Motive (20 page)

Bekka Mankell smiled. “We don’t, for the most part. Just a bit of mail order—Frankie did some of that.”

“Some of what?”

“After I verified payment and filled out the forms, she’d pack.”

I said, “Do you ever deliver locally?”

“Once in a while if it’s easy.” Her eyes brightened. “Hey, Frankie did that, too.”

“Delivered CDs.”

“Not CDs, the only thing we deliver is clothes. And not often, most people want everything sent.”

Milo said, “Any repeat deliveries?”

“Hmm,” said Bekka Mankell. “There’s a woman who came in once to browse, bought a whole bunch of pleather. After that she started calling up for more, asked if she could pay extra for personal delivery. We don’t get that much of it but we sent her a couple of boxes.”

“Pleather.”

“It doesn’t breathe,” she said. “People use it to party. Like rubber
goods. I know she used it to party because she asked for bustiers, corsets, and she wanted an unmarked box and had to accept it personally.”

“From Frankie.”

“Both times. Frankie said it was on her way home, anyway.”

“Where does this woman live?”

“Not her house, she had it sent to her office.”

“Where?”

“Century City.”

“Avenue of the Stars?”

Nod. “You think she killed Frankie? Wow. Over the phone she was mellow. Except when she talked about how to deliver it. She wanted it brought down to the parking lot. That’s part of the fun.”

“Being naughty.”

“Being sneaky. Do you want to know her name?”

“You bet, Bekka.”

Another search behind the counter produced a small laptop. Tap tap. “Flora Sullivan.”

She read off the address.

No need for that.

We convened an hour later in Milo’s office. He pounded his keyboard without bothering to sit.

Flora Sullivan, Esq., was a partner in the Southern California branch of a national law firm. Her specialty was real estate. Forty-five years old and blameless in the eyes of the criminal justice system and the state bar association.

A headshot on the company website showed a thin woman with a notably long neck, a narrow mouth that probably looked pursed even when it wasn’t, and a small face under a cap of dark, curly hair. Square-lensed eyeglasses framed slightly bulging eyes.

Overall: bookish and birdlike. Imagining her in a pleather bustier brought up some strange pictures.

Milo scanned her brief bio. “Yale grad, Boalt law … look at the
suite number. Eighth floor, one above Fellinger. The damn building, you were right.”

I said, “With the exception of Deirdre Brand, he met all of them there. And Deirdre panhandled nearby.”

“Those are the ones we know about. The bastard’s middle-aged. What self-respecting serial starts that late?”

He phoned Binchy, watching the building from across the street. “Sorry, nothing, Loot. He went in at nine, hasn’t left.”

“What I’m calling about is your looking for similars at other divisions.”

“Sorry, again,” said Binchy. “At least at the ones I reached, but I’m still trying. At least we got the bullet.”

Milo sat down. “What bullet, Sean?”

“The coroner found one in Ms. DiMargio’s head. Twenty-five, same as Ms. Corey, Moe’s hand-carrying it to the lab for comparison.”

“Woulda been nice for him to let me know.”

“Maybe he tried and couldn’t get through, Loot. He’s always been a good communicator.”

“Loyalty,” said Milo.

“Sure,” said Binchy. “But it’s true.”

Milo checked his phone. Three unheard calls from Reed in quick succession.

“Somehow it got muted … okay, sorry, young Moses.” He reached Reed. “Just heard.”

“Small step, L.T., but at least a step. Her brain was pretty much liquefied, but they did locate the entry wound. Back of the skull, down low. I’m on my way to the lab but between us, L.T., I’m willing to bet it’ll match Corey.”

“I won’t wager against you, kid.”

“The bad news,” said Reed, “so far there’s no record of DiMargio having a phone, land or cell, plus no TV hookup or computer subscription, not even a paper appointment book but I’ll keep looking. Plenty
of other things, though: bear gallstones, schnauzer bladder stones, dinosaur poop, plus all that stuffed craziness. It’s like she was cutting herself off from the real world and creating a weird one of her own. Though she did look after her diet. Those little green things on the plates, what we thought were peas, were really green lentils, they got puffed up by bacteria to look like peas. There was also some grain-type stuff they think might be quinoa and the white stuff isn’t fish or meat, it’s fake-o, soy-based.”

“Vegetarian feast.”

“Vegan, L.T. And the wine was organic. Healthy way to die.”

After hanging up on Reed, Milo paged through his pad. “Time for the respectable DiMargio offspring.”

William Anthony DiMargio Jr. sounded weary, with little to say about his younger sister, other than she’d always “stayed to herself, there’s five years between us.” When Milo probed, he clarified, “Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t unfriendly, just off in her own world. When she was a kid, she was
real
cute … who would
do
this?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir. If there’s anything you can tell me—”

“Me? I haven’t seen Frankie in years. Obviously some lunatic is involved, I remember L.A., nutcases everywhere.”

“Vancouver’s better.”

“Hell, yeah,” said Bill DiMargio Jr. “Cleaner, more civilized, and the weather’s almost as good.”

Sister Tracy’s input was more of the same, wrapped in a softer package.

Frankie was “lovely but always private. I always thought she preferred
animals to people. When she was little, she’d take in wounded birds, bugs, that kind of thing.”

Milo scrawled something and showed it to me.
From that to dead ones?

I nodded.

He said, “Did you know she was into taxidermy?”

Tracy Mayo said, “She was? No, I didn’t. Back when we were kids, the zoo was one of her favorite places … it’s been a while.”

Milo said, “What can you tell me about her dating life?”

Tracy Mayo’s phone sigh was audible from where I was sitting. “Lieutenant, there’s eight years between Frankie and myself. By the time she was of dating age I was out of the house. Out of California.”

“Chicago?”

“Evanston,” she said. “I went to Northwestern, did media studies, thought I’d be an anchorwoman.” Small laugh. “I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.”

“So, no boyfriends.”

“Not that I—wait a sec, there was
someone
she mentioned, but it was a while ago.”

Milo sat up. “When?”

“Months ago. Let me think … the last time Frankie and I spoke on the phone … okay, it was right after my youngest son’s birthday, which would be three months ago. Just a brief chat because Frankie didn’t like talking over the phone. She sent Jaydon a little stuffed lion, so I called and had him thank her, then got on the phone, myself. Frankie sounded fine. Happier than usual, actually, I asked her what was new and she said she met a new friend.”

“A man?”

“I assumed a man because, as I said, she sounded different.
Lighter
than usual. Then she backed away, like she always did, said she had to go and just hung up. You think there could be a connection? She met the wrong person?”

“We always look at close relationships, Ms. Mayo.”

“So you don’t know who he is.”

“No, ma’am, but we’ll look into it.”

“Darn,” said Tracy Mayo. “Maybe if I’d been nosier. But probably not, Frankie was never one to confide.”

“New playmate three months ago,” said Milo.

I said, “A month after Kathy Hennepin’s death.”

“Time to groom a new one … I need to think, let’s score some home-brew.”

We had another go at nasty coffee in the big detective room. The room was nearly full and a look around explained why: Someone had brought in lattes laced with cinnamon. Men and women sipped from cardboard cups as they worked. When Milo drank from his scalding mug of institutional sludge without pausing for breath, a single pair of hands applauded and others joined in.

He bowed and we headed back to his office. I heard someone say, “Didn’t know shrinks were that tough.”

He picked up his desk phone. It rang before he could use it.

Moe Reed said, “Good news, first: ballistics match between Corey and DiMargio. Now for the bad: DiMargio did have a cell phone account until three months ago, when she canceled it. But looks like the records have been deleted. What kind of person doesn’t have a phone?”

“Someone disconnected, Moses.”

“Guess so, I’d be lost without my cell—couple more things, L.T., might as well end on a positive. Coroner’s willing to commit to an approximate time of death, based on dead maggots and tissue deterioration and assuming the room temperature didn’t fluctuate wildly. Eight to fourteen days. No tox screens so far, because they’re having trouble finding viable tissue, apparently decomp messes up the results. But apart from that unopened bottle of wine, there were no intoxicating substances in the residence.”

“Any sales slips or labels on the weird stuff she collected?”

“A few,” said Reed, “but they were old, like she bought the stuff used. A lot of the taxidermy came from Montana and the Dakotas, makes sense they’re into hunting. Some of the phone numbers even had letter prefixes but I tried anyway. Nothing, sorry, L.T.”

“Start compiling a list of thrift shops and flea markets near her residence and her work, say a half-mile radius for each. The amount she was hoarding, she had to be a regular customer somewhere. If no one admits to knowing her and you get a feeling, follow up with face-to-face. You need help, I’ll scrounge up a couple of ambitious uniforms.”

“Sure,” said Reed, “but just to remind you, I do surveillance on Fellinger this evening.”

“I’ll take that, Moses. You look for oddity dealers.”

“Will do. She’s an interesting person, no? Keeping dead freaks for company.”

“Unfortunately,” said Milo, “she met a live one.”

He checked in with Binchy.

“Nothing plus nothing, Loot. I trade surveillance with Moe soon.”

“Moe’s busy, I’m heading over there myself, Sean. Look for Dr. Delaware’s spiffy Caddy.”

“That’s a nice car,” said Binchy. “My grandfather had a Sedan de Ville.”

This time Milo left his unmarked in the staff lot and we traveled together. As I drove, he called DMV, got a quick answer and wrote down the information.

Tag number of Flora Sullivan’s white Porsche Cayman S.

I drove down the ramp leading into the building’s sub lot. Milo said, “Keep going all the way to the bottom level and work your way up.”

That led to a series of slow-mo revolutions that took me past the spot where Ursula Corey had been executed. He didn’t ask me to slow and I kept going.

Despite a healthy number of high-end vehicles, the Porsche was
easy to spot. Whiter than fresh notepaper, tricked out with smoke-gray windows, and chrome wheels sporting red brake calipers. A small spoiler sprouted from the rear end.

Ski Aspen
sticker on the rear bumper. Milo pointed to a spot ten yards up, diagonal to the Porsche.

“Back in over there.”

The slot was narrow, sandwiched between an Escalade and a Navigator. Neither driver had shown much respect for the painted lines. I slid in and cut the engine.

He said, “Nothing like a buddy with good spatial perception.”

The spot was ideal for watching the Porsche. Close enough to make out movement and details, sufficiently distant not to raise suspicion. The only negative was the Seville, itself. In a row of newish chrome and paint, a thirty-year-old car stood out. I’d rolled back as far as I could, leaving the larger SUVs to serve as walls on wheels. Milo and I sat low. He began to nap.

Nothing happened for fifteen minutes. He was snoring lightly when that changed.

I nudged him. His instincts were finely tuned and even as he blinked into consciousness, he lowered himself farther.

Two people were approaching the Porsche. A tall, crane-like woman in a navy suit with gold buttons was instantly identifiable as Flora Sullivan. At her side, a shorter, stocky ape-like man wearing an open-necked white dress shirt and slacks.

No body contact between Sullivan and Grant Fellinger, but lots of smiling, animated conversation.

Milo said, “My, my.”

I said, “Maybe he likes pleather, too.”

We watched for several more minutes as attorneys Sullivan and Fellinger conferred. Then he opened the driver’s door of the Porsche and she folded her long body inside.

Fellinger walked away, moving quickly, a spring in his step. He was out of view by the time Sullivan roared off.

Milo said, “What the hell was that?”

I said, “Who knows? But now it’s confirmed: He does get out of his suit.”

Café Moghul serves competent, generic Indian food from a spot on Santa Monica Boulevard near Butler Avenue, a quick walk from the West L.A. station. Milo’s been eating and working from there for years. Shortly after he discovered the place, he handled a few derelicts who wandered in from the street. The bespectacled woman who runs the place remains convinced he’s a one-man security system and treats him like a deity.

The fare’s decent enough but I’ve rarely seen the restaurant crowded. A mail-out offering temporary discounts on the already cutrate lunch buffet ended up at the station, briefly attracting hordes of cops. That, too, was attributed to Milo despite his denials.

Nor was he blamed when the horde thinned.

“You are a modest man,” the woman had assured him, heaping his plate with lobster claws absent from the buffet table.

At five fifteen, we were the sole patrons. The woman ushered us in, moving smoothly in a lime-green and lemon-yellow sari. I don’t know her name and I’m pretty sure Milo doesn’t either.

“Your table, Captain.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Soon it will be Captain,” she said. “After that, Major.”