Killer (28 page)

A dull thud resulted. Under the black paint, the door was solid timber, installed when wood was cheap and the hotel hosted residents who mattered.

Repeat knock. No answer.

He tried again. Music filtered from someone else’s room. Mariachi remixed to hip-hop.

Milo cleared his throat and stepped close to the door. “This is Leon from downstairs. I need to check your heater.” He’d turned his voice gravelly. Louis Armstrong at his most jovial.

The look on his big pale face was anything but.
Hello, Dolly, I come to bust you
.

He stood tall, all traces of fatigue gone. Seconds passed. He ticked them off with a finger on a wrist. He was about to knock again when the door cracked.
Thump-rattle
. Held fast by a chain.

He grinned, “Hey there, can I come in?”

No answer that I could hear, but he must’ve sensed danger because he jammed one hand in the crack and kicked the door hard. The chain gave way with the sound of crepe paper ripping and he had to keep one hand on the door to prevent it from falling onto him. Awkward but he forged in, gun pointed.

A female cry—fear mixed with the shock of betrayal—was followed by a bleat of terror, high-pitched, horribly rhythmic.

Not an adult sound.

A baby wailing, ragged, terrified.

Then: scuffling, grunting. The slap of flesh on something hard.

Then, just the baby.

I went in.

Milo had her down on the ground, face to the scarred wooden floor of the cell-like room. The single bed was barely wide enough for one person. The baby lay on top of it, resting on a gray sheet, faceup. That was good, less chance of SIDS.

No crib, no other place to sleep. That was bad. Sleeping with an adult risked rollover suffocation.

The baby had good lungs, howling nonstop.

An angry little boy.

Milo hadn’t noticed. He brought the woman to her feet.

She was around Ree Sykes’s age and height but thinner than Ree and rawboned where Ree was soft. If you weren’t looking too closely, you might not notice the discrepancies. All I could see were the discrepancies: narrower hips, smaller chin, longer legs, larger hands.

Hair can always be modified and this woman had altered hers from whatever she’d been born with to shoe-polish black. Chopped brutally at the ends and half the length of Ree’s red-blond curls. I wondered what had led DeWayne Smart and two other people to be so sure.

The pulse in Milo’s neck raced as his error gut-punched him.

The woman remained still but low guttural warnings emerged from rapidly moving lips. She began grinding her jaws, setting off unnerving squeaks. Her lips curled into a terrible smile. She snarled. Looked ready to spit.

Milo tightened up and did nothing but watch her.

The woman laughed. Opened her mouth, revealing more gap than tooth, and let out a deep, sexless sound that ended with a high-pitched cackle.

That startled the baby. His tiny body quaked, he keened louder,
began pummeling the sagging mattress with heels and fists. All that panic rolled him nearer to the edge of the bed but packages of disposable diapers were stacked tight between that side of the mattress and the wall, creating a safety berm. Or they’d ended up there because there was scant space anywhere else.

Milo said, “I’m sor—”

The woman said, “Fhh!” and tried to kick him.

“Ma’am—”

“Fhhh!”

Keeping my eye on the baby I scanned the room in fast-action spurts.

Gray, urine-stained walls, three-drawer raw-wood dresser with the bottom drawer missing. More diapers and a white plastic purse on top. Floor space taken up by stacks of formula and baby food. Adult nutrition in the form of generic canned goods: spaghetti, stew, soup, vegetables. A box of crackers served as a platform for a large, red, vinyl-bound Bible.

To the left of the dresser was a clear view into the doorless adjoining bathroom. The toilet lid hosted a small, foldable camper’s stove fueled by a cake of Sterno. A manual can opener sat on the rim of the sink.

The fuel in the stove was reduced to a thin sheet of purple wax. Cooking in here posed a serious risk of fire and carbon monoxide poisoning. Maybe the latter explained why the bathroom window was propped open by two cans of chicken noodle soup. Or maybe that was just an attempt to air out the stench.

The baby continued to wail. The woman on the floor competed to fill the room with noise, cursing wordlessly, shaking her head and hissing each time Milo tried to apologize. That prolonged her confinement and every second of confinement kicked up her rage.

Plain woman, gorgeous child. Rosy-cheeked, towheaded, wearing a fuzzy blue one-piece.

Milo said, “Ma’am, please try to calm down so I can uncuff—” The woman screamed. The baby turned scarlet and began rolling in the opposite direction, toward the unguarded edge of the bed. I snatched him up. Solid little thing. He fought me, arching his back, retracting his head and thrusting it forward. Making contact with my cheek.

Two points for the little bruiser.

I said, “There, there.”

He screamed louder.

Maybe he’d reached the volume where his mother’s tolerance ended because suddenly she stopped fighting, said, “Cody. Be still!” Speaking softly in that special maternal rhythm. But the anger lingered in her voice and that did nothing to calm her child and he continued to twist violently in my arms.

I said, “Hey, little buddy.” His tears splashed onto my face. I wrapped my arms around his tiny torso, kept his arms safely pinned, began whispering in his ear. “ ’Sokay Cody, ’sokay Cody, ’sokay Cody.”

Matching the pitch and rhythm of his cries, over and over, my best reassuring drone.

With babies, it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. He shuddered, his body stiffened. Finally he began yielding to the primal comfort of the hypnoidal mantra.

Milo said, “I’m going to take off the cuffs, but you need to remain calm, ma’am.”

The woman cursed silently.

He gave her a few more seconds. She said, “Free me, I’m doin’ your bidding, you bastard.”

Once liberated, she shot toward me, grabbed the baby from my arms.

Cody let out a single, forlorn cry of relief and buried his head in her bosom. Holding him close, she shrank back to the wall of diapers, pointed with her head. “Go! I shall be rid of you!”

Milo said, “I really am sorry, ma’am.”

The woman clutched Cody tighter. He mewled.

“Go, you are cursed!” Her eyes were blue, bloodshot, compressed by hatred.

“We’re going to leave, ma’am, I just want to make sure—”

“
No! Don’t tell him!
”

“Tell who?”

The woman smiled. “Like you don’t
know
, you bastard. He
sent
you!”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for what happened but I really don’t—”

“Him!” she said. “He that would be blessed but is cursed. He that eats of the Paschal and sullies his maw with the blood of innocents.”

Milo looked at me.

The woman began growling again. On cue, Cody cried but this time she was able to still him with a steel-edged hiss. Freeing one hand, she lifted her blouse and I wondered if she’d begin nursing to flaunt her maternal rights. Instead, she stopped just short of the pendulous bottom of her right breast.

A scar, puckered and stitched as subtly as a baseball, rose diagonally from the outer left edge of her rib cage, wandering across her chest and ending mid-sternum.

I said, “He did that to you.”

The woman stuck her tongue out at me. Cody was transfixed by the gesture, staring at her, eyes wide and questioning. Extending his own pink bud and experimenting with a run across his lips.

His eyes were an identical blue hue to his mother’s. Other nuances of facial resemblance began cropping up: narrow chin, wide brow, large flat-to-the-skull ears. If he lived long enough, this chubby tot would end up a tall, rawboned man. Lord knew how his genetics and upbringing would affect his personality.

His mother turned back to Milo, keeping her scar in view. “He
sent
you. Be
gone
.”

Bitter and hostile, but relieved by suspicion confirmed. The corners of her mind tucked as neatly as her bedsheet.

Because surrender to uncertainty could be more frightening than death.

Milo said, “Ma’am, we were just following up on a—”

“Ma’am? I am
She
!”

Cody whimpered.

She rocked him. Spoke to his left ear. “Shh shh shh shh shh shh shh shh shh shh.”

Miraculously, that quieted him down.

Milo spotted the white plastic purse and headed for it. “Ma’am, I’m just going to check your I.D.—no, no, don’t get upset, obviously he didn’t send us or I’d know who you are.”

The woman said, “Hmm,” contemplated that logic, continued to rock her child.

Milo opened the purse, found a black plastic wallet, shuffled through the contents, examined a driver’s license. Before he closed the purse he slipped in a couple of twenties.

The woman spat. “Cursed by thy blood money.”

Milo said, “Actually, it’s holy money, I got it at church.”

“Liar!”

“Save it for yourself or buy Cody a present.”

“No! Remove the filthy pelf! You bring the leprosy of the crumbling wall upon the flesh of the anointed!”

Milo removed the money. The woman’s eyes dropped to his gun. Her forehead grew smooth. Big smile.

Keeping his distance, he waved me to the door, backed toward it, saying, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Just for good measure, the woman screamed louder.

When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs, Milo said, “When you write your memoirs don’t put that in.”

Trying to make light. His hands clenched and opened, over and over. His mandible protruded. An assembly line of lumps rolled along his jawline.

We crossed the lobby of the King William, continued past DeWayne Smart’s booth. Smart called out, “Hey!”

Milo circled back to Smart’s window. “What?”

“So where is she?”

“Not our suspect.”

“That sucks,” said Smart. “For you, not her.” Laughing. His jowls were wine bladders.

“You’re a comic philosopher, DeWayne?”

“I—”

“When you look in the mirror, do you see Brad Pitt? That’s how accurate your I.D. was.”

“I—”

“Be sure to fill that prescription for bifocals. Toss in a white cane for good measure.”

“I—”

“Yeah, you.”

Back on L.A. Street, Milo distracted himself from failure by taking charge of small details. Clearing the scene with a series of clipped commands, checking if the APB on Ree Sykes had produced additional credible sightings, not surprised when the answer was no. Texting Moe Reed, he told the younger detective to rip up today’s arrest form, keep fingers crossed for a second opportunity. “And maybe pigs will indeed pilot fighter jets.”

When nothing else remained to be done, he stood watch as the cruisers and the BearCat drove away. As the last official vehicle departed, Skid Row residents began to materialize in the darkness. A glance from Milo sent several of them back inside but enough gawkers remained to set off a buzz. Then snickers.

Milo motioned me toward his unmarked and we left. Inside the car, he said, “Oletha Dreiser. Wheeling, West Virginia 26003.” Talking to himself, not me. Repeating the info, as if practicing a lesson, he began running her through the databases.

Nothing on Dreiser at NCIC, no wants or warrants locally or statewide, no missing persons reports filed.

“Not a criminal,” he said, with some regret. “Mama and child in that dump isn’t much better than wanderers in a manger, huh? We find Daddy Joe, we can build a crèche.”

I thought:
Where are the wise men?
but held my tongue.

“So,” he said, pulling out a dead cigar. “She’s psychotic, right?”

“Probably.”

“So time to call protective services.”

I said, “Not necessarily.”

“Why not?”

“Depends on what they can offer.”

“You think she’s fit to raise a kid?”

“Is it an optimal situation? No. But on a basic level, she’s doing an adequate job.”

“Because she feeds him?”

“Because he’s well nourished, outwardly healthy, appropriately developed, and clearly attached to her. Because ripping him away from her and stashing him in some shake-of-the-dice foster home will be traumatic for both of them and could do more harm than good.”

“Even if she is well past poco-loco.”

I said, “Even with that.”

“You’re a tolerant guy.”

“I know the system. It’s always a matter of least-terrible.”

“She’s also got a bit of a temper—”

“She had good reason to be angry.”

He frowned. “So I do nothing.”

I said, “Let’s be realistic: Even with a formal diagnosis of schizophrenia, unless there’s clear evidence that she poses an imminent danger to the baby, no court will take him away from her. Hell, even dangerous psychotics don’t get treated now that the Feds consider them another persecuted minority. What you
can
do is try to teach her about carbon monoxide poisoning and find her a small crib—anywhere that the baby can sleep safely other than right next to her. That will eliminate the risk of a rollover suffocation.”

“What carbon monoxide?”

I told him about the cooking stove. “Though she did have the sense to prop the window open.”

He said, “The bathroom. Didn’t look in there. Brilliant—okay, so who do I call for all this safety education if not the caseworkers?”

“There’s a juvey detective at Pacific I’ve worked with who’s smart and practical. She’ll know who to contact at Central. Want me to try her?”

“That would be nice.”

I reached D II Monica Gutierrez at her home in Palms. She promised to have her counterpart at Central, D II Kendra Washington, check out the situation first thing tomorrow, see what could be done on Oletha and Cody’s behalf.

“But you know, Alex, all we can do is advise her. Unless there’s a clear threat.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you take the baby.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Monica. “Because we’ve got far too many babies with no one to care for them.”