Killer (22 page)

“If I did I couldn’t tell you.”

“Even if telling us was best for your client?”

“Even,” said Ballister. “It’s all up to her.”

“Spoken like a true attorney, Myron. Best of luck to you.”

Ballister raised his glass. “Luck to you, too.”

Once again, we didn’t budge. This time Ballister was resigned. He sucked up ice, chewed slowly.

Milo said, “We’re gonna need luck, Myron—oh yeah one more thing. I need to ask where you were last Thursday, from seven thirty p.m. on.”

“Me?” said Ballister. “Oh … you’ve
got
to be kidding.”

Milo sat there.

The young lawyer shook his head. “Crazy … okay, sure, no prob, where was I … what time?”

Milo repeated the parameters.

Ballister fidgeted. “I guess I was with Medea.”

“You guess.”

“I was with her, okay? Definitely.”

“All night?”

Return of the blush. “Yup.”

“She’ll back you up on that?”

“I think so,” said Ballister.

“She might not?” said Milo.

“It could be a problem for her.”

“How so, Myron?”

Ballister nudged his glass an inch away. “Here’s the thing, she’s still married to her second ex, he’s a loser, pushing for more money in the settlement, looking for anything he can use against her.”

“So her infidelity might help him.”

“You never know. Anyway, it’s the truth. We were together that whole time. I left her place around six a.m. She’s got a concierge in her building, dude in a red jacket, he can verify.”

“Where does she live?”

“Century City.” Ballister recited the address. One of the better gated developments. A burst of noise made the three of us turn toward the entry. Six new diners entered the restaurant. Beefy men carrying yellow plastic hard hats.

Ballister muttered, “This place does great.”

Milo said, “You were with Medea all night and into the morning but she might not want to back you up.”

“Her concierge will.”

“That’s a start, Myron. Puts you in the building in the morning. But better to hear it from Medea—you actually being in her apartment all night.”

Ballister’s eyes got hard. “Okay, you know what? Medea
will
verify or I’ll get annoyed. And that could
really
create problems for her.” His
entire face was different. As if he’d grown suddenly tougher, older, a force to be reckoned with.

“Listen to you, amigo.” Milo laughed. “Thinking like a
lawyer
.”

Outside the restaurant, he said, “His and hers alibis. How romantic.”

I said, “You have doubts?”

“Concierges live on Christmas tips but no, not really. There’d be no reason for either of them to off dear ol’ Connie.”

We headed toward the car. He checked his messages. Only one but important: the crime scene crew at Ree Sykes’s apartment. “You’re kidding. Any idea whose?… okay, yeah, do that. Sooner the better. Thanks.”

Click
.

“Techies found a single suspicious red stain on the carpet near the foldout couch. Small, maybe an eighth of an inch in diameter, but confirmed as blood, human, O-positive. Which is a lot of people but maybe Connie was one of them. Hold on.”

He phoned the coroner, talked to the assistant of the pathologist who’d conducted the autopsy. Moments later, he was giving the thumbs-up. “O-positive.”

I said, “Don’t want to ruin the party but Ree was Connie’s sister, they could very well have the same blood type. And people bleed in their own homes all the time.”

“What a therapist you are … yeah, sure, but DNA on Connie will tell me one way or the other so I asked for a fast-track, might get results in a week. It comes back a perfect match to Connie, Ree’s chemistry doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

“Good luck.”

“You mean that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Your patient being a murderer?” he said.

“I’ve lived long enough to experience the joy of being conned.”

He half smiled. “Does it happen often or just frequently?”

“Don’t push it,” I said.

As we drove away, he said, “Okay, time to check out potential baby da-das. Let’s do Melandrano first because he’s got no criminal record, might be more willing to, as they say, cooperate with the authorities. What’s his job in the band?”

“Rhythm guitar and vocals.”

“Front man. Sneaking out back with Ree?”

I said, “More important, he babysat Rambla when Ree came to see me.”

“Mommy enlists Daddy’s help … a singer, huh? Maybe he’ll warble for us.”

William “Winky” Melandrano lived in an apartment on the eastern edge of North Hollywood, midway up a treeless block of pleasant, bland structures not far from the upper-crust streets of Toluca Lake.

During the drive, Milo had obtained stats on Melandrano’s sole registered vehicle, a thirteen-year-old Ford Explorer, gray at the time of purchase. The SUV was parked in a space at the rear of the building. Still gray, in need of washing, littered with empty cups and Styrofoam take-out cartons and old newspapers and rolled-up clothing.

“No OCD, here,” he said. “Okay, let’s meet the Winkster. Should we need to build rapport, you can trade gee-tar licks with him.”

Humming the first seven bars of “Smoke on the Water,” he circled back to the front.

I said, “Get some hair extensions and you’ve got a whole new career.”

“If goose-farts ever become the new big thing in vocals.”

The units were accessible through an open staircase. No answer at Melandrano’s apartment. Milo pushed the buzzer a few more times,
knocked harder, said, “If life was too easy, we’d take it for granted … don’t think I’ll leave my card, just in case he’s helping Ree rabbit.”

As we turned to leave, a woman with a small boy in tow appeared at the top of the stairs, stopped to study us, continued warily, stopped again.

Young Latina, hair down to her waist, wearing some kind of medical uniform. The child was four or five, sported a Los Lobos tee that reached his knees, rolled-up jeans, kiddie-Nikes. The woman stepped in front of him. Instinctive protectiveness.

Milo said, “Hi, ma’am, police,” then offered his warmest smile along with a badge-flash.

She said, “Police is looking for Winky? How come?” A badge on her uniform bore the logo of a drugstore chain over a name in cursive.
L. Vega
.

“We need to talk to him.”

“He did something?”

“No, ma’am.”

She looked relieved. “He left.”

“When?”

“Couple days ago. You sure he didn’t do nothing?”

“Really,” said Milo, “we just need to talk to him about a friend of his who’s missing.”

“Oh. ’Cause sometimes he babysits Carlos, he always seemed okay.”

“No reason to worry about him, Ms.… Vega.”

“Lourdes.” She looked down at the boy. “Hear that? No worry ’bout Mr. Winky,
hijo
.”

Carlos began shadowboxing.

Milo said, “So Winky left two days ago.”

“Around then,” said Lourdes Vega. “I went over to ask him to babysit Carlos and he was out.”

“So you didn’t see him leave?”

“No. I couldn’t get help so I stayed home.”

“He’s your regular babysitter.”

“When my mother can’t I sometimes ask him. It’s easy, him being next door. He plays guitar for Carlos, he’s teaching Carlos to play—you like Mr. Winky’s guitar, hey,
hijo
?”

The boy nodded gravely. Threw more punches. Eyed Milo as if considering something naughtier. Milo’s smile made him scurry behind his mother.

She said, “Winky say Carlos has talent but his fingers got to grow. You gonna do that,
hijo
, grow your fingers so you can play like Mr. Winky?”

No response.

Milo said, “Sounds like he’s a good neighbor.”

“Oh, yeah. Real quiet and nice.”

“What time did you go over and find him gone?”

“It was at night, like … nine? I was doing a double shift, picked up Carlos at the day care, got home like at eight, had dinner, Carlos was sleeping, I figure maybe I can go out with my friends, Carlos would be sleeping anyway, Winky could watch TV. I got more cable stations than him.”

“His car’s here.”

“Really?”

“Gray Explorer, parked out back.”

“Yeah, that’s his,” said the woman. “Well, I don’t know …”

“Who are his friends?”

“Other guys in the band—he’s got a band. They dress up.”

“Dress up?”

“Like Oldies guys—extra hair, leather.” She giggled. “Like a uniform I guess.” She plucked at her blouse. “I got to wear one at Health Aid, so whatever.”

“These other guys in the band have names?”

“Um, one I think is Chuck, the other’s Morris?”

“Maybe Boris?”

“Could be. I didn’t really meet ’em ever to talk, I just seen ’em picking up Winky, everyone’s wearing extra hair, so I figure they working. They play at a club, Winky said I could come for free.”

“You ever take him up on the offer?”

“Uh-uh, I work two doubles a week at Health Aid, Carlos’s daddy’s in Afghanistan, I’m doing everything myself except when my mother has time but she works, too.”

“Super-busy.”

“Well … I’ll get there to hear ’em, I’m sure they’re good. I guess. Also, I don’t want to bring Carlos to a place like that and Winky can’t watch him if he’s playing music so I need to wait for my mother to have all night and lately she works doubles, too. At the Farmer John sausage factory over in Vernon.”

“Does Winky charge you to babysit?”

“I offered,” she said. “He wouldn’t take it. Says he had no kids, always wanted a son of his own, Carlos is a cool little dude, got talent, he’s gonna make him a little musician.” Reaching behind, she ruffled the little boy’s hair. “That right, Carlito? You gonna play music?”

Grave nod.

“Know what talent means,
hijo
?”

“I play good.”

“That’s right,” she said, stooping and kissing his cheek. “You’re like a genius, my smart baby.”

Carlos squirmed. “I’m hungry.”

“Okay, okay—anyway, sir, nice to meet you.”

Milo said, “One more question: Does Winky have any female friends?”

“Not that I saw.” Her mouth constricted. “But he’s not like that. I don’t think.”

“Like what?”

She cupped her hand to the side of her mouth. Mouthed,
Gay
.

“Likes girls.”

“I never saw different,” said Lourdes Vega. “All he does is teach Carlos guitar. You’re not saying I should be nervous?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. I mean I figured he was okay. I mean a mother
knows
.”

Black in the car, Milo got a text. He read, scowling.

“Binchy. Ree Sykes’s car just showed up in the lot at Union Station, parking stub puts it there since the night Connie was killed. If she paid cash she’s untraceable. Motive, timing, a definite rabbit, and that blood in her apartment says a lot to me, amigo.”

I didn’t answer.

He started the car. “Just what I need, Mama and baby riding the rails to who-knows-where. Most likely with ol’ Winky, seeing as he cut out right around the same time. Talk about a paternity test.”

Steering with one hand, he phoned Sean Binchy, ordered him to remain at the train station for as long as it took to show DMV photos of Cherie Sykes and William Melandrano to Amtrak clerks, porters, and security guards. “They’ve got cameras but with all the in and out, who knows. Nothing pans out, Sean, have a big steak on Uncle Milo then go back and see if the night shift remembers anything. Really work the place. You need help, get Reed. He’s busy, draft someone else.”

He hung up and drove faster. I said, “Ree kept her secret all these years, finally told Melandrano he was the daddy.”

“Why now?”

“Who knows?”

Thinking to myself:
They’re creating a new family
.

He said, “She took a chance he’d be pissed, her keeping it from him all this time. Maybe she risked it because she wanted help in her time of homicidal need.”

“The two of them did Connie together?”

“Why not? A tag team fits the crime scene perfectly: Ree knocks on Connie’s door, says she wants to talk things over, work out an amicable arrangement. Connie lets her in, before she knows it, Melandrano’s there, sticking her in the gut. Connie goes down, Melandrano finishes her off with her own belt. No resistance, no mess, nice and organized. Baby was probably in the car the whole time. Now they’re gone, traveling light because they’re serious about disappearing.”

My head was flooding with what-ifs. So many things to be wrong about.

Taking on a case that should never have been allowed in the first place and nearly dying for it.

Milo rubbed his hands together. “Let’s bust up a happy-family road trip.”

Pulling over, he got back on the phone, initiating the APB process on Cherie Sykes and William Melandrano. Then he reached Binchy again and checked the progress of the workup on Ree’s car.

A few fingerprints in the expected places but no obvious signs of anything suspicious. The vehicle would be towed to the auto lab for a closer look. Once the prints were cataloged, an AFIS search would start rolling.

He pocketed his phone. “Her arrests are dinky and they predate AFIS, and Melandrano’s not in the system. Too bad, I’d love to confirm his presence in the car, start laying the grounds for conspiracy.”

I said, “You could send someone to swab his apartment door, see if anything matches.”

He looked at me. “If you weren’t so helpful I’d be irritated.” Brief call to the crime lab before turning back to me. “Someone’ll be at Winky’s place in a couple of hours, thank you, Perfessor. Okay, let’s try to talk to the lucky guy who
isn’t
the father, see what he has to say.”

Bernard “Boris” Chamberlain’s address was on Franklin just east of the avenue’s terminus at La Brea. This was the heart of residential Hollywood, a mixed bag of run-down short-term rentals and once-lavish structures from the twenties prettied up to varying degrees.

Chamberlain lived in one of the rehabbed buildings, a multi-turreted, five-story, vanilla-colored fantasy tagged
Le Richelieu
by a calligraphic neon sign dribbling over brass-framed double glass doors.