Motive (36 page)

I circled three more times. Satisfied that none of the vehicles was parked nearby, Milo had me pull over a block north of Melrose.

He unlatched his seat belt. “Okay, National Geographic fans, time to explore the world of lusty gustation.”

I said, “Maybe I should go in alone?”

“Why?”

“Williams saw both of us but I might be able to slip in easier, avoid attracting too much attention.”

“You think Williams could be in there?”

“Just covering bases.”

“Why would you have it easier?”

“I don’t look like a cop.”

He scanned my clothes. Black turtleneck, jeans, brown deck shoes. He was wearing a gray suit that had long surrendered to gravity, a wash ’n wear shirt that could’ve been off-white or just overlaundered, and a skinny tie made of something.

“What, I can’t pass as a hipster gourmet?”

“Place like that,” I said, “it isn’t about the food.”

“What’s it about?”

“I’m not sure.”

He thought for a while. “Okay, but don’t stay in long, keep your phone on with my cell on the screen. Let me know if you see anything remotely interesting.”

I stepped into a room full of noise and aroma. Squarely in the lunch hour, the restaurant’s waiting area was jammed with skinny people craving small plates at big prices.

I peered through the crowd and caught a glimpse of the open kitchen. Just like the first time, frantic activity.

Unlike the first time, Darius Kleffer wasn’t part of it.

I spotted him sitting at a table-for-two against the left wall of the
restaurant, his back to me. But recognizable because of his Mohawk, his inked arm, his black chef’s togs.

His companion was a woman in her twenties with long, lustrous black hair. Diagonal bangs sliced through a section of her longish face. Gigantic gold hoops dangled from her ears.

Serious eye makeup and cheek-rouge. Big dark eyes.

She wore a sleeveless red jersey top, silver jeans, gray suede knee boots with half-foot heels. Tattoos on her flesh, too, a blue-and-maroon sleeve on her left arm. The rest of her was fish-belly white.

Pleasant but unremarkable face.

Remarkable body.

Her chest was monumental, heralded by the scoop neck of the red top. The blouse was cut low enough to barely skirt nipples poking through jersey. A central cleft was deep enough to conceal a paperback book.

Kleffer was doing all the talking. She was doing all the hair-flipping and the lash-batting and the smiling.

Both of them leaning in, faces inches from the bottle of white wine set between them. Glasses one-third full. Unidentifiable tidbits on the plates.

A voice at the head of the queue said, “Sor-ry, nothing ye-et.” The same snotty voice as over the phone. No regret at all, just a gloating drawl.

More people squeezed into the waiting area. The host took that as a signal to ignore everyone as he pretended to peruse the reservation book.

Seeing him gave me a start. At first glance, he bore a striking resemblance to Jens Williams.

Second glance modified that: This prince was slightly older and six inches shorter. But the overall look was the same: longish, greasy, calculatedly messy dark hair, heavy-duty nerd-specs, cheap sharkskin suit tailored too-short and too-tight, black shirt, pink string tie.

I realized that Williams’s hipster cliché style would work in the city—in any good-sized city—enabling him to blend in and seek new venues.

The host kept fake-reading.

The crowd of aspiring tapa-istas closed ranks in front of me. Someone elbowed my ribs. Someone else had the temerity to grumble but that protest died quickly under the glare of disapproving conformity offered by the rest of the crowd.

In this world, waiting in line was a badge of honor and griping was politically incorrect.

Maybe the mussels soufflé really was amazing.

I got shoved again.

Turned and made my exit.

Someone scolded, “You can’t do that, you’ll lose your place.”

Back behind the wheel, I described what I’d seen.

Milo said, “Busty lady.”

“Breast reduction would leave her busty.”

“You think she’s the one Williams was shacking up with next door?”

“Or he found another like her.”

“So, not Santos. Is that good or bad?”

I didn’t reply.

“Damn … or maybe it’s a coincidence and Kleffer’s just hanging with his new flame.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But the interaction I saw was more flirtation than comfortable relationship.”

“So he just met her, is wooing with his cuisine. No sign of Williams?”

“Nope.”

“If Ms. Bosoms is keeping house with Williams, he’s using her as lure to draw out Kleffer.”

“Whatever she’s selling, Kleffer’s buying.”

His lips vibrated like a trumpeter’s. “Okay, let’s find parking across the street—near one of those other restaurants. Somewhere we can keep an eye on that cut between the buildings where Kleffer goes to smoke and wax dramatic.”

Three other eateries with similar clienteles. Every inch of curb the dominion of private valets.

I eased the Seville behind a Bentley coupe that shouldn’t have been painted orange, and cut the engine.

Perfect view of the cut. Milo said, “Now we wait.”

A red-jacket ran over and tried to open the driver’s door I’d kept locked. He squinted. “Ah teck it forrr you.”

High-pitched, eager, Mideast accent.

Milo said, “We’ll just stay here.”

“No, no, rrrestorant awnly.”

“No, no, us.”

“Sirrr—”

“Come closer, my friend.”

“Huh?”

“C’mere.”

No reason for the man to comply but Milo’s curled finger drew him in as if the digit were magnetically charged. Flashing a twenty, Milo unfolded the bill and revealed what he had wrapped underneath.

The valet’s eyes caromed from the cash to the gold shield.

“Huh?”

“This is your lucky day, friend. Money for nothing and we stay here for free.”

The valet blinked. “Det’s a song?”

“No, just reality.”

L.A.’s not known for wearing out shoe leather, especially when the sun shines and sitting around beckons. But the stretch of Melrose where Beppo Bippo and a slew of other eateries sat boasted an intermittent but healthy parade of pedestrians.

Some of the foot-traffic veered to sample Darius Kleffer’s cuisine. Others kept going and made different choices.

The cut between the buildings remained empty. Kleffer back to his knives or still enjoying the company of the woman in the red jersey.

Milo said, “She look like a stripper to you? ’Scuse me, a dancer.”

I drew back in mock outrage. “A girl’s curvy, she can’t be a neurosurgeon?”

“Curvy with tattoos?”

“Actually,” I said. “I gave a lecture to a bunch of med students a couple of months ago. A few had been inked.”

“Changing world.” He yawned. “Not really. Not where it counts.”

The valet he’d paid off took keys from an Audi, sped off, and returned to drop off a Mercedes. A second man joined him at the booth. Heavyset
mustachioed Anglo wearing a black sport coat, red slacks and bow tie.

The head valet. Did he get to play with the Lamborghinis?

He looked at us, said something to his colleague. Brief chat, then Bow Tie rolled over like a tank on treads.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to move.”

Milo repeated the money-wrapped badge routine. Bow Tie grinned. “Thanks, guys.” Examining the bill, he rolled away.

I said, “What was that?”

“The rhythm of life.”

Forty bucks was enough for the valets to work around us, as we sat for half an hour. Twenty-five minutes in, Frank Gonzales reported more good news: the discovery of John Jensen Williams’s van.

“Right there at the harbor, he didn’t even try to be subtle.”

“Took a while to find it.”

“It’s a big place, he left it out on the north end, near one of the boatyards. No, not the one where Corey stored his tub, that’s still in dry dock. And no one has Williams renting any kind of watercraft.”

“Anything interesting in the van, Frank?”

“Nothing obvious, let’s see what the scrapers pull up. I asked for it to be towed to our lab, Ventura had no problem with that. Anything on your end?”

Milo told him about the woman flirting with Kleffer.

Gonzales said, “Sounds like the one got my rookie’s pulse throbbing. So not Santos?”

“Nope.”

“That could be too bad for her. I’ll keep on the alerts, results are supposed to come straight to my computer, but you know how it is.”

“I do, Frank.”

“Look at us,” said Gonzales. “We can send a man to the moon but we can’t find squat.”

Thirty-four minutes into the surveillance, the head valet began to approach us a second time, smiling hungrily.

All that nothing hadn’t done much for Milo’s mood and the warning look he shot was enough to send the man scampering away.

“Greedy fool,” he said.

I said, “Look.”

Darius Kleffer and the woman in the red top had exited the restaurant and turned left. Toward the cut. Kleffer already had his cigarettes out.

Even with the giant heels on her boots, the woman was petite, not much over five feet tall. That and a tiny, tight waist and first-rate posture made her chest seem even bigger.

She carried a small purse covered in some sort of white-and-black fur. Her gait was pride epitomized, flaring hips rolling as if on ball bearings, each buttock cheek functioning independently.

Great muscle control. Accustomed to flaunting her body.

Maybe a “dancer,” indeed.

Walking next to her, Darius Kleffer’s slouch was sad.

He stopped at the same spot he’d chosen when we’d talked to him, pressing his back to the brick wall and facing the woman. She edged closer.

He offered her a cigarette that she accepted. He lit up both of them.

They smoked and flirted some more and a couple of times the woman’s mouth opened wide with glee and she threw her head back and set off a brunette tsunami, finished the mini-production by touching Kleffer’s arm.

The badinage continued, interrupted in spurts by passing pedestrians.

“Ah, true love,” said Milo.

A few more minutes of clear view, more passersby. Milo tapped the dashboard.

I said, “What’s the song?”

“ ‘Colonel Bogey March.’ ” He shut his eyes.

I kept watching. More pedestrians.

One of them had stopped a couple of feet shy of the cut.

Tall man in a black baseball cap and long black raincoat.

Illogical choice for a warm, clear afternoon.

Just as I nudged Milo, the man turned into the cut, hand reaching under the coat.

I swung the driver’s door open. Milo was already out of the car, running across Melrose, dodging traffic in two directions, setting off a storm of honks and curses. I hurried to catch up, caught my own share of hostility.

Maybe it was the noise, maybe not. The man in the baseball cap turned.

Long, bony face.

Wide, black-lensed sunglasses.

A perfectly square dark soul patch bottomed a thin lower lip. The portion of scalp visible beneath the cap was shaved clean. Fingernails were polished black.

But no mistaking John Jensen Williams. The knife in his hand.

A sudden thrust toward the interior of the cut.

Milo neared the curb, gun drawn. Pedestrians screamed, scattered. Someone shouted, “Dial 911!”

Williams waved the knife. Long, curved blade. Like the one Robin and I used to gut and bone fish.

Inches of metal glazed crimson.

Darius Kleffer lay on the ground, clutching his abdomen.

The woman in the red jersey stood between him and J. J. Williams, expressionless. Unsurprised.

Then, spotting Milo and his gun, she began fake-crying.

Hnh hnh hnh
.

John Jensen Williams looked at his knife. Turned back to Kleffer, now moaning in agony.

Milo said, “Drop it! Now! Drop it!”

Williams said, “You bet, this was self-defense,” in a mild voice. He lowered his arm. His fingers loosened. The knife dangled.

“Drop it!”

“I’m trying to, I’m a little nervous.” Williams smiled shyly. The knife canted downward.

His fingers tightened. Now the blade was tilting up.

He lunged at Milo.

Milo shot him, center of body mass, just like they teach you at the academy.

Williams, the rip in his raincoat barely noticeable, remained on his feet.

“Aw,” he murmured, looking steady.

Protective vest?

Milo must have wondered the same thing. He shot again, creating a noticeable hole in John Jensen Williams’s smooth, pale forehead.

Williams said, “Wow,” and dropped hard. Nearly landed on Kleffer, who was mewling and losing color.

The woman in the red top flipped her hair. “Oh, thank you, sir! You saved my life.”

Not a glance at Darius Kleffer, now screaming in agony, blood leaking around his fingers.

I went to tend to him.

Milo cuffed the woman.

She said, “Sir. I’m the victim.”

“Of your own stupidity.”

“
You’re
stupid. Fat and ugly, too.”