We walked to the front of the green house, stepping around a low, chipped stucco wall that created a small patio. The front door was glossy and sharp-smelling-fresh varnish. White curtains blocked the front window. Shiny brass door knocker. Milo lifted it and let it drop.
Footsteps. An Asian man opened the door. Sixties, angular, and tanned, he wore a beige work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, matching cotton pants, white sneakers. Creepily close to Starkweather inmate duds. I felt my hands ball and forced them to loosen.
"Yes?" His hair was sparse and white, his eyes a pair of surgical incisions. In one hand was a crumpled gray rag.
Milo flashed the badge. "We're here about George Orson."
"Him." Weary smile. "No surprise. Come on in."
We followed him into a small, empty living room. Next door was a kitchen, also empty, except for a six-pack of paper towel rolls on the brown tile counter. A mop and a broom were propped in a corner, looking like exhausted marathon dancers. The house echoed of vacancy, but stale odors- cooked meat, must, tobacco-lingered, battling for domir nance with soap, ammonia, varnish from the door.
Vacant, but more lived-in than Claire's place.
The man held out his hand. "Len Itatani."
"You work for the owner, sir?" said Milo.
Itatani smiled. "I am the owner." He produced a couple of business cards.
TBL Properties, Inc. LEONARD J. ITATANI, PRES.
"Named it after my kids. Tom, Beverly, Linda. So what did Orson do?"
"Sounds like you had problems with him, sir," said Milo.
"Nothing but," said Itatani. He glanced around the room. "Sorry there's no place to sit. There's some bottled water, if you're thirsty. Too hot to be cleaning up, but summer's prime rental time and I want to get this place squared away."
"No thanks," said Milo. "What did Orson do?"
Itatani pulled a square of tissue paper from his shirt pocket and dabbed a clear, broad forehead. No moisture on the bronze skin that I'd noticed. "Orson was a bum.
Always late with his rent; then he stopped paying at all. Neighbor complained he was selling drugs, but I don't know about that, there was nothing I could do. She said all kinds of cars would show up at night, be here a short time, and leave. I told her to call the police."
"Did she?"
"You'd have to ask her."
"Which neighbor?"
"Right next door." Itatani pointed south.
Milo's pad was out. "So you never talked to Orson about selling drugs?"
"I was going to, eventually," said Itatani. "What I did try to talk to him about was the rent. Left messages under the door-he never gave me a phone listing, said he hadn't bothered to get one. That shouldI've warned me." Another swipe at the dry brow. "Didn't want to scare him off with any drug talk until he paid the rent he owed me. Was this close to posting notice. But he moved out, middle of the night.
Stole furniture. I had his first and last and damage deposit in cash, but he trashed more than was covered by the deposit-cigarette burns on the nightstands, cracked tiles in the bathroom, gouges in the wood floors, probably from dragging cameras around."
"Cameras?"
"Movie cameras-big, heavy stuff. All sorts of stuff in boxes, too. I warned him about the floors; he said he'd be careful." He grimaced. "Had to refinish a hundred square feet of oak board, replace some of it totally. I told him no filming in the house, didn't want any funny business."
"Like what?"
"You know," said Itatani. "A guy like that, says he's making movies but he's living here. My first thought was something X-rated. I didn't want that going on here, so I made it clear: this was a residence, not a budget studio. Orson said he had no intention of working here, had some kind of arrangement with one of the studios, he just needed to store some equipment. I never really believed that-you get a studio contract, you don't live here. I had a bad feeling about him from the beginning-no references, he said he'd been freelancing for a while, working on his own projects.
When I asked him what kind of projects, he just said short films, changed the subject. But he showed me cash. It was the middle of the year, the place had been vacant for a long time, I figured a bird in the hand."
"When did he start renting, sir?"
"Eleven months ago," said Itatani. "He stayed for six months, stiffed me for the last two."
"So it's been five months since he left," said Milo. "Have you had other tenants since?"
"Sure," said Itatani. "First two students, then a hairdresser. Not much better, had to evict them both."
"Did Orson live alone?"
"Far as I know. I saw him with a couple of women; whether or not he moved them in, I don't know. So what'd he do to get you down here?"
"A few things," said Milo. "What did the women look like?"
"One was one of those rock-and-roll types-blond hair, all spiky, lots of makeup. She was here when I showed up to ask about the overdue rent. Said she was a friend of
Orson's, he was out on location, she'd give him the message."
"How old?"
"Twenties, thirties, hard to tell with all that makeup. She wasn't tough or anything-kind of polite, actually. Promised to tell Orson. Nothing happened for a week, I stopped by again but no one was here. I left a note, another week passed,
Orson sent me a check. It bounced."
"Remember what bank it was from?"
"Santa Monica Bank, Pico Boulevard," said Itatani. "Closed account, he'd only had it for a week. I came over a third time, looked through the window, saw he still had his stuff here. I could've posted right there, but all that does is cost money for filing. Even if you win in Small Claims, try collecting. So I left more messages.
He'd call back, but always late at night when he knew I wasn't in." He ticked his ringers. " 'Sorry, been traveling.' 'There must be a bank mixup.' 'I'll get you a cashier's check.' By the next month, I'd had it, but he was gone."
"What about the second woman?" said Milo.
"Her I didn't meet, I just saw her with him. Getting into his car-that's another thing. His car. Yellow Corvette. Flashy. That he had money for. The time I saw the second woman was around the same time-five, six months ago. I'd come by to get the rent, no one was home. I left a note, drove away, got halfway up the block, saw
Orson's car, turned around. Orson parked and got out. But then he must've seen me, because he got back in and drove off. Fast, we passed each other. I waved but he kept going. She was on the passenger side. Brunette. I'd already met the blonde, remember thinking He can 'tpay the rent but he can afford two girlfriends."
"You figured the brunette was his girlfriend."
"She was with him, middle of the day. They were about to go into the house."
"What else can you tell me about her?"
"I didn't get much of a look at her. Older than the blonde, I think. Nothing unusual. When she passed me, she was looking out the window. Right at me. Not smiling or anything. I remember thinking she looked confused-like why was Orson making a getaway, but... I really can't say much about her. Brunette, that's about it."
"How about a description of Orson?"
"Tall, skinny. Every time I saw him he wore nothing but black. He had these black boots with big heels that made him even taller. And that shaved head-real
Hollywood."
"Shaved head," said Milo.
"Clean as a cueball," said Itatani.
"How old?"
"Thirties, maybe forty."
"Eye color?"
"That I couldn't tell you. He always reminded me of a vulture. Big nose, little eyes-I think they were brown, but I wouldn't swear to it."
"How old was the brunette in the car?"
Itatani shrugged. "Like I said, we passed for two seconds."
"But probably older than the blonde," said Milo.
"I guess."
Milo produced Claire's County Hospital staffphoto.
Itatani studied the picture, returned it, shaking his head. "No reason it couldn 't be her, but that's as much as I can say. Who is she?"
"Possibly an associate of Orson. So you saw the brunette with Orson five, six months ago."
"Let me think.... I'd say closer to five. Not long before he moved out." Itatani dabbed his face again. "All these questions, he must've done something really bad."
"Why's that, sir?"
"For you to be spending all this time. I get burglaries at some of my other properties, robberies, it's all I can do to get the police to come out and write a report. I knew that guy was wrong."
Milo pressed Itatani for more details without success; then we walked through the house. Two bedrooms, one bath, everything redolent of soap. Fresh paint; new carpeting in the hallway. The replaced floorboards were in the smaller bedroom. Milo rubbed his face. Any physical evidence of Wark's presence had long vanished.
He said, "Did Orson keep any tools here-power tools?" "In the garage," said Itatani.
"He set up a whole shop. He kept more movie stuff in there, too. Lights, cables, all kinds of things."
"What kind of tools did he have in the shop?" "The usual," said Itatani. "Power drill, hand tools, power saws. He said he sometimes built his own sets."
The garage was flat-roofed and double-width, taking up a third of the tiny backyard.
Outsized for the house. I remarked on that.
Itatani unlocked the sliding metal door and shoved it up. "I enlarged it years ago, figured it would make the place easier to rent."
Inside were walls paneled in cheap fake oak, a cement floor, an open-beam ceiling with a fluorescent fixture dangling from a header. The smell of disinfectant burned my nose.
"You've cleaned this, too," said Milo.
"First thing I cleaned," said Itatani. "The hairdresser brought cats in. Against the rules-he had a no-pets lease. Litter boxes and those scratch things all over the place. Took days to air out the stink." He sniffed. "Finally."
Milo paced the garage, examined the walls, then the floor. He stopped at the rear left-hand corner, beckoned me over. Itatani came, too.
Faint mocha-colored splotch, amoebic, eight or nine inches square.
Milo knelt and put his face close to the wall, pointed. Specks of the same hue dotted the paneling. Brown on brown, barely visible.
Itatani said, "Cat pee. I was able to scrub some of it off."
"What did it look like before you cleaned it?"
"A little darker."
Milo got up and walked along the back wall very slowly. Stopped a few feet down, wrote in his pad. Another splotch, smaller.
"What?" said Itatani.
Milo didn't answer.
"What?" Itatani repeated. "Oh-you don't- Oh, no..." For the first time, he was sweating.
Milo cell-phoned the crime-scene team, apologized to Itatani for the impending disruption, and asked him to stay clear of the garage. Then he got some yellow tape from the unmarked and stretched it across the driveway.
Itatani said, "Still looks like cat dirt to me," and went to sit in his Oldsmobile.
Milo and I walked over to the south-side neighbor. Another Spanish house, bright white. The mat in front of the door said
GO AWAY. Very loud classical music pounded through the walls. No response to the doorbell. Several hard knocks finally opened the door two inches, revealing one bright blue eye, a slice of white skin, a smudge of red mouth.
"What?" a cracked voice screeched.
Milo shouted back, "Police, ma'am!"
"Show me some I.D."
Milo held out the badge. The blue eye moved closer, pupil contracting as it confronted daylight.
"Closer," the voice demanded.
Milo put the badge right up against the crack. The blue eye blinked. Several seconds passed. The door opened.
The woman was short, skinny, at least eighty, with hair dyed crow-feather black and curled in Marie Antoinette ringlets that reminded me of blood sausages. A face powdered chalky added to the aging-courtesan look. She wore a black silk dressing gown spattered with gold stars, three strings of heavy amber beads around her neck, giant pearl drop earrings. The music in the background was assertive and heavy-Wagner or Bruckner or someone else a goose-stepper would've enjoyed. Cymbals
crashed. The woman glared. Behind her was a huge white grand piano piled high with books.