Killer (17 page)

Milo copied in his pad. Convincing prop; E. Broadbent nodded approvingly.

“Ma’am, this information you have about the sister’s past, did it come from Dr. Sykes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you ever have the opportunity to observe Cherie Sykes prior to the confrontation?”

“No reason I would,” said E. Broadbent. “Dr. Sykes is—was”—two nicotine hits—“a brilliant woman. A pathologist. The other one? An addict.”

“Anything else, ma’am?”

“I don’t think you need anything else. Got your work cut out for you.”

I drove out of the lot, paused at Laurel Canyon. “Which way for steak?”

Milo said, “No way.” Long pause. “Two sides to every story.”

“Doesn’t mean more than one’s right.” I headed south toward the city.

“That cuts both ways, Alex. Yeah, she’s biased, but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”

“She’s wrong about a few things.”

“Oh,” he said. “That. You’re absolutely certain Ms. Cher-ree didn’t flirt with you?”

I glared at him.

“Just kidding. And despite any bullshit Connie might’ve handed Broadbent, her observation says plenty: No love lost between the sisters and now one sister is dead. Even if I accept your assessment that Ree doesn’t have it in her, she could have a friend who does. Like the kid’s da-da. Maybe
that’s
why she didn’t let on who he was, he’s a badass with anger-control issues, she’s stuck in a court battle, can’t afford
to weaken her case. Unfortunately for Connie, Daddy decided to emerge from the shadows to protect his little nuclear family.”

“There was plenty of time to do that before the lawsuit. Would’ve spared Ree the expense and the stress.”

“Ounce of prevention?” He thought about that all the way to Moorpark. “Maybe Daddy was indisposed until recently.”

“Incarcerated?”

“It happens once in a while. And his being locked up would give Ree even more reason to not identify him. I’m gonna learn more about her social life. Does that mean she’s at the top of my list? She’s sure edging up against your loyal patient Efren. Now, kindly chauffeur me back to 310. Regards to Robin and the pooch.”

Code for
Don’t call me I’ll call you
.

He shut his eyes, slumped, allowed his lips to slacken.

I said, “You’re really not hungry.”

“Only for the truth.”

I dropped him back at the station, drove a block, phoned Ree Sykes. No answer, no voice mail.

The drive to her apartment took nearly an hour. As I transitioned from the Westside to Hollywood, blue skies faded to the gray of wet tissue paper, washed with clots of phlegmy yellow where the sun fought to poke through.

Hollywood Boulevard teemed with junkies, tweakers and offseason tourists clogging the sidewalks that fronted shlock-shops, fast-food outlets, and piercing parlors. Pedestrians stepped off curbs with no mind to vehicular threat. Rounding out the mix were odd individuals dressed like film characters jostling for attention and spare change. A black-and-white cruised in the slow lane but the officers inside were distracted by their own conversation.

Turning off onto Ree’s street lowered but didn’t kill the street noise. A distant steam drill chewed up asphalt and dislodged some small hairs
from my inner ear. Someone shouted in Spanish. A truck used its Jake brake and the resulting sound was the biggest rattlesnake in the universe hissing a warning.

I found a space near Ree’s ten-plex. The door to her apartment was closed and her blinds were drawn. I knocked. A female voice shouted, “Yeah? What?”

Tough, annoyed. None of the gentleness I’d observed. Had that been an act? Had I made up my mind prematurely?

“It’s Dr. Delaware.”

The door opened. A woman, not Ree Sykes, said, “Doctor who?”

Midthirties, short, and flat-chested, she wore a brown T-shirt, camo cargo pants, pink-soled lace-up boots the color of blanched asparagus. Black spiky hair evoked a cockscomb. A hexagonal plug protruded midway between her lower lip and her assertive little shelf of a chin.

I repeated my name.

“I heard you. No one’s sick, Doc.”

“I’m here to see Cherie Sykes.”

“Then you’re out of luck. She bailed.”

“Moved out?”

“Hmm. Yeah, that’s another way to put it—hey, are you really a bill collector or some kind of repo dude? ’Cause she left her shitty furniture here and now I got to store it for sixty days. You help me find her, I’ll make it worth your while.”

I gave her my card.

She said, “Anyone can print one of these,” but appeared convinced. “Psychologist? She’s got mental problems?”

“The court appointed me to consult on a lawsuit she was involved in.”

“Her sister trying to steal her kid? That was actually real?”

“You had your doubts?”

“She’s a hippie flake, I took anything she told me with a grain of sustainable granola. She was always late with the rent. Last time I talked
to her about it she said she’d forgotten because she was tied up in court. Cried a little, like that’s supposed to soften me up. So what do you want with her?”

“Follow-up.”

“The case ended? Who won?”

“She did.”

Laughter. “Sister was an even bigger loser, huh? Talk about an evil bitch, hassling your own sister for a rug-rat. I mean, you want a kid, have it yourself. Meanwhile Miss Woodstock Flashback owes me for this month and she’s bailed, so I’d be totally appreciative if the court system actually did something for a taxpaying citizen and informed me where the hell I can find her.”

“You’re the manager?”

“I’m the owner, dude. What, I don’t look like landed gentry?”

Reaching into one of the cargo pockets, she produced a card of her own. Same vegetative green as her boots. Outsized silver lettering.

DEE N. MARTOLO

REAL ESTATE INVESTMENTS

A P.O.B. that told you nothing about its location.

“Pleased to meet you, Dee.” I extended a hand.

She pretended not to notice, looked back into the apartment. “Jo-Jo?”

An older Asian man stuck his head out. Swiffer broom in his hand.

“Take five.”

His look was uncomprehending.

“Take a break, J. Be back in ten minutes.”

The man smiled and left, taking his broom with him.

Dee Martolo said, “Yeah, this palace is mine. Courtesy
Olea europaea
. That’s olive trees—ever hear of Martolo Oil? Don’t lie, you didn’t. We have groves in Stockton but we don’t brand our own. We send it to
fancy supermarkets and they put their own labels on and jack up the price. Great-Grandpa planted the groves, Grandpa made it a business, et cetera.”

“Interesting—”

“Think so? Then you’ve obviously never been to Stockton. Actually, the rest of the family agrees with you. I yawn when they start discussing fertilizer so they pay me to stay away by saddling me with Grandpa’s cache of ‘original Hollywood real estate.’ Meaning this dump and a bunch like it. Anyway, where can I find Chelsea Morning?”

“Don’t know.”

“Then why are we wasting my time?”

“Could I have a look inside?”

“I’m supposed to just let you snoop around?”

“You could give me the extended guided tour.”

She laughed. “What’s in it for me, Psychologist Dude?”

“The court hears from her, you could be notified.”

“You’re here because she stiffed you, too?”

“The court paid me in full.”

“Well, bully for you, maybe
I
should’ve gone to shrink school. Got a sociology degree from Fresno State, figured on joining the Peace Corps or something. Then I realized all those Third World types would probably view me the way I view my family—don’t ask. Anyway, our business is finished here, I’m calling my collection agency.”

I said, “Just a second inside?”

“Why? What the hell are you after?”

“Follow-up’s part of the process. I need to document everything.”

“Oh, man,” she said. “Bureaucracy—okay, just for a sec, but there’s nothing to see.”

True to her word, the apartment had been emptied.

I said, “What did you put in storage?”

“Shitty furniture, shitty clothes. The crap in the medicine cabinet got thrown out. Same for food in the fridge.”

“What about baby stuff?”

She thought. “Guess there wasn’t any.”

“No crib?”

“Nope.”

“Playpen, diapers—”

“I just told you, none of that. No secret-code messages or UFO photos, either, okay? And no papers to tell me where she went, which sucks big-time.”

“Her car—”

“Gone, what do you think, she’s walking the streets toting a rug-rat and a box of Pampers?” Another snicker. “Though I guess that could attract a certain type of customer.”

“You figure her for a prostitute?”

“Nah,” said Dee N. Martolo. “I’m just being mean. That’s my thing. So they tell me.”

She had no idea when Ree had left and when I asked if I could talk to some neighbors, she said, “Already done it, no one has a clue. I figure she probably cut out in the middle of the night, ’cause that’s Deadbeat 101.”

“Any idea who her friends are?”

“I don’t socialize with the tenants.” She brightened. “Just thought of something, one time she gave me a flyer, some of her friends were playing a club. Shit, can’t remember the name, too bad I tossed it.”

“Was the band Lonesome Moan?”

“Yeah! Thank you, Doctor Dude … what
was
the name of that dive … something with an astrology thing … Pisces? No. Not Scorpio … I don’t know. But if she’s doing the aging-groupie thing maybe I can find her backstage and nail her for what she owes. Be gone, Court Shrink Dude, I have no more use for you.”

L
onesome Moan. The only moaning in question is that which arises upon being assaulted by the noise they create
.

Connie had also sneeringly dropped a couple of names, certain that one of the musicians was Rambla’s father. Citing them again in her deposition, as evidence of Ree’s lack of fitness.

Winky something … Boris …

Winky had babysat Rambla the first time Ree came to see me, so not a stretch for him to help her clear out.

I sat in the Seville and played my iPhone. The band had a website, big surprise. The banner photo qualified as vintage, portraying four long-haired, bearded, love-beaded men in their twenties trying to look purposeful and tough and falling far short on both accounts.

The paragraph below boasted that Lonesome Moan’s original members were still together and that the band’s longevity was “
proof of the soulful integrity of their music. L.M.’s sounds echo the pulsating heartbeat of a nation that lives to party and loves to rock. We breathe fresh life into Skynyrd, Atlanta Rhythm Section, Blue Öyster
Cult, Foreigner. Even choice Doo Wop or juicy Hendrix when the stars are aligned.
”

The site’s
Management
link brought up a crudely drawn caricature of a howling wolf. “
We now manage ourselves. Nothin’ like freedom!
”

Sample Our Tunes
was “
under construction
” but
Who We Are
served up some content:

Maybe the nation had lost its pulsating urge to rock because Lonesome Moan’s
Tour Schedule
page was blank but for a single line in red type: “
Virgo Virgo, Ventura Boulevard, Studio City, Monday Nights, 8 p.m. to 1 a.m.
”

Slowest night of the week, some clubs choose to go dark. This one put a middle-aged cover band on stage so maybe the management was all about maximizing cash flow and opened early for Happy Hour.

Time to party.

It was just late enough to make the drive to the Valley a test of patience. The traffic mire began within yards of turning north on Cahuenga. I phoned Robin, told her I’d be late and why.

She said, “Her sister’s murdered, she splits?”

“Yeah, I know. And I told Milo she didn’t have it in her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t but one of her friends does. Be careful, hon. What’s the name of this dive? Is it a biker joint?”

“Virgo Virgo. Don’t know about the clientele.”

“Pair of virgins,” she said. “Maybe someone’s into John and Yoko. How late is late?”

“I might get there in forty if I’m lucky. Depending on what I learn, another hour or two.”

“Studio City—okay, got the website right here … Ventura B. a couple miles east of Coldwater. Doesn’t look too ominous … that’s right near the spaghetti place we used to like. I could meet you for dinner.”

“We’d have to return in separate cars.”

“So?” she said. “I’ll go first, you’ll keep an eye on my rear bumper.”

“Now you’re talking.”

She hung up laughing.

Virgo Virgo was a slab of deep purple stucco the width of a double garage. A long time ago someone had tried to dress up the façade with gold stars and crescents. Most had faded to flaking beige.

Happy Hour!!!
banner above the door.

Finally, I’d guessed right about something.

The club was a single room with rough pine walls turned nearly black by grime and miserly light. A sprayed ceiling hovered low. A six-stool bar ran along the western wall.

Tucked into a rear corner, a crudely built wooden stage held a battered upright piano, a drum kit, and a mike stand. The bass drum was painted with
L.M
. and the howling wolf logo I’d seen on Lonesome Moan’s website.

House band once a week?

Maybe the fuzzy country rock crackling from overhead speakers was the default soundtrack six days a week.

I continued toward the bar. Every stool was taken, four men and two women hunched over their glasses. No obvious conversation but when I got closer I picked up the low, slow mumbling that ensues when everyone’s blood alcohol is far past the legal limit.

The bartender was middle-aged and bald. A skinny face and fat features gave him the look of a tired vulture. His skin managed to be indoor-pallid but UV-wrinkled. His black T-shirt read
Altamont Didn’t End It
.