tape. So did a carelessly positioned white coroner’s van and one of the black vans used to transport crime scene techs. The sky was black; same for the sidewalk fronting the house save for a single spotlit area near the front door.

I walked to the cops guarding the yellow tape. Jack-and-Jill team, early twenties. Officer Flynn, Officer Roosevelt, neither one impressed by my dropping Milo’s name. I wasn’t sure checking with him would help; he’d been clear about his preference.

“
No, stay home, Alex.
”

“
You called me.
”

“
To let you know you’re safe.
”

Click
.

Stepping back from the uniforms, I phoned him. “Reporting for duty, Lieutenant.”

He said, “Oh, shit.”

“Instruct your minions to let me in.”

“Alex—”

“I won’t make a mess. Promise.
Mom
.”

“Why the he—”

“I need to see.”

He hung up. Moments later, the female uniform, Flynn, got a call on her radio. Looking doubtful, she waved me under the tape.

Connie Sykes lay on her back near the center of her smallish entry rotunda. No center table, just a round rug over hardwood. Imitation Persian,
beige and blue and green, plus a splotch of amorphous, rusty red no weaver had ever intended.

A wrought-iron chandelier illuminated her death. She wore a mocha-colored terry-cloth robe over sensible white flannel pajamas patterned with tiny sky-blue flowers. A white china teacup sat on its side, backed by a yellow evidence marker, around six feet to her right. The cup had landed just off the rug, coming to rest on oak flooring. The surrounding tea stain was a clear amoeba with a gray border.

The terry robe had flapped open, revealing another rusty blotch, dry and crusted, spreading over much of her pajama top. Just above the spot where her navel would be, a five-inch rip was visible in the blood. Clean, straight, horizontal, puckering at the center.

Initial pierce, then a side-to-side slash, laying waste to the diaphragm.

The robe was open because its sash had been removed and used to garrote Connie Sykes.

Her face was gray where it wasn’t purplish-black. Her tongue was a Japanese eggplant sprouting from between chalky lips.

A coroner’s investigator I knew as Gloria kneeled beside the body, camera around her neck, jotting notes in a little spiral book. Milo watched from a few feet away.

I said, “Stabbed, then strangled?”

Milo said, “In that order. No forced entry, no sign of struggle, all doors were locked when I entered. So she probably opened the door for someone, got stuck, and after she was down, they finished her off with the belt.”

“Would the stab wound have been fatal?”

“I look like a doctor?”

Gloria smiled. “Hi, Dr. D., we can’t go on meeting like this. No way to know for sure until she gets opened up but if I had to guess, I’d say yes. Go deep enough where she was cut, breathing stops.”

I said, “But just to make sure, strangle her.” I looked at the sash. No knot, just a loop.

Gloria looked down at Connie Sykes’s distorted face. “Up close and personal. Someone sure didn’t like her.”

I thought:
Not an exclusive club
. Kept silent and struggled to sort out my feelings.

Seeing anyone debased to this extent makes me sad and some of that filtered through.

So no flush of triumph.

But …

Relief.

Suddenly I felt calmer than I had in days. Realized how wound up I’d been.

Milo said, “Seen enough?”

I looked past the body. The only room visible was a simply furnished living room backed by mullioned windows. The panes probably afforded a nice view of the backyard; tonight, they were squares of black.

To the left of the corpse was a small powder room, to the right, a coat closet.

A techie emerged from around a corner. “No sign of any burglary or disruption anywhere, Lieutenant. Bobby’s dusting her bedroom and her bathroom but my guess is you won’t get anything interesting, all the action was right here.”

I said, “Taking care of business quickly.”

Everyone stared at me. The techie, because he didn’t know me; Milo and Gloria probably because I sounded flip.

Milo hooked a thumb. “Let’s go outside.”

We ducked under the tape and headed for the Seville. Lights in neighboring houses flickered. Three properties south of the crime scene, a large man held a large dog on a tight leash. As we passed, he said, “What’s going on, Officers?”

Milo said, “A crime’s been committed, sir.”

“What kind of crime?”

I expected evasion. Milo said, “Homicide.”

The large man said, “Her? She got killed?”

Milo veered toward him. As we got close, the man’s porch light created details: soft build, white hair, bushy eyebrows, midfifties to sixty, wearing black velvet sweats. The dog was a tiger-brindle mix, overweight, with a blunt face and bright eyes. When we arrived, it settled on its haunches and breathed audibly. No protective instincts, maybe Lab plus rottweiler, more of the former.

Milo said, “You know Dr. Sykes?”

“I know she lives there,” said the man.

“Nice person?”

“Huh … she was okay.”

Milo waited.

The man said, “I guess I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but
nice
wouldn’t exactly be accurate. She kept to herself, sometimes you’d say hi and she wouldn’t answer. Maybe she was lost in thought.”

“Or unfriendly.”

“She never had friends over that I saw, Officer. Fact is, only time you’d hear from her was if she was complaining about someone.”

“What’d she complain about?”

“Not cleaning up poop, leaving garbage cans out too long, that kind of thing.”

“Who’d she complain to, Mr.…”

“Jack Burghoff. Anyone she thought was responsible. One time she knocked on my door and pointed to a pile of poop near her driveway.
Minute
little pile. Not exactly Otis’s style, right, Otey?”

The dog let out a wheeze.

Burghoff said, “If only you
did
one-baggers, pal. Otis leaves a souvenir, you’re going to need a shovel. Which is what I told Dr. Sykes. She looks at me like I was lying. I just walked away. Any idea who killed
her? Was it a gun? ’Cause I didn’t hear anything. We’re vigilant, someone hears something, they report it.”

He stopped. “Was it?”

Milo said, “No, sir.”

“Then how—”

“I really can’t say at this time, sir. So it was a pretty quiet night.”

“Totally,” said Burghoff. “Three or so years ago we had a bunch of burglaries, lots of stuff taken. Turns out the creep was a grad student at the U. who decided to augment his fellowship.”

Milo said, “Stuart Belize.”

“You busted him?”

“My colleagues in Robbery did.”

“Nuts, huh? Studying for a Ph.D. by day, breaking into vacant houses at night? Anyway, that’s my point. You guys got him because someone on the block reported him—Professor Ashworth, to be exact.” Burghoff pointed across the street, at a two-story Spanish. “Which was kind of ironic, no? Professor nailing a student?”