The Murder Book

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He lay in bed, wishing the darkness was more complete. Wishing for a brain valve that would choke off the pictures. Alcohol lullabies finally eased him, stumbling, to bed.

  The next morning, he drove to a newsstand and picked up the morning's Times and Herald-Examiner. No reporter had called him or Schwinn on the Ingalls murder, but something that ugly was sure to be covered.

  But it wasn't, not a line of print.

  That made no sense. Reporters were tuned in to the police band, covered the morgue, too.

  He sped to the station, checked his own box and Schwinn's for jour-nalistic queries. Found only a single phone slip with his name at the top. Officer Del Monte from The Bel Air Patrol, no message. He dialed the number, talked to a few flat, bored voices before finally reaching Del Monte.

  "Oh, yeah. You're the one called about parties." The guy had a crisp, clipped voice, and Milo knew he was talking to an ex-military man. Middle-aged voice. Korea, not V.N.

  "That's right. Thanks for calling back. What've you got?"

  "Two on Friday, both times kids being jerks. The first was a sweet sixteen on Stradella, all-girls' sleepover that some punks tried to crash. Not local boys. Black kids and Mexicans. The girls' parents called us, and we ejected them."

  "Where were the crashers from?"

  "They claimed Beverly Hills." Del Monte laughed. "Right."

  "They give you any trouble?"

  "Not up front. They made like they were leaving Bel Air— we followed them to Sunset, then hung back and watched. Idiots crossed over near UCLA, then tried to come back a few minutes later and head over to the other party." Del Monte chuckled, again. "No luck, Pachuco. Our people were already there on a neighbor complaint. We ejected them before they even got out of the car."

  "Where was the second party?"

  "That was the live one, big-time noise. Upper Stone Canyon Drive way above the hotel."

  The locale Schwinn's source had mentioned. "Whose house?"

  "Empty house," said Del Monte. "The family bought a bigger one but didn't get around to selling the first one and the parents took a vacation, left the kiddies behind and, big surprise, the kiddies decided to use the empty house for fun 'n' games, invited the entire damn city. Must've been two, three hundred kids all over the place, cars— Porsches and other good wheels, and plenty of outside wheels. By the time we showed up, it was a scene. It's a big property, coupla acres, no real close-by neighbors, but by now the closest neighbors were fed up."

  "By now?" said Milo. "This wasn't the first time?"

  Silence. "We've had a few other calls there. Tried to contact the parents, no luck, they're always out of town."

  "Spoiled brats."

  Del Monte laughed. "You didn't hear that from me. Anyway, what's up with all this?"

  "Tracing a 187 victim's whereabouts."

  Silence. "Homicide? Nah, no way. This was just kids partying and playing music too loud."

  "I'm sure you're right," said Milo. "But I've got rumors that my db might've attended a party on the Westside, so I've gotta ask. What's the name of the family that owns the house?"

  Longer silence. "Listen," said Del Monte. "These people— you do me wrong, I could be parking cars. And believe me, no one saw anything worse than drinking and screwing around— a few joints, big deal, right? Anyway, we closed it down."

  "I'm just going through the routine, Officer," said Milo. "Your name won't come up. But if I don't check it out, I'll be parking cars. Who owns the house and what's the address?"

  "A rumor?" said Del Monte. "There had to be tons of parties Friday night."

  "Any party we hear about, we look into. That's why yours won't stick out."

  "Okay . . . the family's named Cossack." Del Monte uttered it weightily, as if that was supposed to mean something.

  "Cossack," said Milo, keeping his tone ambiguous.

  "As in office buildings, shopping malls— Garvey Cossack. Big downtown developer, part of that bunch wanted to bring another football team to L.A."

  "Yeah, sure," lied Milo. His interest in sports had peaked with Pop Warner baseball. "Cossack on Stone Canyon. What's the address?"

  Del Monte sighed and read off the numbers.

  "How many kids in the family?" said Milo.

  "Three— two boys and a girl. Didn't see the daughter, there, but she could've been."

  "You know the kids personally?"

  "Nah, just by sight."

  "So the boys threw the party," said Milo. "Names?"

  "The big one's Garvey Junior and the younger one's Bob but they call him Bobo."

  "How old?"

  "Junior's probably twenty-one, twenty-two, Bobo's maybe a year younger."

  More than kids, thought Milo.

  "They gave us no trouble," said Del Monte. "They're just a couple guys like to have fun."

  "And the girl?"

  "Her I didn't see."

  Milo thought he picked up something new in Del Monte's voice. "Name?"

  "Caroline."

  "Age?"

  "Younger— maybe seventeen. It was really no big deal, everyone dispersed. My message said you're Central. Where was your db found?"

  Milo told him.

  "There you go," said Del Monte. "Fifteen miles from Bel Air. You're wasting your time."

  "Probably. Three hundred partying kids just caved when you showed up?"

  "We've got experience with that kind of thing."

  "What's the technique?" said Milo.

  "Use sensitivity," said the rent-a-cop. "Don't treat 'em like you would a punk from Watts or East L.A. 'cause these kids are accustomed to a certain style."

  "Which is?"

  "Being treated like they're important. If that doesn't work, threaten to call the parents."

  "And if that doesn't work?"

  "That usually works. Gotta go, nice talking to you."

  "I appreciate the time, Officer. Listen, if I came by and showed a photo around, would there be a chance anyone would recognize a face?"

  "Whose face?"

  "The vic's."

  "No way. Like I said, it was a swarm. After a while they all start to look alike."

  "Rich kids?"

  "Any kids."

  It was nearly 10 A.M., and Schwinn still hadn't shown up. Figuring sooner rather than later was the best time to spring Janie's photo on Del Monte and his patrol buddies, Milo threw on his jacket and left the station.

  Del Monte had been decent enough to call and look where it got him.

  No good deed goes unpunished.

  It took nearly forty minutes to reach Bel Air. The patrol office was a white, tile-roofed bungalow tucked behind the west gate. Lots of architectural detail inside and out— Milo would've been happy to make it his house. He'd heard that the gates and the private-cop scrutiny had been instituted by Howard Hughes when he lived in Bel Air because the billionaire didn't trust LAPD.

  The rich taking care of their own. Just like the party on Stone Canyon: ticked-off neighbors, but everything kept private, no nuisance call had reached the West L.A. station.

  Del Monte was at the front desk, and when Milo came in, his dark, round face turned sour. Milo apologized and whipped out a crime-scene snap he'd taken from the pile Schwinn had left in his desk. The least horrifying of the collection— side view of Janie's face, just the hint of ligature ring around the neck. Del Monte's response was a cursory head flick. Two other guards were drinking coffee, and they gave the picture more careful study, then shook their heads. Milo would have liked to show Melinda Waters's photo, but Schwinn had pocketed it.

  He left the patrol office and drove to the party house on Stone Canyon Drive. Huge, redbrick, three-story, six-column Colonial. Black double doors, black shutters, mullioned windows, multiple gables. Milo's guess was twenty, twenty-five rooms.

  The Cossack family had moved to something more generous.

  A huge dry lawn and flaking paint on some of the shutters said the maintenance schedule had slackened since the house
had emptied. Shredded hedges and scraps of paper confettiing the brick walkway were the only evidence of revelry gone too far. Milo parked, got out, picked up one of the shreds, hoping for some writing, but it was soft and absorbent and blank— heavy-duty paper towel. The gate to the backyard was bolted and opaque. He peered over, saw a big blue egg of a pool, rolling greenery, lots of brick patio, blue jays pecking. Behind one of the hedges, the glint of glass— cans and bottles.

  The nearest neighbor was to the south, well separated from the colonial by the broad lawns of both houses. A much smaller, meticulously maintained one-story ranch emblazoned with flower beds and fronted by dwarf junipers trimmed Japanese-style. The northern border of the Cossack property was marked by a ten-foot stone wall that went on for a good thousand feet up Stone Canyon. Probably some multiacre estate, a humongous chateau pushed back too far from the street to be visible.

  Milo walked across the dry lawn and the colonial's empty driveway, up to the ranch house's front door. Teak door, with a shiny brass knocker shaped like a swan. Off to the right a small cement Shinto shrine presided over a tiny, babbling stream.

  A very tall woman in her late sixties answered his ring. Stout and regal with puffy, rouged cheeks, she wore her silver hair tied back in a bun so tight it looked painful, had sheathed her impressive frame in a cream kimono hand-painted with herons and butterflies. In one liver-spotted hand was an ivory-handled brush with pointed bristles tipped with black ink. Even in black satin flat slippers she was nearly eye level with Milo. Heels would have made her a giantess.

  "Ye-es?" Watchful eyes, deliberate contralto.

  Out came the badge. "Detective Sturgis, Mrs. . . ."

  "Schwartzman. What brings a detective to Bel Air?"

  "Well, ma'am, last Friday your neighbors had a party—"

  "A party," she said, as if the description was absurd. She aimed the brush at the empty Colonial. "More like rooting at the trough. The aptly named Cossacks."

  "Aptly named?"

  "Barbarians," said Mrs. Schwartzman. "A scourge."

  "You've had problems with them before."

  "They lived there for less than two years, let the place go to seed. That's their pattern, apparently. Move in, degrade, move out."

  "To something bigger."

  "But of course. Bigger is better, right? They're vulgarians. No surprise, given what the father does."

  "What does he do?"

  "He destroys period architecture and substitutes grotesquerie. Packing cartons pretending to be office buildings, those drive-in monstrosities— strip malls. And she . . . desperately blond, the sweaty anxiety of an arriviste. Both of them gone all the time. No supervision for those brats."

  "Mrs. Schwart—"

  "If you'd care to be precise, it's Dr. Schwartzman."

  "Pardon me, Doctor—"

  "I'm an endocrinologist— retired. My husband is Professor Arnold Schwartzman, the orthopedic surgeon. We've lived here twenty-eight years, had wonderful neighbors for twenty-six— the Cantwells, he was in metals, she was the loveliest person. The two of them passed on within months of one another. The house went into probate, and they bought it."

  "Who lives on the other side?" said Milo, indicating the stone walls.

  "Officially, Gerhard Loetz."

  Milo shot her a puzzled look.

  "German industrialist." As if everyone should know. "Baron Loetz has homes all over the world. Palaces, I've been told. He's rarely here. Which is fine with me, keeps the neighborhood quiet. Baron Loetz's property extends to the mountains, the deer come down to graze. We get all sorts of wildlife in the canyon. We love it. Everything was perfect until they moved in. Why are you asking all these questions?"

  "A girl went missing," said Milo. "There's a rumor she attended a party on the Westside Friday night."

  Dr. Schwartzman shook her head. "Well, I wouldn't know about that. Didn't get a close look at those hoodlums, didn't want to. Never left the house. Afraid to, if you'd like to know. I was alone, Professor Schwartzman was in Chicago, lecturing. Usually, that doesn't bother me, we have an alarm, used to have an Akita." The hand around the brush tightened. Man-sized knuckles bulged. "But Friday night was alarming. So many of them, running in and out, screaming like banshees. As usual, I called the patrol, had them stay until the last barbarian left. Even so, I was nervous. What if they came back?"

  "But they didn't."

  "No."

  "So you never got close enough to see any of the kids."

  "That's correct."

  Milo considered showing her the death photo anyway. Decided against it. Maybe the story hadn't hit the papers because someone upstairs wanted it that way. Dr. Schwartzman's hostility to the Cossacks might very well fuel another rumor. Working alone like this, he didn't want to screw up big-time.

  "The patrol," he said, "not the police—"

  "That's what we do in Bel Air, Detective. We pay the patrol, so they respond. Your department, on the other hand— there seems to be a belief among law enforcement types that the problems of the . . . fortunate are trivial. I learned that the hard way, when Sumi— my doggie— was murdered."

  "When was this?"

  "Last summer. Someone poisoned him. I found him right there." Indicating the front lawn. "They unlatched the gate and fed him meat laced with rat poison. That time, I did call your department, and they finally sent someone out. A detective. Allegedly."

  "Do you remember his name?"

  Dr. Schwartzman gave a violent headshake. "Why would I? He barely gave me the time of day, clearly didn't take me seriously. Didn't even bother to go over there, just referred it to Animal Control, and all they offered to do was dispose of Sumi's body, thank you very much for nothing."

  "They?" said Milo.

  Schwartzman's brush pointed at the party house.

  "You suspect one of the Cossacks poisoned Sumi?"

  "I don't suspect, I know," said Schwartzman. "But I can't prove it. The daughter. She's mad, quite definitely. Walks around talking to herself, a bizarre look in her eyes, all hunched over. Wears the same clothes for days on end. And she brings black boys home— clearly not right. Sumi despised her. Dogs have a nose for madness. Anytime that crazy girl walked by, poor Sumi would fly into a rage, throw himself against the gate, it was all I could do to calm him down. And let me tell you, Detective, the only time he responded that way was to stranger intrusion. Protective, Akitas are, that's the whole point of an Akita. But sweet and smart— he loved the Cantwells, even grew accustomed to the gardeners and the mailman. But never to that girl. He knew when someone was wrong. Simply despised her. I'm sure she poisoned him. The day I found his poor body, I spied her. Watching me through a second-story window. That pair of mad eyes. Staring. I stared right back and waved my fist, and you'd better believe that drapery snapped back into place. She knew that I knew. But soon after, she came out and walked past me— right past me, staring. She's a frightening thing, that girl. Hopefully that party was the last time we'll see them around here."

  "She was at the party?" said Milo.

  Dr. Schwartzman crossed her arms across her bosom. "Have you been listening to me, young man? I told you, I didn't get close enough to check."

  "Sorry," said Milo. "How old is she?"

  "Seventeen or eighteen."

  "Younger than her brothers."

  "Those two," said Schwartzman. "So arrogant."

  "Ever have any problems with the brothers other than parties?"

  "All the time. Their attitude."

  "Attitude?"

  "Entitled," said Schwartzman. "Smug. Just thinking about them makes me angry, and anger is bad for my health, so I'm going to resume my calligraphy. Good day."

  Before Milo could utter another syllable, the door slammed shut and he was staring at teak. No sense pushing it; Frau Doktor Schwartzman could probably beat him in an arm wrestle. He returned to the car, sat there wondering if anything she'd said mattered.