Pena made a gagging noise. “That’s…not true.”
“No? Cassy Booker, Lotz—and, oh yeah, your old buddy Peter Kramer.”
Pena’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Kramer’s dead.”
“What?” Pena’s right hand began clawing behind his ear.
“You didn’t know?”
“Why the heck would I know?”
“He worked for you, then all of a sudden he’s not here.”
Pena shook his head violently. “What I know is one day he didn’t show up. I called him, he didn’t call me back. I figured another flake, it’s L.A. He was always a little spacey.”
I said, “How so?”
“Spacey, you know—spaced out. I’d ask him to do something, sometimes he’d hear me, sometimes he wouldn’t. He wasn’t any great shakes—don’t want to bad-mouth him if he’s dead but it wasn’t a big loss. What happened to him?”
Milo said, “He stopped living, Bob.”
“I mean—was it…bad?”
“Haven’t heard of too many fun deaths, lately.”
“Oh, God.” Pena slumped, shook his head.
“So,” said Milo. “How ’bout that CCTV footage?”
“I told you, it’s not here. Goes directly to the company.”
“Kind of a screwy system, Bob. What if you have an incident here—armed terrorists shoot the place up, serial killer goes from room to room and cannibalizes brats—hell, what if North Korea drops a bomb on your roof? You’d want to look at footage pretty quickly, no?”
Silence.
“Bob?”
Pena’s response floated above whisper-level. “That happened, I’d ask the company.”
“Well,” said Milo, “any of that ever happens, I hope Sandra or whoever does a better job than they’re doing now. And you know what, we’re going to take the burden of decision off your shoulders, Bob. With all the people dying here, getting a court order to search your tenant rolls will be a snap.”
He patted Pena’s shoulder with terrifying gentleness. “One other thing. Bob. If I suspect you’ve concealed or monkeyed with those rolls before I get access to them, I’ll have you cuffed, booked, and sitting in a cell faster than you can say obstruction of justice.”
Pena’s shoulders sagged. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Do what you gotta do.” Smiling wanly, Pena picked up his sandwich. Held it out. “Want it? Lost my appetite.”
“Tsk,” said Milo.
“Do what you gotta do,” Pena repeated. “Free country.”
* * *
—
We returned to the unmarked where Milo put his cell on speaker and speed-dialed Assistant D.A. John Nguyen.
Nguyen listened to the specifics. “So the company’s either hiding something or they’re just bureaucratic assholes. Unfortunately, either way, you’ve got no grounds to pry their cold, dead fingers from their corporate info.”
“C’mon, John.”
“Being a shithead isn’t a crime, Milo. If it was, both state legislatures and the governor would be eating jail food.” Nguyen laughed. “Which is a cool fantasy, no? You can try getting paper from one of your sap judges but don’t hope for much. Problem is, you’re not dealing with a specific suspect. This is a civil matter, judges don’t want to wade in that septic tank.”
“I’m gonna go for it.”
“It’s your time and effort. Don’t call me up and bitch, ’cause I’m gonna say—”
“I told you so.”
“Toi da noi voi anh roi.”
“What’s that?”
“I told you so in Vietnamese.”
“Sounds nicer.”
“Not when my mother says it—tell you what I’ll do. I’ll check out this company, see if they’ve got any local liabilities—not just a few people croaking on dope. The kind of civil stuff certain judges will take on.”
“Such as?”
“High rate of tenant complaints, poor maintenance, rent gouging, lax payment of property taxes and utilities, failure to comply with inspections. Something serious comes up, leveraging a bit of stupid footage shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thanks, John. How do you say it in Vietnamese?”
“No idea, Mom never thanks me.” Nguyen laughed. “Oh, yeah. Kam ung.”
CHAPTER
36
Phone back in pocket, Milo consulted his Timex. “Still early. Not that I’ve accomplished anything. You up for another try with Susie’s mom or should I drop you at home?”
I said, “I’m free.”
He said, “If that’s a statement of spiritual and emotional well-being, I find it offensively smug.”
* * *
—
We were back in the Valley half an hour later. Focusing the online map revealed Mentor Place as a twig in a bramble of side streets. Milo GPS’d and followed the directions of a sultry female robot. Three brief twists off Laurel followed by two equally stunted straightaways and a surprise right turn finally got us there.
The kind of place where GPS made a difference: a stunted, two-block afterthought, narrower than any other in the neighborhood.
Probably a converted back alley from the Valley’s postwar boom, when ranches and citrus groves buckled before an influx of sun-seekers, G.I.’s at loose ends, industrious optimists, and self-inventors of varying morality. A human tsunami, flooding the region with hope and recklessness and avarice, every inch of loam up for bid.
The houses lining Mentor Place fit the notion of barrel-bottom: old, small, undistinguished, and from the frequent cracks and skewing, structurally iffy.
The street merited even more than L.A.’s usual level of municipal neglect. The road was puckered and potholed, curbs had crumbled, fissured sidewalks shrugged upward where burrowing tree roots had triumphed. The trees were a random assortment placed at irregular intervals and in need of grooming. Some of them—carobs and jacarandas and orchids—had dropped blossoms and branches and pollen that collected in heaps of unexploited mulch. A few were dead and listed ominously.
The house where Susie Koster had lived as a teen was still green—one tone lighter than lime—and scraped yellow in spots. As promised by the assessor, the squat box shared an unfenced lot with three identical bungalows, two painted white, one daring to be mauve. A few geraniums ran along the front of one of the white houses. Otherwise, the entire property was flat brown dirt backed by twenty dense feet of eugenia hedge.
Decades ago, a parasite had killed off acres of estate-concealing eugenia on the Westside, the pests hopping from mansion to mansion. Maybe isolation and neglect had its advantages.
No cars in any of the driveways. Working people.
Milo looked at his watch again. “No way I want to leave her a note, might as well kill some time.”
He spent the next forty minutes judge-shopping. No one was willing to give him access to the Strathmore resident files. Several normally cooperative jurists expressed doubts he’d proven the occurrence of any crime.
I ignored his grumbling and used the time to pull up a custody report due in a week. Reading and re-reading my findings, then creating a separate file for the revisions I needed to make. I was nearly done when Milo said, “Action.”
Two cars had driven onto the property, a mini-convoy of sorts. The first, a squat black Fiat 500, rolled up in front of the mauve house. A young blue-haired woman in all-black spandex got out, arms filled by three squirrel-sized black Chihuahuas. Black Goth lips parted as she smiled and waved at the driver of the second car.
Blue Buick LaCrosse, freshly waxed but some of the paint had surrendered to age and sunlight. Dorothy Koster gave Chihuahua Girl a return wave and a warm smile. Both of them unaware of our presence across the street.
Susan Koster’s mother wore a pink-and-white w
aitress uniform and white flats and clutched a bag of groceries. She said something pleasant sounding to her neighbor.
The younger woman laughed and let loose the dogs. They scampered up to Dorothy, who knelt, put down her bag, and was ready when one of the tiny pooches jumped into her arms. Full-on mouth kiss. Same for the other two.
I thought of Will Burdette’s canine battalion. Blanche, always happy to see me.
Milo said, “Enjoy these few minutes, Dorothy.”
All three dogs continued to dance around the woman in pink. After a few moments she threw back her head in laughter and wiggled her fingers and the trio raced back to their owner.
Milo sighed. “Let’s give her a chance to get settled.”
And then we’ll unsettle her.
* * *
—
Five minutes later, he was letting a pitted brass knocker fall on a catch plate.
Within seconds, Dorothy Koster had opened the door. Still in her uniform, Dotty embroidered above the right breast pocket.
Smiling, but surprise killed that. “Yes?”
Milo introduced himself.
She said, “Police? What’s going on?”
Milo said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry—”
Dorothy Koster didn’t need a reply. “Susie?” She gasped and swayed and her head began lolling from side to side.
Milo said, “Ma’am—”
Dorothy’s eyes rolled back in her head. Then her knees gave way.
We both shot forward but I got there first and caught her around the waist. Small-boned woman, limp as week-old salad. “Ms. Koster?”
Out cold.
Turning cold.
I got her inside, propped her in a tweedy recliner, checked her pulse and her pupils.
Milo said, “She’s breathing.”
“Steadily,” I said. “Probably a vasovagal faint.”
“Jesus.”
“Water will help.”
Four of his long strides took him across a diminutive living room overly furnished with more tweed pieces and white-painted rococo tables. He stepped into a minimal kitchen, filled a glass from the tap, and studied the bag of groceries. Folded neatly on the counter, its contents arranged precisely. Fresh produce, cans of soup, bread.
“Here we go.” He handed me the glass. I patted Dorothy Koster’s cheek lightly, uttered her name a couple of times, wet my fingertip with water and ran it over her lips.
Nothing happened for a few seconds, then she purred, eyes fluttering. Opening. Pupils constricting as they gazed up at a ceiling light, then dilating as she lowered her attention to me.
“Huh?”
“You fainted, Ms. Koster.”
She continued to study me, puzzled.
“How about some water?” I held the glass to her lips but she rejected the offer, sharply turning her head to the side.
I said, “Take your time.”
She whirled back to me. Stared up, tight-eyed and tight-lipped.
“Uh,” she said. Her arms straightened as her hands slapped flat against my chest. She shoved. Not much force to it but I retreated and let her sit by herself.
She continued to stare at me, then her eyes rotated to Milo. Her groceries. Back to Milo. Crumpling like crepe, she sat back.
“Susie.”
We said nothing.
Dorothy Koster looked at me. “Sorry…did I hurt you?”
“Not at all.”
“Really sorry…I’ll take that water.”
* * *
—
Two glasses and a wad of tissues later, she was ready to talk. Like most people in her situation, she craved details. As he always does at the beginning, Milo avoided specifics and parceled out the basics. Managing to make them sound like much more.
Some people see through that and press. Dorothy Koster seemed satisfied.
“Again, so sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
“My poor baby girl.” Hands covered her face. “Oh, God, I can’t believe this is happening.”
More time; more tissues. She balled them in one hand. Grimaced. “When you came to the door, I knew it.”
Milo said, “Why’s that, ma’am?”
“Because I lead a boring life, Lieutenant. Boring is safe, I like boring, everything goes along just fine.” Deep breath. “So it had to be something to do with Susie. She’s always been…she’s a wonderful girl, the biggest heart, smart—a lot smarter than she realized…but…”
She shook her head.
I said, “She wasn’t into boring.”
“Not by a mile. So I knew, I just knew. If there’s going to be a…a…a shakeup, it’s going to come from Susie…at a wedding? Of someone she didn’t know? That’s crazy.”
Milo said, “We’re still trying to make sense of it.”
“You have no idea who did it?”
“Not yet, ma’am. It took a while just to identify Susie. She was using a driver’s license listing her as Suzanne DaCosta.”
“That’s a new one.” Dorothy Koster smiled. “How exotic. She was always reaching. For what I don’t know. Restless. The problem is she didn’t want to do the things that might’ve actually…forget that, I am not talking bad about my precious precious baby girl.”
We let that settle for a while. Milo looked at me.
I said, “The more we know about Susie, the better chance there is of finding out who did it.”
Dorothy Koster said, “What kind of things do you think you should know about her?”
“The kind of person she was, who she hung out with.”
“She was a good person. Big heart. Who she hung out with? I have no idea. Even when she lived here I had no idea. And that was a long time ago.”
I said, “How long?”
“She left after she graduated high school. So…twelve years. She didn’t cut me off. I’d get postcards. I’m here, Mom. Everything’s going great.”
“Postcards from where?”
“Everywhere—up north—San Francisco, Oakland. Even wine country—Napa, Sonoma. Nevada was a big one—Reno, Las Vegas, Tahoe. Once Nashville. Memphis. Then she went out of the country. Mexico, Costa Rica, Panama. She was a dancer. She always supported herself. She danced in shows.”
Higher pitch on the last word. Not quite believing her daughter’s explanations. Her eyes got steely as she folded her arms across her chest.
Back away from this topic.
I said, “What was she like growing up?”
“Gorgeous,” said Dorothy Koster. “Beautiful child right from the start, everyone noticed, everyone said she was stunning. People asked if I was going to put her in pageants. As if I would. Putting a child through that. I know about that kind of thing because my mother did it to me and I hated it. That was down south. Louisville.” Sigh. “I ran away, too. At the same age—eighteen. I guess history has to repeat itself.”
“Does Susie have siblings?”
“No, it was just we two.” Her arms tightened across her narrow frame, reaching around to her back. “I could use more water. Must’ve dehydrated myself, too much coffee at work. I get it free, sometimes I overdo.”
Milo filled another glass. She said, “Thanks,” took one sip, put it down. Her arms began the journey of folding again. Midway there, she changed her mind and threw them up.
“In answer to your next question, she doesn’t have a dad.”
We said nothing.
“I mean obviously she has one. But she never knew who he was. I knew but I told her I didn’t. I don’t feel bad about lying, trust me, he was a bad person. I didn’t want her going on one of those look-for-your-roots things, you know? She wouldn’t have liked what she found. And don’t you ask me for a name, either. He doesn’t know and I’m sure he couldn’t care less.”
I said
, “Understood.”
She frowned. “He would not care.”
We waited.
“Here’s the thing,” she finally said, “it was a onetime deal, stupidest mistake I’ve ever made except for it produced Susie.” Her laughter was frightful. “Now there’s not even that. So it was just stupid. Like I’ve lived my life for nothing.”
More crying before she looked up, eerily smooth-faced. “Do you think God’s punishing me?”
I said, “I’m sure not.”
“Then why did it happen?”
“I wish we could answer that.”
“I wish you could, too,” she said. “But you can’t, no one but God can…I mean I don’t think a punishment that big would fit a one-night stand. That would be some kind of God, right? All the rest of the time, I led a good life. Got married legally when Susie was two, he was a nice one, worked at the sausage plant in Vernon. Died ten months later. Work accident, you don’t want to know. I got his pension, it wasn’t much but I got to buy this place. Susie was too young to realize. After that, I said enough, don’t rely on men or anyone. I didn’t want to date. I’m not a spirited person, anyway, don’t have a taste for going out. So it was just we two.”
One hand gripped the other. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
I said, “Susie was a beautiful child.”
“Beautiful and smart. Smarter than she realized,” said Dorothy Koster. “Smart enough to figure out her own way of reading. Because the regular way, that phonics thing, wouldn’t work for her, the teachers thought she was dumb. She was eight, they kept holding her back, you’d think someone would try to help. They didn’t. So she went and did it her own way. Memorizing words. How’s that for smart? I mean you have to think and remember all those words? They—the school system called her LD.”
“Learning disabled.”
“Learning disabled, perceptual issues, special needs, you name it, they’re great with labels. Once she taught herself to read she did okay. Except math, math wasn’t her thing, period, but so what? You don’t need fancy numbers to get through life, if you showed me an algebra book, it would be like reading Egyptian or something and I’ve made my way just fine.”
The Wedding Guest Page 26
