L.A. Boneyard (13 page)

“Don’t know yet. I’ve got some handwritten notes and a couple of answering machine messages. Two roommates missing, at least one presumed to be the victim of foul play. We don’t have an ID on our second victim yet, or the third one.”

“Three?” Konstatinov said. “All Russian?”

“Don’t know that either. I’m hoping you can help us figure that out. We’ve got a search warrant for the house, the landlord’s meeting us there later today. You look and tell us what you think.” David rattled off the address.

“I will be there,” Konstatinov said and rang off.

“One down, two to go,” David said. He picked up his landline.

Thursday, 11:45 AM, Leland Way, Hollywood
Larson met them on the front veranda of the Craftsman house. His weasel eyes darted between the six people who crowded onto the small concrete porch. He stared at the kits the two technicians carried, then met David’s eyes.

“Please tell me what you think happened here. Are the girls in trouble?”

“I’m afraid it might be worse than that, Mr. Larson.” David drew the image of the bridge toss victim out and handed it to the landlord. “Is this your tenant?”

Larson went pale and swallowed convulsively. “Y-yes, that’s her. What the hell happened to her?”

“She was murdered,” David said.

“By who?”

“That’s what we hope to find out.”

With more alacrity than he had shown earlier, Larson let them into the house. It was just as gloomy and airless as it had been the first time. David immediately crossed to the answering machine. Bingo. Another message.

Before he signaled Konstatinov over, he set the warrant out on the nearly empty kitchen table. Then he pointed at the blinking answering machine. “Can you translate?”

Konstatinov played the messages. The third one sounded like a different voice than the first two. Guttural and harsh, like that of a heavy smoker. Konstatinov nodded when all three had played.

“Not Russian,” he said. “Ukrainian. You’re in luck, I speak both. My mother married a Ukrainian man.”

“So what are they saying?”

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“The first one talks of their first meeting with the one called Zuzanna. He wants to know if her friend will join them next time. The next message is from the same man. He’s angry because Zuzanna didn’t show up for their ‘date.’”

David glanced at Larson who was avidly listening to the conversation. He stepped between Larson and Konstatinov.

“Sir,” he said. “This is a police matter now. I promise I’ll return the key to you when we’re done.”

Larson didn’t want to go, but David didn’t give him the option. He threw one last glance at the answering machine, then he handed David the house key and slipped outside. David glanced at Jairo.

“Secure the place, okay? Don’t let anyone in.”

Jairo nodded.

“Okay,” David said to Konstatinov, “So the first two are the same man. Any name given?”

“He called himself Johnny,” Konstatinov said. “But I doubt that is his real name.”

“Maybe a job description,” Jairo said. “Were the two hookers?” When David threw him a look, he headed toward the front door.

“Bible reading hookers?” David muttered. “Guess it wouldn’t be the first time. What was the third message?”

“That the two had better be ready when he came to get them. It was time, he said.”

“Time for what?” David asked.

“He didn’t say,” Konstatinov said.

While Konstatinov listened to all three messages again, the two other technicians began to set up for their tests. The sixth man lugged around his 3D Leica camera. The evidence technician was a lanky red-headed woman, who sported a frizzy afro under her sterile cap, took out a mini vacuum, and carried it into the first bedroom. The serology technician, already suited up in protective clothing, popped the evidence kit open and prepped his Bluestar solution. Once done, he went around L.A. BONEYARD
103

closing all the curtains and plunging the room into darkness; he lingered in the living room. He couldn’t do his tests until the other tech was done. David brought a flashlight out and used it to provide light. Jairo reentered the room.

Konstatinov began to go through the various notes David had spotted the day before. They tagged each one into evidence, then moved on to the odd shrine in the east corner. David shone his light into the corner.

“It’s a
postina
, an ikon corner,” Konstatinov said, pointing at various items on the wall and the table, which David promptly directed the photographer to get. “That’s an ikon of St.

Nicholas, a crucifix” He indicated a wooden cross beside the crucifix, and the red and white embroidered towel draped over several religious images on the wall. “A blessing cross, and a
rushnyk
—probably embroidered by one of the girls. Most Ukrainian women pride themselves on their skills. Looks like
nyzynka,
an embroidery technique used in the Chernihiv region, in northern Ukraine. They’re famous for their very simple red and white
rushnyky
. That figure is a BEREHENYA, a goddess.

All those little images around it are symbols of the goddess.

Mostly fertility related. The hanging lamp is a
lampadka
. It would be filled with oil and lit at special times.”

“Which all implies some pretty strong devotion, doesn’t it?

Would women like that really be prostitutes?” Jairo seemed skeptical, whether of the dead woman’s devotion or of her profession.

“They might, if they weren’t given a choice,” David said.

“Prostitution is rarely the victimless crime the social liberals claim.”

Konstatinov nodded. “A lot of Ukrainian women find themselves forced into slavery against their will. They are tricked with promises of lucrative jobs in America. Only when they are smuggled into the country do they learn that the ‘job’ is servicing men or working illegal peep shows where they do much more than put on shows.”

“So why kill them?” Jairo asked no one in particular.

104 P.A. Brown

“Good question. Not a very sound business move,” David said. “So there’s something more going on here.”

“Maybe they tried to break free,” Konstatinov said.

David had trouble believing that. “From everything we’ve heard about these two, they were very beautiful. That makes them a valuable commodity. Not something you throw away over a little rebellion. Not when there are ways to ensure their cooperation. Holding their babies would be enough to ensure most women cooperated.”

“Or threats to the families they left behind,” Konstatinov said.

“Okay,” Jairo said. “Then what happened?”

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out,” David said.

Konstatinov stooped and picked up the half embroidered cloth in his gloved hand and held it up to the light. It had more of the odd lettering on it. “It says
CHRISTOS VOSKRE
S, or Christ is risen. It’s an Easter basket cover. It would have been put over a woven basket following church on Easter day. The basket would have had a ham, kolbassy, a round loaf of homemade Paska bread, salt, a few nice pastries, maybe some wine, and of course a decorated egg.”

“So they were getting ready for Easter. That’s when?” David pulled his Rolex out and checked the date. “Sorry, when is Easter this year?”

“April 24th,” Konstatinov said. “But the Russian Orthodox Easter is a week later.”

The serology technician poked his head out of the bedroom.

“I’m ready,” he said.

The three men broke off their conversation and headed for the back room. When they entered, the flashlight was flicked off and the alternate light source was turned on. Once sprayed, the Bluestar would react to blood and glow in the light. No amount of cleaning could completely remove the stuff.

The room looked like a slaughter house.

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Actually it looked like a funhouse freak show where someone had splashed the horror house with Day-Glo paint.

The walls glowed with an eerie blue light, and David saw the pillow was stained with fluids, though everything had looked pristine in the daylight. The photographer worked feverishly, knowing the Bluestar effect would only last a short while, though unlike luminol, the tests could be done again and again without degrading the blood being sampled. The presumptive test done, the serology tech began the confirmatory tests which would corroborate the substance was indeed blood and whether it was human. Then the typing would be done, and samples for DNA testing taken. It was all very labor intensive, and David knew it might be weeks before they got the results back. He felt a surge of anger that whoever had done this was not only still out there, but could kill again, and they couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him, until they could figure out who he was.

The same routine was performed in the second bedroom. It was clean of any body fluids. The bathroom was next. It was another Day-Glo nightmare. Someone had tried to wash the sink, but enough residue remained to be clearly visible.

“Clean out the trap,” David said. “And while you’re at it, check the shower drains too.”

While that was being done David returned to the living room where Konstatinov was looking over the ikon corner.

Jairo followed. Konstatinov glanced up at their entrance. He held up a letter-sized envelope.

“I found this behind the Christo’s icon.” He flipped the unsealed flap open and showed David several large denomination bills. There was writing on the outside.

“What does it say?”

“
MAMUHA
.” Konstatinov touched the outer envelope.

“Means momma.”

David’s eyebrows shot up. “Did they know trouble was coming? They hid this to make sure someone wouldn’t find it.”

“Not necessarily,” Konstatinov said. “Lot of people keep money in safekeeping by putting them in the backs of icons.

Nothing sinister or hinky about it. My Baba does it all the
106 P.A. Brown

time.” He looked shamefaced. “When we were little we used to borrow from it all the time.”

Another possible angle shut down. David glanced at the Bible, but with it being off limits he didn’t dare ask Konstatinov to look through it. If the results of the search were as positive as David suspected they would be, he’d get an amendment on the warrant to include the Bible. He did point it out to Konstatinov, who read the front cover.

“Looks like old Church Slavonic. It’s only used in the church services, kind of like Latin in the Roman Catholic church.”

The trace technician came up to them. “Anything else you want me to sample?”

“You got both bedrooms?” Jairo asked. He indicated the living room. “And in here?”

“All done.”

“The serologist will take care of the bathroom and kitchen, if needed. Then get the crawl space under the house. Don’t forget to get soil samples, as well as checking for fluids,” David said.

The technician nodded and headed outside. Someone—

Jairo?—had strung barrier tape up around the front of the house. A small crowd was now clustered on the front lawn.

David spotted a couple of local reporters. If they saw him, they weren’t letting on. They crowded against the barrier tape and questioned neighbors, no doubt trying to get some inside dirt.

He’d send Jairo out later to deflect them. Let him face the dragons. Then he’d find out what real man-eaters were like. He could use his considerable charms on them. Maybe he’d even get some of the publicity all Hollywood players seemed to crave.

It took the better part of the day to finish up the small house. As he’d suspected, the crawl space showed signs that at least one body had been there at one point. The technician thought there might be enough DNA to figure out who once the samples were tested, probably weeks from now.

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Finally they wrapped it up. David pocketed the house keys, and the warrant that had sat out in plain view all day, and waited for everyone to file past him. The reporters had given up when no breaking news was forthcoming and no scandals were elicited by bored neighbors. Only a couple of area residents saw them leave.

David locked up and followed Jairo to his unmarked. He cranked the window open and took a deep breath of exhaust laden air. The industrial stink coated the back of his tongue.

“You want to grab a beer on the way home?” Jairo asked.

“Can’t,” David said. “Got to take care of the dog. Besides, there’s a Lakers game on tonight.”

“We could take it in at Leo’s.”

“Sorry, can’t do that.”

Jairo dropped it.

David spent an hour at the station writing up his incident report. He logged on and added his files to Halyna Stakchinko’s murder book. Two other books sat on his desk, neither with names. He knew the two Jane Does were linked to Stakchinko, he just had to prove it. He hoped he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew by requesting the case of the woman Chris had hit.

At six he put everything back and signed off his PC.

Grabbing his jacket he headed home. After feeding the dog and making sure everyone had water, he took a shower and browsed the fridge to see what was available. Usually if Chris knew he was going to be out of town he fixed up some easy meals that he left in the fridge for David. But this time there’d been no prep time. David had to fall back on his old stand by: a can of soup and some leftover French bread, toasted.

His cell phone rang as he was putting on his Nikes. It was Jairo. “I’m just outside. You going running?”

David looked down at Sergeant, already standing by the door. He closed his eyes, knowing he should say no, knowing he wasn’t going to. “Yeah, we’re almost ready.”

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“Meet you down by the lake,” Jairo said and cut the connection.

Jairo and Popeye were easy to spot in the fading light over the lake. As usual Jairo wore all black, and his short cropped hair framed his dark face and sharp cheekbones. He grinned at David, and crouched to roll Sergeant over on his back, rubbing his tan belly. Popeye bounced up and down, eager to run.

It was full dark by the time they got back to David’s. All four of them were puffing from the strenuous run. David unlocked the door and indicated Jairo should enter first. In the kitchen David opened the fridge. He glanced at Jairo. “Beer?”