Victims (30 page)

No sign of either suspect and that remained the status by eight a.m. when patients began showing up at the brass doors.

Same for nine a.m., ten, ten thirty.

Milo yawned, turned to me. “When you were in practice when did you start work?”

“Depended,” I said.

“On what?”

“The patient load, emergencies, court. Maybe all he does is insurance work. That could mean easy hours.”

“Insurance companies hire a murderous fraud.” He smiled. “Maybe he put that on his application.”

He got out, loped to the deli, ordered something, and scanned the three customers at the counter. A few minutes later, he returned with bagels and overboiled coffee. We ate and drank and lapsed into silence.

At eleven a.m., he stretched and yawned again and said, “Enough.” Radioing Reed, he instructed the young detective to alter his bum-shamble from Wilshire to Bedford where he could keep an eye on the building’s entrance. Then he informed everyone else that he was going inside to have a look.

I said, “I’ll go, too. I can point him out to you.”

He thought about that. “Doubt he’s in there but sure.”

As we walked through the blue-carpeted, oak-paneled hallway, his oversized tracksuit flapped, eliciting a few amused looks.

My designer sweater didn’t seem overly humorous but two young women in nurses’ uniforms smiled at me then broke into muted giggles as I passed.

Just a coupla wannabe clowns providing comic relief.

We took the stairs to the second floor where Milo cracked the door and scanned the corridor.

Suite 207 was just a few feet away.

The nameplate on Shacker’s door was gone.

He went and had a close look, waved me over. The glue outlines surrounding the sign were visible. Recent removal.

“Shimoff’s too good an artist,” he said. “Bastard saw his prodigy’s face on TV, burrowed straight underground.”

He radioed the detail, told them the suspects were unlikely to show but to stay in place, anyway. We took the stairs back down, searched the directory for the building’s manager, found no listing. A clerk at the ground-floor
Dispensing Apothecarie
had a business card on file.

Nourzadeh Realty, headquartered in a building on Camden Drive, right around the corner. The name on the card was the managing partner, Ali Nourzadeh. He wasn’t in and Milo spoke to a secretary.

Ten minutes later, a young woman in a red cowl-neck cashmere sweater studded with rhinestones at neck and cuffs, black tights, and three-inch heels arrived with a ring of keys big enough to burglarize a suburb.

“I’m Donna Nourzadeh. What seems to be the problem?”

Milo flashed his card, pointed to the glue-frame. “Unless your signs tend to fall off, looks like your tenant cut out.”

“Darn,” she said. “You’re sure?”

“No, but let’s have a look inside.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Why not?”

“The tenant has rights.”

“Not if he abandoned the office.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We will once we go in.”

“Hmm.”

“Donna, how long has Dr. Shacker been renting?”

“Seven months.”

Shortly before he’d screened Vita Berlin using fake credentials. Maybe he’d offered Well-Start a bargain fee that got them slavering.

Milo said, “Was he a good tenant?”

Donna Nourzadeh thought about that. “We never heard any complaints from him and he paid six months up front.”

“How much was that?”

“Twenty-four thousand.”

Milo eyed the keys.

Donna Nourzadeh said, “He did something?”

“Quite likely.”

“You don’t need a warrant?”

“Like I said, if Dr. Shacker left prematurely, you control the premises and all I need is your permission.”

“Hmm.”

“Call your boss,” said Milo. “Please.”

She complied, spoke in Farsi, selected a key, and moved toward the lock. Milo stilled her with a big index finger atop a small wrist. “Better I do it.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”

“Other business.”

He took the key. She hurried away.

The tiny white waiting room was unchanged from the time I’d seen it. Same trio of chairs, identical magazines.

Same new-age music, some sort of digitalized harp solo streaming at low volume.

The red light on the two-bulb panel was lit. In session.

Milo freed his 9mm, approached the door to the inner office and knocked.

No answer. He rapped again, tried the doorknob. It rotated with a squeal.

Stepping to the left of the door, he called out, “Doctor?”

No answer.

Louder: “Dr. Shacker?”

The music switched to flute, a nasal arpeggio, vibrating with the subtlety of a human voice.

An unhappy human, keening, whining.

Milo nudged the door another inch with his toe. Waited. Afforded himself another half inch and peeked through.

Cherry-sized lumps sprouted along his jawline. His teeth clicked as he holstered his gun.

He motioned me to follow him in.

CHAPTER
34

D
rapes were drawn on the window overlooking Bedford Drive. Low-voltage light from a desk lamp turned the pale aqua walls grayish blue.

The walnut desk was bare. The same diplomas remained affixed to the walls.

He had no further need for them, had moved on to another role.

In reduced light, the cubist print of fruit and bread looked drab and cheap. The Scandinavian chairs had been nudged closer together, set for an intimate chat.

One chair was bare.

Something occupied its mate.

Milo flicked on the ceiling light and we had a look.

A mason jar filled with clear, greasy liquid was propped against the chair-back.

Floating inside were two grayish round things.

Milo gloved up, kneeled, lifted the jar. One of the orbs shifted, exposing additional color: pale blue dot centered by a black
sphere. Pinkish strands streamed like tiny worms from the other side.

He shifted the jar again and the second orb bounced and turned, showed the same decoration, the same fuzzy pink filaments.

A pair of eyeballs. Human. Oversized pearl onions bobbing in a horrific cocktail.

Milo put the jar where it had originally sat, called for a crime scene crew, priority.

As he radioed the others, I noticed a discordant detail across the room.

The largest diploma, placed dead center behind the desk chair, had been altered. When I’d seen it, it had verified Bernhard Shacker’s doctorate from the University of Louvain.

Now a sheet of white paper blocked that boast.

I walked over.

Glue marks were evident at the periphery of the glass, bubbling the underside of the sheet.

Blank, white rectangle, but for a single message:

?

CHAPTER
35

A
coroner’s investigator named Rubenfeld took possession of the jar.

“Never seen that before,” he said. “Always a first time.”

Milo said, “Any way to tell how long they’ve been in there?”

Rubenfeld squinted. “If the fluid was real old I’d expect more discoloration, but can’t really say.” He bobbled the jar gently. “The severed ends are a little faded out—that’s small blood vessels you’re seeing, look like feathers … the eyes themselves seem a little rubbery, no? That could mean they’ve been preserved for a while, could be lab specimens.”

“They’re specimens all right,” said Milo, “but not from a lab.”

Rubenfeld licked his lips. “Giving time estimates of body parts really isn’t my pay grade, Lieutenant. Maybe Dr. Jernigan will be able to tell you.” He glanced back at the chair. “One thing you can be pretty sure of. That blue in the irises, your victim’s probably Caucasian.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Milo. Well before the crime scene crew arrived, he’d obtained a readout of Dr. Louis Wainright’s last recorded California driver’s license. Blue eyes, no need for corrective lenses.

Rubenfeld swung the carrier gently. “Least I don’t need a gurney.”

Milo got the cleaning schedule from Donna Nourzadeh. The suites were tended to weekly by a crew of five, but this week there’d been a delay and no office had been touched for three nights.

“Scheduling issues,” she said. “Now, if you don’t need me …”

Milo let her go, turned to me. “Sometime during the last seventy-two hours, the bastard planted the jar.”

I thought: He’d displayed the eyes, expecting to be discovered. Left the question mark behind to confirm his connection to the murders.

Boasting. Unworried; because he was on to a new phase?

Whatever his intentions, the man who called himself Shacker had cleaned up with care, vacuuming the rugs so thoroughly that the crime scene techs pulled up only a few crumbs. Hard surfaces had been wiped free of prints, including in places where you’d expect to find them.

The crime scene crew began to lose energy as it went through the final motions.

Then one of the techs said, “Hey!” and brandished a tape she’d pulled off the glass fronting one of the diplomas.

Shacker’s date-altered psychology license, positioned to the left of the papered-over diploma, Photoshopped on good-quality paper. Even up close, the forgery was convincing.

The tech held the tape up to the light. Nice clear pattern of ridges and swirls lifted from the upper right-hand corner of the pane.

“Looks like a thumb and a finger,” said the tech. “Like someone leaned on it.”

I pointed to the page with the question mark. “Maybe to catch his balance while gluing that.”

“Or it’s just from the cleaning crew,” said Milo.

“Aw c’mon, Lieutenant,” the tech said. “Think positive.”

“Okay,” he said. “How’s this: I’ve got a pension plan, might live long enough to use some of it.”

The AFIS match to the latent came back at seven thirteen p.m. Hand-delivered by Sean Binchy to Milo as he presided over a tableful of food at Café Moghul. Petra, Moe Reed, Raul Biro, and I sat around the table. Everyone was hungry in a frustrated, miserably compulsive way, putting away lamb and rice and lentils and vegetables without tasting much.

Milo read the report, bared his teeth, passed it on.

James Pittson Harrie, male Caucasian, forty-six, had been fingerprinted upon joining the staff of Ventura State Hospital a little over twenty-five years ago.

Harrie’s five-year-old DMV shot featured the smiling visage of the elfin-faced, rosy-cheeked man I’d met. Slightly longer hair made for a less artful comb-over. Five six, one forty.

One of the few who didn’t bother to fib about his stats. Honor among fiends?

Harrie’s listed address was a P.O.B. in Oxnard.

Sean said, “Already checked and it’s a parcel shipping outlet in a strip mall. They’re still in business but they haven’t had boxes for five years, well before Harrie used it. I’m thinking he lived in or around that general area, lied to stay off the grid.”

I said, “Oxnard’s one town north of Camarillo and one below Ventura, where he also lied about living as Loyal Steward.”

Biro said, “Everything’s revolving around the beach towns. Returning to roost?”

I nodded.

Sean said, “His last registered ride is a fifteen-year-old blue Acura but he hasn’t paid his regs for years, got his license suspended. Want me to put a BOLO on the tags anyway?”

“You bet,” said Milo. “Good work, kid. Wanna join us for some grub?”

“Thanks but I’d rather be working.” Binchy blushed. “Not that you guys aren’t working.”

Milo said, “Go be productive, Sean,” and Binchy hurried out of the restaurant.

Petra studied James Pittson Harrie’s photo. “Aka Pitty. Finally we have a face and a name. Don’t imagine driving illegally weighs on someone like that, but if he was stupid enough to hold on to his old wheels and keep expired tags on, that BOLO could be exactly what we need.”

Milo cracked his knuckles. “Where the hell are the two of them
crashing
?”

“Like Raul said, the beach towns keep popping up, but that wouldn’t stop them from drifting down here to do their dirty work and sticking around for a while.”

I said, “If Harrie moved to Atascadero after Huggler got transferred there, maybe he listed a forwarding when he left.”

A call to the hospital was fruitless, two records clerks and a supervisor claiming old personnel records couldn’t be accessed until business hours began the following morning.

“Even with that, don’t get your hopes up,” said the supervisor. “We’ve got major storage issues, don’t hold on to everything.”

A second intrusion into Maria Thomas’s domestic life resulted in a call from Atascadero’s deputy director of Human Resources who’d somehow managed to pull Harrie’s employment application during non-business hours.

Milo got the restaurant’s fax number from the woman in the sari and told him to send everything he had. He asked a few more questions, scrawled unreadable notes, thanked the man and hung up and began reciting.

On his Atascadero application, James Pittson Harrie had claimed
a B.A. in psychology from the University of Oregon in Eugene. For one year after graduation, he’d worked as a veterinary technician at a local animal hospital, then moved to Camarillo where he applied to be a psychiatry tech at V-State.

“From four legs to two legs,” said Petra. “Maybe Harrie’s the one who likes dogs, that’s why they take them.”

Reed said, “The question is likes them for what?”

“Ugh.”

Milo read on. “He didn’t receive a tech job but they did hire him as a janitor. Looks like he did that for thirteen, fourteen months, got promoted to custodial officer, level one. Custodial as in guard, not as in sweeping up … that seems to be as high as he got there, but then he moved to Atascadero as part of a compensation program: Staffers who’d lost their jobs at V-State were given priority at other state facilities. And Atascadero granted his wish, he came on as a psychiatric technician, level one. The HR guy insisted they have no records of which specific wards he worked but he must’ve performed okay because he got promoted to level three and left voluntarily a little over five years ago. Which happens to be shortly before Grant Huggler was discharged. And guess who stayed on? Dr. Louis Wainright. Guy had a half-time consultancy with Atascadero, doing outpatient surgical procedures. Received the same transfer courtesy.”