Like
his sister, Nestor Almedeira had a round face. Bad living had wiped out any
other resemblance to her.
I
motioned for the picture and took a closer look. Nestor had been the baby of
the family, but he looked ten years older than Anita. His head had been tilted
by the morgue photographer to give a view of the entrance wound. Left temple,
black-and-ruby hole sharpened by stellate skin shredding and framed by a
pointillist ring of powder.
Milo
said, “Was he sitting when he was shot?”
“Right
on the park bench,” said Krug. “Your kiddie killer was sitting, too?”
“Maybe
in a car. Anything happening on the case, Phil?”
“You’re
about it,” said Krug, finishing his burger and wiping his lips. “Be sure to let
me know if you learn anything. Be nice to close this one, even if no one else
gives a shit.”
“No
family agitation,” said Milo.
“You
met the sister. She thinks Nestor was scum. Family wasn’t making any moves to
claim the body, coroner had to keep bugging them. Finally, one of the brothers
paid for the mortuary to pick it up.”
Krug
waved and the waitress brought the check and placed it in the center of the
table. He took some time cleaning his mustache, pulled a steel toothpick from
his shirt pocket and worked it around his gum line.
“So.”
He smiled.
Milo
picked up the check.
Krug
said, “You made my day,” and sauntered out.
When
the waitress came by for payment, Milo said, “We’ll have coffee.”
She
glanced disapprovingly at the completed bill. “I’ll have to retotal.”
Milo
handed her a wad of bills. “Keep it.” She flipped through the money and winked.
“On the house.”
As
she returned to the counter, he said, “If Malley was the white man who paid
Nestor to hit Troy Turner, Nestor was an obstacle that had to be cleared up. On
the other hand, Nestor had a big mouth, and for all those years at C.Y.A. he
never gave Malley up.”
“Because
he wanted to get out,” I said. “But once he was free— and stoned— his
inhibitions dropped. He bragged to Anita, so there’s a good chance he talked to
other people. The problem is, they were probably people who didn’t care.”
“Other
junkies and losers,” he said. “To them he’d be just another fool shooting off
his mouth. Anita did care and tried to report it and everyone shined her on.”
Milo
pulled on his upper lip. “Another proud moment for the
department. . . . Nestor’s crime scene sounds a lot like Rand’s.
And Lara’s. Okay, that makes Malley suspect-of-the-week.”
“There’s
another unnatural death we should think about. Jane Hannabee was killed a few
months after Troy. When I interviewed her she predicted Troy’s death. Said his
notoriety would make him a desirable target. From what Anita said, that’s
exactly how Nestor saw him.”
“You
think Hannabee figured out who paid to kill Troy?”
“Or
she was eliminated out of revenge because she spawned Troy,” I said.
“You
destroy my family, I destroy you. Man, that’s cold.”
“So
is shooting your own wife six months after she’s lost her only child and faking
it as suicide.”
His
forehead creased. “Hannabee wasn’t shot.”
“Neither
was Troy,” I said. “Because Troy was behind bars and with all of C.Y.A.’s
problems, they keep firearms out. Shooting someone in a homeless encampment in
the middle of the night would be possible but extremely reckless. Hannabee’s
murder was so stealthy it wasn’t discovered for hours. She was pulled out of
her sleeping bag, cut, slid back in, rewrapped in plastic.”
“You’re
saying signature doesn’t matter to Malley.”
“He’s
not governed by a structured compulsion because his goal isn’t sexual
satisfaction. His goal is housecleaning. Whatever gets the job done.”
“Alex,
if Malley’s really done all these people, he’s still a serial killer. Guess
Rand’s grandmother’s the lucky one, dying of disease.”
The
coffee arrived. The waitress set Milo’s mug down with exquisite caution, leaned
over and flashed a triangle of freckled chest. Tight wrinkles tugged at her
cleavage. She lingered for a second before straightening.
“Anything
else?” she said with a song in her voice.
“Nope,
we’re fine, Elise.”
“You’re
very kind,” she said.
“So
they tell me.”
* * *
We
headed back to West L.A., taking Sixth again. Milo slowed to glance at
Lafayette Park. Trees, lawns, benches, a few men sitting, a couple of others
walking. The courthouse on Commonwealth loomed. Who’d have thought so much
threat resided in empty, green space.
He
said, “Anyone approaching the campgrounds where Malley lives from either
direction on Soledad would be spotted easily. There’s nowhere to hide on the
road, so forget surveillance. Not that surveillance would tell me anything. Doesn’t
sound as if Malley’s gonna go pub-crawling and blab to lowlife friends.”
He
rubbed his face and made an abrupt lane shift that evoked frenzied honks.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.
The
honker’s Toyota whipped in front of us. On the rear bumper was a
War Is Not
the Answer
sticker.
Milo
growled. “It got rid of slavery in America and Nazis in Germany.”
I
said, “If Malley’s still active in the drug trade, he might leave the campsite
periodically.”
“Unless
I can watch him, how the hell do I find that out?”
“Maybe
his boss is more aware of his comings and goings than she let on.”
“Bunny
the stuntwoman? Think there’s more than a work relationship, there? I sensed
something personal going on.”
“Maybe.
She made a point about not keeping tabs on Malley. Which was an answer to a
question you didn’t ask.”
“The
lady protesting too much?” he said. “If she is Barnett’s love-interest,
questioning her further is only going to alert him. I’m gonna call the coroner
about Nestor’s belongings, check out his dump on Shatto despite what Krug said.
Anita was right about Krug. He doesn’t give a shit. I also know a Ramparts
uniform who might be able to turn me on to some street junkies, maybe I’ll get
lucky and find out Nestor blabbed to someone else. Better check into Jane Hannabee’s
death, too. Big-time fun, huh?”
“Can
you handle more complication?”
“What
doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”
“If
Malley’s anger extends to everyone he perceives as having been on the boys’
side, and killing Rand rekindled his rage, the Daneys could be in jeopardy. If
Malley was outside Rand’s window that night, he could’ve been spying on them as
well.”
He
thought about that. “Yeah, they should probably be warned, but it’s tricky.
What if they go over to Malley’s place and try to talk things out? Being all
spiritual and positive about basic human goodness and all that. If we’re right
about what happened to Rand, heartfelt discussion with Cowboy Barnett is not a
prescription for longevity.”
“Warn
them not to have contact with him,” I said.
“Think
I can compete with God?”
“Good
point,” I said. “Cherish, especially, might try to talk things out. She fancies
herself a therapist.”
“God
bless the God-pushers. You like feel-good religion, Alex? Inherent blessedness
of the human spirit, eternal forgiveness, the certainty of an afterlife where
all is bright and airy?”
“Everyone
needs comfort.”
He
laughed angrily. “Give me that
old-
time religion, bro. And I ain’t
talking rousing hymns and babbling in tongues. My childhood was nuns who
smacked my hands raw and priests stoked by guilt and hellfire and blood
sacrifice.”
“Blood
sacrifice sells movies,” I said.
“Sells
entire civilizations.”
“Optimism’s
for wimps?”
“Hey,
it’s great if you can swallow it,” he said. “Blind Faith 101.”
* * *
After
dropping me back at my place, Milo leaned out the passenger window. “Has my
resolute negativity brought you down? Because there’s something you can do for
me while I’m up to my neck in Nestorania.”
“Sure.
“How
about
you
warn the Daneys? Be psychologically sensitive and hold back if
you sense they’re gonna do something stupid. And as long as we’re putting out
warnings, what about the boys’ lawyers— talk about getting on Malley’s wrong
side. Remember their names?”
“Sydney
Weider for Troy, Lauritz Montez for Rand.”
“That
just rolled off your tongue. The case stayed with you.”
“Until
Rand called, I thought I’d forgotten about it.”
“So
much for optimism, pal. Anyway, feel free to schmooze with them, too. I hate
talking to lawyers.”
M
onday, I called the Daneys’ home. No one answered, so
I turned to Sydney Weider and Lauritz Montez.
Weider
was no longer at the Public Defender’s and I found no home or office listing
for her. Lauritz Montez was still a P.D. but he’d moved uptown to the Beverly
Hills office.
He
answered his own extension, just the way he’d done years ago. This time, my
name evoked silence. When I asked him if he’d heard about Rand, he said,
“Oh . . . you’re the psychologist. No, what about him?”
“He
was murdered.”
“Shit,”
he said. “When?”
“Nine
days ago.”
His
voice went flat as lawyer’s wariness took over: “You didn’t call just to inform
me.”
“I’d
like to talk to you. Could we meet?”
“What
about?”
“It
would be better in person,” I said.
“I
see . . . when were you thinking?”
“Sooner’s
better than later.”
“Okay . . .
what is it now, four-thirty, I’ve got paperwork but I need to eat. Know where
the Bagel Bin is on Little Santa Monica?”
“I’ll
find it.”
“Bet
you will. Five sharp.”
* * *
The
place was New Age Deli: glass cases of smoked fish and meat and all the right
salads, but the stainless-steel/vinyl ambience was autopsy room. Maybe that was
honest; lots of creatures had died to feed the early-dinner throng.
I
arrived on time but Lauritz Montez was already at the counter ordering. I hung
back and let him finish.
His hair
was now completely gray but remained long and ponytailed. The same waxed
mustache fanned across his bony face; the chin fuzz was gone. He wore a
wrinkled cream linen suit, a pink button-down shirt, and a bottle-green bow
tie. Two-tone olive suede and brown leather wingtips graced narrow feet; the
left shoe tapped the floor rapidly.
He
paid, got an order slip, turned, nodded.
“You
look pretty much the same,” he said, motioning me toward the single open table.
“So
do you.”
“Thanks
for lying.”
We
sat and he began arranging the salt and pepper shakers and the sugar bowl into
a tight little triangle. “I did some checking and found out Rand’s a West L.A.
homicide case but no one will tell me anything. You must be wired right into
the cops.”
“I’m
consulting on the case.”
“Who’s
the detective?”
“Milo
Sturgis.”
“Don’t
know him.” He studied me. “Still a prosecution groupie, huh? How long was Rand
out of custody before he got killed?”
“Three
days.”
“Jesus.
How’d it happen?”
“He
was shot in the head and dumped near the 405 North in Bel Air.”
“Sounds
like an execution.”
“It
does.”
“Any
physical evidence?” he said.
“You’d
have to ask Detective Sturgis.”
“Such
discretion. What do you want from me?”
A kid
in a paper hat and an apron brought his order. Sliced pumpernickel bagel, baked
salmon, sides of coleslaw and baked beans, Styrofoam cup of tea.
I
said, “There are no real suspects, but there is a hypothesis. And speaking of
discretion— ”
“Yeah,
yeah, sure. So you work full time for the other side?”
“The
other side?”
“The
righteous bunch that sits on the other side of the courtroom. Are you a
resident prosecution expert or just a freelance?”
“I do
occasional consultations.”
“Have
Freud, will travel?” He lined up his utensils perfectly parallel to his plate.
Removed a sugar packet from the bowl and squared a folded corner before
slipping it back in. “What’s the hypothesis?”
I
said, “They’re looking at Kristal Malley’s father.”
He
said, “That guy. Always thought he hated my guts. You really think he’d be that
nuts?”