Motive (34 page)

Milo said, “No sign of fear or tension on the female’s part.”

“Bonnie still thinks she’s safe with Clyde.”

“God help her,” said Milo. “Or she’s in on it. Santos’s boss said she was the last to complain about Williams’s stalking behavior but maybe that was a ruse.”

Gonzales said, “You know how it is with pervs, they start with peeping, some of them move on. But why would she lie about being bothered by him?”

“Good question—so maybe she is in trouble, they had a thing and it broke up nasty. Their getting together in the first place would be understandable. They worked in the same place for months, plenty of time to develop chemistry. But I didn’t pick up any tension between them the brief time I saw them. You?”

I shook my head.

Not that I’d been looking.

Guided somewhere else by a psychopath.

Sheila Entell would be flogging herself for a while, thinking she’d
screwed up due to inexperience. But it could happen to anyone because by nature we expect the usual and it’s not that hard to fool anyone with minimal misdirection.

Achieving dominance by sticking it to authority.

To the world.

The “good judge” called back twenty minutes later, agreeing to sign a warrant for the next-door unit. Agreeable jurist, but a stickler: telephonic wouldn’t cut it, everything had to be on paper, to satisfy those “ACLU types who’ve been major pains in the asses lately.”

Part of that attitude might’ve been due to being woken up and hell if he’d leave the house. He had a home fax, would wait but not for too long.

Frank Gonzales ran off to call someone at his office and get the process going.

As we waited outside the condo, vehicles converged from the east. Uniformed officers to tape and guard, techs toting forensic luggage.

The last to arrive was a coroner’s investigator who looked as if she’d seen it all twice. She examined the body quickly, emerged, saying, “Kind of obvious,” and released it for further examination.

Moments later, a tech stepped out and said, “Okay, you can come in.”

Milo and Gonzales returned to the death scene. I waited outside,
the conspicuous civilian with no role, and used the time to phone Robin.

She said, “Oh, no. What’s going on?”

“We were right about Williams and Corey colluding. To the point of Williams living next door. But Williams decided to dissolve the partnership. Lots of reasons to do that—covering his tracks, enjoying it, and, probably foremost, making off with Corey’s cash-stash.”

“Right in front of the cops.”

“That’s part of what I meant by enjoying it.”

“What a monster,” she said. “When are you coming home?”

“Up to Milo, he’ll need me to drive him back. Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t,” she said. “But I probably won’t sleep too deeply.”

Twenty minutes after he reentered Corey’s condo, Milo emerged, brandishing a clear plastic evidence bag and waving me over. Inside the bag was a single piece of U.S. paper currency, wilted around the edges.

Legal tender but it was hard to make out the denomination through the mist inside the bag.

Milo said, “You can touch it.”

Cold. “The fridge?”

Milo said, “Wedged in back of the vegetable bin, I was lucky to spot a tiny corner sticking out.”

I said, “A stray that fell unnoticed. From the big cash-stash Corey kept there.”

“Nothing there, now. Williams scored a big haul.” He exhaled. “Idiot Corey couldn’t use a bank or a brokerage account because he’d been evading taxes for who knows how long. So he cooled his dough. Literally. Must’ve taken up a lot of space, there sure wasn’t much else in there.”

“Not a food guy.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Any wisdom from the scene? To me it looked like a sneak attack from the rear.”

“From the rear and above, the amount of bone damage says a hefty swing—going for the outfield. Corey’s position suggests he was couch-potato-ing, no indication he had any idea what was in store.”

“Trust thy neighbor,” I said. “He pays Williams to shoot Ursula, tosses in free rent.”

“Double-barreled idiot. Letting a guy he knew to be homicidal live next door, and get behind him with a baton. Entell said Williams was wearing a jacket, so easy enough to conceal.”

I said, “Interesting choice of weapon.”

“What do you mean?”

“Using police equipment.”

He ground his jaws, slapped hair out of his face. “Corey was smart enough to make a fortune, what the hell possessed him?”

His eyes shifted to Frank Gonzales a few yards away, talking on the phone. “Damn paper warrant for both units, it was me, I’d just go next door because Williams was seen with a woman but no one noticed her leaving and if that ain’t grounds I don’t know what is.”

Gonzales saw him scowling, held up a finger. Milo pulled out a panatela, lit and smoked and paced and fidgeted for the fourteen minutes it took for Gonzales to say, “Okay, it arrived in my office.”

We followed him to the unit where John Jensen Williams had possibly lived with a young, dark-haired, huge-chested woman. Milo’s head lowered for battle, as he struggled not to take the lead.

Gonzales gave the door a token knock, called out, “Police, open up!” and when that brought no response, ordered a uniform to get a ram.

Clearing the place didn’t take long. No one inside, dead or otherwise, the only furniture two futons, a folding card table, and two matching chairs.

Chemical smell of recent cleanup.

No clothes in the closet, no obvious sign of habitation until Milo gloved up and examined the kitchen.

This refrigerator was crammed tight with food.

Plastic-wrapped Wagyu steaks, ducks, and veal sweetbreads. A similarly wrapped goose, two disarticulated quails, three packages of ground venison. All the labels from a yuppie market in Brentwood that pulls off price-gouging by sheathing it in eco-religion.

Local and sustainable, indeed. The goose looked past its prime, and abandoned long enough, all this flesh would soon be rotting. The bottom bin of fruits and vegetables had already taken on a rancid odor. Unaffected were a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Brut Champagne and a six-pack of “organic gourmet” water “harvested” from an obscure island in the South Pacific.

Gonzales said, “Looks like someone was planning to stuff their face.”

“Probably not,” I said.

“Why not?”

“He knew when he’d be leaving. This is all about advertising.”

“Advertising what?”

“Himself. As a man of elevated taste.”

The big puzzle remained: How could the woman Patrolman Buenavista had seen with Williams disappear without being spotted? But a third call to the rookie, this time from Gonzales, produced a prosaic downer of an explanation that left him punching his palm and shaking his head.

“Fool’s a green-bean,” he muttered. “ ‘Oh, yeah, Sarge. She did leave in another car. A van, actually.’ ”

Milo said, “Williams’s Ford.”

“They traded cars, huh? Or the Corolla was stolen and Williams had her take his drive, maybe meet up with him so he could ditch it.”

“Sounds like a plan, Frank.”

“Damn … at least this chicklet left alive.”

“Don’t write her an insurance policy.”

“That’s for sure,” said Gonzales. “He took Corey by surprise, probably has one planned for her. You say this girl was in the service?”

“Yup.”

“You’d think she’d have some smarts.”

“He’s got a way with women, stomach the direct route to the heart and all that.”

“He cooks for them?”

“Sets a lovely table,” said Milo. “Then everything turns to garbage.”

“Clever,” said Gonzales. “The cooking part, I mean. Before I met my wife I had the basic crazy girlfriend, used to make dinky tostadas for her, didn’t take much more than that.”

His smile spread under his mustache. “Not the wife, though. Can’t fool her, she’s got taste buds.”

Forensics completed, body transported, resumption of quiet. No neighbors had come out to watch, not even a light switching on.

Just before midnight, Milo yawned and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I raced back to L.A. One mile into the fifty-mile journey, Milo’s eyes were closed. By mile two, he was snoring.

Hard to say if that indicated uncanny relaxation in the face of evil and frustration or just escape. Either way, the soundtrack he provided was thunderous and steady, sibilance broken by random gasps and the occasional infantile squeak.

When my cell phone beeped, he continued the serenade.

My answering service. I triggered the hands-off.

The operator said, “Oh, Doctor, I didn’t think you’d answer, was just leaving you the message so you could get it tomorrow morning.”

“Might as well tell me.”

“It was the police,” she said. “I know you work with them but it wasn’t that lieutenant who’s always calling you, this was someone else. He said it wasn’t an emergency.”

“What’s his name?”

“Let’s see … a Detective Bamburger? Just like Hamburger with a ‘B.’ From Valley Division.”

I thanked her, switched back to manual, and punched the number.

“Bamburger, Homicide.”

“This is Alex Delaware.”

“Who? Oh. Didn’t expect you to call back so soon, Mr. Delaware.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Oh,” said Bamburger. “Says here Ph.D.—that’s a doctor, right? Sorry,
Doctor
Delaware. Anyway, reason I phoned is this business card of yours that I’m looking at right now was found at the scene of a crime and I wanted to check a few things with you.”

“Who got killed?”

A beat. “Says here you’re a psychologist.”

“I am. I’m also an LAPD consultant and I happen to be working on a multiple murder case with Lieutenant Milo Sturgis from West L.A. Division. He’s sitting right here, if you’d rather talk to him—”

“You know,” said Bamburger, “that sounds like a good idea.”

I nudged Milo’s arm. He snorted, gulped air, rolled away and faced the passenger door. A second prod, harder, got his eyes fluttering. “Huh?”

I gave him a moment to regain focus, told him about Bamburger.

He said, “Don’t know him …” Then: “What the—”

Sitting up straight, he snatched the phone. “Sturgis.”

He listened to Bamburger, turned to me. “You know someone named Alvin Brown?”

“Nope.”

“He says no.” Back to me: “Black male, thirty-one, runs a tattoo shop in North Hollywood—oh, shit.”

My turn to jolt into hyper-alertness. “A shop called Zanzibar?”

Milo verified that.

I said, “Oh, shit, indeed. Brown called himself Tigretto. He inked Frankie DiMargio. With Williams at her side.”

Milo returned to Bamburger. “You’re not going to believe this, Lloyd.”

The cop-to-cop exchange that followed took up a good chunk of the ride and I was transitioning to the 405 by the time he handed the phone back to me.

I said, “When do they think Brown got shot?”

“Sometime last night. Williams goes in and out, in full view of surveillance, doing his murder thing.”

“Didn’t notice the shop hours when I was there. Is it open late?”

“Officially it closes at seven. What it looks like is Mr. Brown came in after hours to do a tattoo and ended up shot in the back of the head. On the surface, a robbery gone bad, the register was cleaned out, but right away Bamburger had his doubts, why would someone operating a cash-business in a so-so area leave the register full overnight? The scene had a staged quality to it—a few drawers opened but no serious scrounging, plus a healthy Baggie of weed and some pills were left behind. The murder was one shot from behind, no binding or submission. Your basic surprise execution. Sound familiar?”

I said, “Brown was aware of Williams, knew he was dangerous. He promised to let me know if Williams showed up again.”

“So Williams set up the appointment using another name. Or Busty Bertha did. She comes in, sits in the chair, in walks Romeo and boom.”

My stomach knotted. “I hope my card wasn’t what got Brown killed.”

“That was the case it wouldn’t a been found in his pant pocket. Williams and his girlfriend concentrated on killing and staging, no reason to frisk the victim.”

“So why make a new victim?”

“Same as Corey,” he said. “Tying up loose ends, they’ve got to be planning a serious escape.”

I said, “Wonder if any tattooing actually got done. You find new
skinwork on either of them and match it to a bloody stencil, you’ve got nice evidence.”

He redialed Bamburger, got the answer quickly.

“A stencil was left on the chair. But no bloody tissues, no bottles of ink nearby, so looks like it didn’t actually get used. And guess what the design was: miniature horn of plenty, kind of girlie. Sparkly rays, twinkly little stars, a whole bunch of nature’s bounty tumbling out.”

“More culinary art,” I said. “He considered branding his new friend, decided not to risk it, but killed the messenger anyway.”

Both of us reluctant to tag the friend as Meredith Santos. Because she’d served her country, was, by all accounts, a class act.

Not that either of us was willing to trust our instincts.

I drove, hands riveted to the wheel.

Milo stared out the windshield and went mute but didn’t fall back asleep. When I pulled up to the West L.A. station, he got out without a word.

I slept poorly, watched the sun rise as my brain channel-surfed between fatigue and restlessness.

Thinking of John Jensen Williams. Knowing he could be anywhere. Everywhere.

Instant mood-disorder mix, just add failure.

When I got to Milo’s office at eleven a.m. he acknowledged me with a two-finger salute and kept typing.

NCIC on the screen, followed by a statewide site that concentrated on recent felonies. Running Meredith Santos through all the databases, still not knowing if she was a victim, an offender, or both.

She was a decorated army veteran. Administrative specialist—ordering supplies—in the thick of battle, a base near Fallujah.

Honorable discharge three years ago. Pure as milk.