Killer (32 page)

“If he had, he would’ve cut his shopping trip short.”

“Beer, cereal, diapers,” he said. “Something for everyone. All right, stay put.”

Ninety minutes later, he was at my door, ignoring Blanche when she trotted out for the usual greeting.

Nothing in his hands. He held them pressed to his sides. His eyes were active and bright. “Just talked to the detective who arrested Fallows for the hoax. He barely remembered the case other than ‘Oh, yeah, that kid was tricky.’ No file because it ended up as a juvey case and juvey records are confidential. I also found Rosen, the reporter who wrote the story in the
Star
. His first comment was ‘Not exactly the Manson family.’ ”

“So nothing,” I said.

“On the contrary, he remembered little Kiara quite vividly. Spooky kid, absolutely no remorse, uncommunicative, maybe a little depressed, in his opinion probably a sociopath. He interviewed her, did research on her background, but the case settled so he never wrote any of it up.”

“What’s her background?”

“Druggie parents, neglect, abuse. Daddy spent more time incarcerated than at home, Mommy brought home random men, some of whom took a
liking
to Kiara. Of course most of this came from Kiara, no complaints were ever filed. But I did locate her father’s criminal history. Roger Walter Fallows, confirmed lowlife. Even with that, two older brothers turned out okay, both joined the military and stayed in.”

“How serious of a criminal was Dad?”

“Drunk and disorderly, batteries, assaults, minor-league drug sales. He fancied himself an outlaw biker but was never in a club. A week after his final parole he and Kiara’s mom were out riding near Pomona and he crashed his chopper into a freeway divider. According to what
Kiara told Rosen, the brothers never came home for the funerals and that made her feel deserted. She got sent to a group home. Then a tougher one, after she kept escaping.”

“Then she got arrested and Uncle Hank and Aunt Willa stepped in.”

“Guess they needed some motivation.”

“I can see Nebe distancing himself from a criminal relative, but Willa’s more social, maybe she convinced him to step up. Do they have any children of their own?”

“Nope. Same for Kiara. I know, I know. Diapers.” He began pacing the living room, stopped and bent and rubbed Blanche’s knobby head. She smiled with vindication, nuzzled his trouser cuff.

He said, “God help me, you come up with what sounds like
Twilight Zone
stuff and it starts to make sense. But two boxes of Pampers? Not exactly grounds for a warrant—my tummy hurts, got grub?”

Not waiting for the inevitable answer, he made the inevitable trek.

Moments later, inhaling slices of dry salami dipped in the mayonnaise jar, he said, “If you’re right, I wonder where they buried Ree.”

Rather than face the notion of Ree’s interment, Milo opted for half a box of cookies. I let him create chocolate dust for a while, then said, “Let’s get hold of the Nebes’ work schedules.”

“Why?”

I told him.

He called D.D.A. John Nguyen’s secretary, who didn’t have access to court personnel records but thought she knew someone who did. That source, a clerk in Human Resources, had retired but her replacement was easygoing and Milo got the data.

Not bothering to write it down because the answer was straightforward: Deputies Henry Wallace Nebe and Wilhemina Waters Nebe were both assigned to the day shift five days a week.

I said, “Someone has to stay home with Rambla.”

He wiped his lips. “Kill Auntie, kill Mommy, kill Possible Daddy One, go after Possible Daddy Two, meanwhile the kid’s handed over to Scheming Niece? Now, how do I get into that house to verify Rambla’s presence?”

“Watch and hope for an opening. Maybe she’ll take the kid out for a walk.”

“What’s the layout for a watch?”

“Quiet, residential, no cover. But you could take advantage of it being predominantly Latino.”

He smiled. “Use Raul, again? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

I said, “Actually, he might appreciate the opportunity. Redemption and all that.”

A call to Biro’s captain at Hollywood produced a turndown. Raul was busy with a fresh shooting, couldn’t be spared.

I said, “You could try Millie Rivera.”

Milo said, “I could try a lot of people, the department’s a multicultural haven.”

But he phoned Rivera, switching to speaker. “Millie? Milo. You in the mood to be a star?”

She said, “At what?”

He told her.

“Just watching? Any chance of bang-bang?”

“Not that I see.”

“Not that you see,” said Rivera, “or definitely no?”

“All I need is for you to observe a house. If we’re lucky and you spot the baby, we move in and you don’t need to be part of it.”

“Too bad,” she said. “I like action.”

Milo said, “So you’re in?”

Rivera said, “There is a complication. But you know, it could work out okay.”

The brown van with the grimy stick-on sign reading
Ramirez Tile
over a 213 number was in place at five twenty a.m. The number traced to an actual side business run by two Central detectives, brothers who did home renovation on weekends.

Mike Ramirez had agreed to lend the van, laughing. “Sure, maybe we’ll get some customers.”

Steve Ramirez said, “Economy the way it is, we’ll take criminals as customers.”

Milo and I hunkered down behind tinted windows drinking bad coffee and avoiding the donuts he’d picked up an hour ago.

At six fifty-four, Deputy Hank Nebe left his house in full uniform, motoring slowly in the Focus, which turned out to be light gray. Making the same full stop and heading for the 101.

At seven oh two, wearing street clothes, Deputy Willa Nebe drove off in the dark gray Toyota.

Same destination, same schedule, perfect opportunity for a car pool. Maybe after all these years the Nebes no longer desired each other’s company. Maybe, like millions of Californians, they equated being behind the wheel with personal freedom.

The third compact, an older white Nissan, remained in the driveway, nosing the aluminum door of a single garage. Registered to Desiree Kiara Fallows, at an address in Oxnard where Fallows hadn’t resided for years.

The landlord there remembered her. Loner, total slob, always late with the rent, vacated with no notice, good riddance.

The view from the dash-mounted cameras in the van was narrowly focused on the front of the beige house but managed to capture a sliver of the vehicle.

No movement by eight thirty. The donuts were gone. The two I’d eaten felt like cement in my gut.

At eight forty-five a.m., Milo made a call and Millie Rivera, hair tied in a bun, wearing green leggings and a baggy white blouse that concealed her Glock, wheeled a stroller east on Haynes Street.

Belted comfortably into the pram was Rivera’s five-month-old son, Jorge. The picture she’d passed around at last night’s planning meeting
showed a smiley baby with sharp black eyes and chubby mocha cheeks. Rivera’s estranged husband, the Van Nuys arson detective, was also a major in the National Guard, currently working as an MP in Basra.

When Millie was on duty, her mother took care of the baby. “She loves it and Jorge’s fine with it but I’m always feeling guilty, that’s why I took a couple of unpaid days.”

Milo said, “Appreciate the flexibility, kiddo.”

“Hey,” said Rivera, “spend time with my angel and get a paycheck? I
love
to multi-task.”

Fifteen minutes into Millie’s slow-stroll surveillance up Haynes, Jorge’s whimpering filtered through the mike in the van. Millie braked the stroller, unbelted him, peeled off a blue blanket, and took him out.

Hugging and kissing him, she spoke into the tiny clip-on mike affixed to the inner seam of the baggy blouse’s front yoke.

“Hey you cutie, yeah yeah,
mijo
. What a
good
boy.” Soft laughter. “Best assignment I ever got, El Tee.”

By nine forty-five, still no movement from the beige house. Rivera had covered half a mile of working-class Van Nuys streets, stopping to give Jorge a bottle. “Rather do it the old-fashioned way, El Tee, but this blouse would mean a striptease and my gun would show.”

Milo said, “There’s a mixed metaphor for you, kid.”

She laughed again. “Superwoman on duty. When do you want me to circle back?”

“Go another half block, then turn around.”

“You got it—oops, I’m
smelling
something. Oh, Jor-ge, you did a big one—yeah, El Tee, definitely, got to find a spot—okay, okay, calm down
mijo
—El Tee, there’s a little park up ahead. Don’t see any junkies so I’m gonna use the bench to take care of this toxic waste situation.”

Milo said, “Nothing happening here, anyway.”

He yawned. Ninety seconds later, the front door opened and Kiara Fallows stepped out wearing a black blouse over blue jeans, dark hair tied back in a pony.

Better looking than her photos would lead one to believe. A seriously pretty young woman, swinging a purse, walking with a jaunty step, the trace of a smirk curling glossed lips.

Alone.

We watched her get in the Nissan. Gunning the engine, she shot out to the street in reverse, oblivious to cross-traffic. Speeding west, she neared the stop sign Hank Nebe respected.

She didn’t.

Moe Reed, stationed near the 101 on-ramp, called in. “She just got on, east, same as the other two, maybe she’s also heading to court.”

Milo said, “Follow her, Moses. And keep me posted.”

Ten minutes later, Reed made contact again. “She got off in Burbank, riding stable near Griffith, looks like … yup, she’s pulling in … paying.”

“Girls and horses,” said Milo. “You in the mood to play cowboy?”

“Tried it last year with Liz, made me sore and bowlegged for a week. How about I watch from a distance, El Tee? There’s a good spot.”

“Sure.” Humming “Home on the Range,” Milo phoned Rivera.

She said, “One sec, got my hands full … stop
squirming, mijo …
sorry, El Tee, he got a little … productive, take me a sec to finish up here … hold
still …
sorry. Time for another pass?”

“Don’t bother, your gig’s over.”

“You’re … kidding … ecch,
mijo
—El Tee, it’s a little intense here … I hear you right, I’m done?”

Milo explained.

She said, “I could still do another pass, maybe she’ll come back and we will get a glimpse of the kid. That happens, I could try to make contact, be friendly, everyone loves Jorge, he’s a good icebreaker.”

“She went horseback riding, Millie.”

“Oh. Can’t remember the last time I did that. Oh, yeah I do. Never. So, that’s it?”

“Thanks, kid. Far as I’m concerned you put in the full two days.”

“Aw, El Tee, not necessary.”

“Sure it is,” he said. “The gig began with last night’s meeting. And don’t tell me you weren’t planning into the wee hours last night instead of getting your beauty sleep. I’m putting in for your overtime.”

“Ha … thanks, I really mean it. Anything I can do from home—some sort of research?”

“We’re fine, Millie.”

“So I should just book?”

“You and Junior. Enjoy.”

“All that talk, no action,” she said, regretfully. “Ecch,
mijo. Again?
”

Milo reached for another donut, had second thoughts.

I drank cold coffee in the van as Milo made a show of sealing the donut box and tossing it to the back of the vehicle, well out of reach.

“Cognitive behavior therapy.” Lightness in his voice, considering the situation. Then it was gone and he was glaring at the beige house.

“Way I see it,” he said, “there are two possibilities, both bad: One, there’s never been any baby in there and I’m back to zero. Or there once was a baby in there but we’re not seeing anyone take care of it because it no longer requires care.”

I said, “How about a third option: Rambla’s alive and healthy and Kiara left her alone because she’s a flake and a sociopath and doesn’t think about long-term consequences.”

“Taking a break from babysitting for an encounter with Mr. Ed?” Another long look at the house. He phoned Reed.

“What’s the situation, Moses?”

“She paid for an hour, rode up into the park.”

“Let me know when she heads back home.”

“You bet.”

Milo turned to me. “An hour ride, maybe you’re right, she’s just taking a breather. God, I hope you are and the worst that happens is the kid gets hungry or scared or needs a diaper change.”

Worst case for Rambla. Her mother was another story.

I said, “Likely neglect would give you justification for entry.”

“Maybe to look around but not to break down the door.”

“Fair enough.” I got out of the van.

Kiara Fallows hadn’t bothered to lock the gate behind her. Before we stepped onto the property, Milo checked out the street. No one around but that didn’t exclude neighbors watching from inside their homes. If so, they’d see a couple of guys in sweatshirts and jeans. Milo had added a black baseball cap with a warped brim that made his face look crooked. I’d taken an empty toolbox that had come with the van.

Milo said, “Ready to set some tile?”

“Actually I tried my hand at it years ago.”

“Summer job?”

“My first house.”

“Fun?”

“Not as much as this.”

We walked up the empty driveway and ducked into the backyard. Small and basic: a square of grass mowed to gray, a rusted barbecue tilting in a far corner. No greenery other than a thirty-foot ficus hedge climbing along all three borders. That afforded complete blockage of the adjacent lots.

The house needed painting. The composite roof could’ve used patching. Every window was shielded by old-fashioned venetian blinds but the back door leading to the kitchen featured a small, four-light window that afforded a clear view inside.

Milo climbed the three-step porch and peered in.

“Milk carton and bowl on the counter … guess Kiara didn’t clean
up her breakfast dishes … nothing scary that I can see … and no evidence of anything kiddie-related.”