Motive (35 page)

A greasy box sat next to Milo’s computer. “Want some brunch?”

“No, thanks.”

He fortified himself with a cruller, a donut, and a bear claw. Wiped his chin and announced, “Now the fun part of my day,” and phoned Santos’s parents in Arizona.

Her mother answered and he said, “It’s Lieutenant Sturgis from L.A., again,” and labored unsuccessfully to avoid frightening the woman. When he finally worked in John Jensen Williams’s name, she said, “Never heard of him, sir.” A gasp. Tears.

A new voice came on, sharp as a box cutter. Captain Henry Santos, U.S. Army (ret.), taking the phone from his wife. “What’s that name?” he snapped.

Milo repeated it. “He could also be going by J.J. or Jens—”

“Negative on all counts. Not known to the family. You’re saying he did something to Merry?”

“We don’t know that, sir.”

“But you suspect or you wouldn’t be bringing him up.”

“We’re not sure but it’s possible, Captain Santos.”

“None of this makes sense, sir. I trained the girl in self-defense, she knows how to take care of herself.”

I thought: Martial arts takes on a black-belt in psychopathy? Don’t get your hopes up.

Milo said, “For all we know she hasn’t—”

“This is going to be bad,” said Henry Santos. “I can feel it.”

A check of the APBs and BOLOs on the van, the Corolla, and the Lexus produced no leads.

Milo said, “Wonder if the Corey girls knew Williams was living next door, maybe they can identify the woman with him … I’m groping, but let’s give it another try.”

The sisters had stopped using their credit cards.

I said, “If they’re staying with relatives in Canada, maybe you can find out who. What was Ursula’s maiden name?”

He flipped through the Corey murder book, shook his head. “Her middle name on her license, ready for this: Gladys.” He logged onto county tax records. Nothing.

I said, “May I?”

“May you what?”

“Type.”

A civilian using a police computer is a big no-no. Every day Milo and I spend working together probably breaks a dozen rules.

I sped straight onto the information highway, plugging in
ursula gladys british diplomat
, hoping the combination of keywords would narrow things down.

It did.

A single hit, but the right one: eleven-year-old obituary from
The Times
of London.

Lionel P. L. Overland, a retired foreign service official who’d been posted to Bangkok, Singapore, and Hong Kong, had passed after a long illness. Eton, Cambridge, London University, faithful service to the Crown, et cetera. Retirement enriched by a love for orchids originating during his years in the Far East.

Preceded in death by his wife Gladys Mae, survived by his only child, Ursula Gladys Corey.

Ursula overland
paired with
bangkok
and
singapore
produced nothing. But
hong kong
coughed up the website of Gilbert Overland, Ltd.

High-end antiques shop in Ocean Terminal, Kowloon.

The island was sixteen hours ahead of L.A., making it just after eight a.m. I emailed.

Seconds later, I received a reply.

Gilbert Overland, Proprietor, responding with surprise but no dread.

I turned to Milo.

He typed in

I signed off and relinquished the computer.

Milo said, “Good try. At least we know not to bother looking for family. So maybe a Maple Leaf pal.”

He phoned Laura Smith and asked about friends in other cities. Sounding groggy, she said, “No way, everyone’s here.”

“Thanks again, Laura. You haven’t heard from them?”

“Uh-uh.” Yawn.
Click
.

I said, “If they’re scared enough they might turn to an adult, not a peer.”

“Friend of Mommy’s,” he said.

“The only one we know is Phyllis Tranh.”

“If she’s still a friend after dating Richard.”

“Don’t imagine that would change things,” I said.

“Why not?”

“First off, Richard and Phyllis didn’t last long. More important, Ursula would’ve been happy to have Richard occupied.”

Googling
phyllis tranh
produced the California business registration for Diamond Products and Sundries, Inc. The company was a sizable concern with additional locations in Las Vegas and New Jersey. Plus a “storage facility” in Vancouver.

“Makes sense,” I said. “It’s a trade outlet to the Far East.”

Milo punched in Albert Tranh’s home number in Beverly Hills.

Tranh said, “You’d need to talk to my daughter about that.”

“Please, sir, if you know anything about the girls’ whereabouts, it’s important to let me know.”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

“You have a warehouse in Vancouver. Do you also keep a residence there?”

“I do not.”

“Does Phyllis?”

“My daughter’s an adult, I don’t snoop into her personal affairs.”

“Where can I reach her?”

“She’s traveling.”

“Where, Mr. Tranh?”

“I’ll have to check.”

“You don’t know?”

Pause. “As I said, Phyllis is an adult and she’s extremely active and mobile.”

“Is she traveling alone?”

“She usually does.”

“I’m going to ask you a direct question, sir, and you need to answer truthfully: do you know where the Corey girls are?”

“No, Lieutenant.”

“It’s important that I reach them, Mr. Tranh.”

“May I ask why?”

“Their lives have taken another unhappy turn. Their father was murdered recently.”

“Really,” said Albert Tranh. “Who by?” Even voice.

“Unknown, sir.”

“I hope it becomes known. Good day, Lieutenant.”

Milo stared at the phone. “Real choked up, huh?”

I said, “Un-dearly departed.”

“Not a popular guy. It’s like when you split with someone and everyone starts telling you what a jerk he always was.”

He wheeled away from his desk, stretched his legs. “At least the girls are safe with Daddy out of the way. If Tranh does know something, my informing him might bring them back.” He sat up. “Williams would have no interest in them, right?”

“Not unless they witnessed something.”

“Like what?”

“Seeing Williams at the condo, overhearing something. Come to think of it, if Richard suspected they knew of his deal with Williams, that could explain his threatening behavior toward the girls.”

“More than just being fed up with their attitude? But then why would Corey move on them with that gun? I want to snag someone, I put them at ease. Like our bad boy.”

I said, “You’re rational and Williams is an experienced psychopath. But Richard was a social klutz and whatever little interpersonal judgment he began with was diminished by fear and rage.”

He shook the bakery box. Crumbs rattled. “Okay, so we leave the girls in peace until Williams is out of the picture. Hopefully in this millennium.”

He cracked his knuckles. “Bastard could be anywhere … you’re right about his being motivated by the thrill. If it was the money he was after, easy enough to sneak it out and split. Any more thoughts about his psyche?”

I said, “He thinks he’s unique but it’s the same old story: a chronic washout with a grandiose sense of himself. Could he actually work at something and succeed? Sure, but he never will, believes he deserves the goodies just for being Mr. Wonderful. Like most psychopaths, anxiety’s not a big part of his life but he’s not immune to tension and once in a while—when he lets himself think about the difference between his goals and his reality—it gets out of hand.”

“So he hunts for a slave.”

“Someone he views as inferior, allowing him to feel superior. He stalks, seduces, captures, controls, and when the thrill ebbs, he destroys. But unlike some serials, he’s not locked into a tight script. He’ll kill for money or as a jokey favor.”

“Jack of All Nasty,” he said. “Meredith Santos doesn’t sound like a submissive, but who knows?”

“If we ever get to meet her, we’ll see.”

“If?” he said. “Where’s the old optimism?”

I didn’t answer.

He frowned. “I thought you might say that.”

We left the station and took a walk up the block. Neither of us said a word.

Fresh air did nothing to unclog my head and Milo’s expression said it hadn’t helped him, either. As we began the return trip, he said, “This case, the damn food angle, has screwed up my digestive system. I can’t even
think
about lunch.”

I thought: three pastries an hour ago.

I said, “Time heals.”

As we climbed the stairs back to Milo’s office, he said, “You’re right. As usual.”

“About what?”

He touched his belt buckle. “I can imagine feeling better in a couple hours. Say, Italian.”

He spent time making sure the BOLOs had gotten to airport cops at LAX, Burbank, and John Wayne. Moments later, Frank Gonzales phoned.

“Our CS-eyers got semen and other stuff from the futons in Williams’s unit, there’ll be plenty to DNA. No gun there or at Corey’s so whatever weapon those girls saw is gone, I’m figuring Williams took it.”

“That’s how I see it,” said Milo.

“Too bad they can’t describe it so we know what to look for.”

“Maybe eventually.”

“Not that Corey used it on anyone. Sounds like a nutcase, brandishing at his own kids.”

“He wasn’t a paragon of mental health, Frank.”

“Anything from the Valley guy on that tattoo artist?”

Milo said, “Not yet.”

“I followed up on the alerts right before I called you. Still zero.”

“I know, Frank.”

“I’m boring you,” said Gonzales. “Boring myself.”

Milo phoned Lloyd Bamburger.

The Valley D said, “Hey, just about to call you. Bullet from Mr. Brown’s head is a 9mm. That match yours?”

Milo said, “My vic Corey was a .25 but it could match my vic DiMargio.”

“The slug from Brown is at the lab, where’s DiMargio?”

“At the crypt, I’ll get it sent over.”

“Anything on your alerts? Haven’t had time to check, I’m assuming nothing.”

“You’re assuming correctly, Lloyd.”

“You find something, I know you’ll tell me.”

“You’ll be among the first to know.”

“Among?” said Bamburger.

“Figured I’d phone my family back in Indiana first, Lloyd. Prove to them I really do have a job.”

Bamburger laughed and hung up.

Cradling the phone, Milo rubbed his eyes, then his entire face, played with an unlit cigar.

I said, “Just thought of something. Williams has been cleaning his plate. We need to warn Kleffer.”

The cigar snapped between his fingers. He tossed it in the trash. “Hates the guy enough to steal then off his girlfriend … oh, man.”

No answer at Kleffer’s home. A call to Beppo Bippo produced an officious host.

“Chef is
cooking
.”

“Tell Chef Lieutenant Sturgis needs to talk to him.”

“That’s not possible—”

“Make it possible.”

A stretch on hold was rendered less endurable by brain-stabbing techno music featuring the same two bars beaten senseless.

The snotty-voiced man came back on. “He is creating a mussels
soufflé
, it’s
fragile
, he can’t be
interrupted
.”

“How about his life? That fragile, too?”

Noise in the background. A beat. “Did you say something, sir?”

“Never mind.”

“I gave him your
message
, sir. He didn’t
care
.”

Milo stared at his phone.

I said, “There’s survival, then there’s mussels soufflé.”

He broke into laughter, was still convulsing as he collected his gun, keys, radio.

I said, “Where to?”

“Moron doesn’t deserve it but c’mon.”

We drove past the restaurant, cruised neighboring streets looking for J. J. Williams’s Dodge van, the Lexus registered to Meredith Santos, a gray Corolla tagged 77S XXXX, owner unknown.

During the fourth circuit, Frank Gonzales checked in again and cleared up one third of the vehicular mystery.

“Toyota just came in stolen. Woman parked it near a seafood place on the Ventura harbor. She went in for takeout, left the keys.”

“Again with cuisine,” said Milo. “Ever have mussels soufflé, Frank?”

“Sounds gross,” said Gonzales. “Top of that, I got a shellfish allergy.”

“So Williams switched cars but no sign of his van.”

“Not yet, Ventura PD’s checking the harbor, asking around at the tourist shops. They’ve got whale-watching going on, maybe the bastard hopped on a boat and jumped off somewhere, good riddance.”

“God forbid, Captain Ahab.”

“No, I’m Ishmael,” said Gonzales. “The good guy.”