by A. D. Miller
Chapter 3
He caught up to the Buick at the corner of Mission and Marengo and followed it, at a distance of two or three cars, onto the Santa Ana freeway.
Gold haze hung above the downtown skyline. The Buick drifted into the far left lane and drove toward Civic Center. At the Keene exchange it swung south onto the Harbor freeway and accelerated, as if eager to leave downtown behind.
Gradually the buildings outside Nyman’s window got smaller. Office towers gave way to apartment complexes, then to flat stretches of tract housing. The Buick left the freeway and drove east into Watts, winding among residential streets.
He allowed the distance between his car and the Buick to lengthen. When it turned into a driveway he went by without slowing and continued for another few blocks, then parked under a withered palm on 107th.
Hot, sticky air settled over him as he stepped out. The smell of carnitas drifted over from a market on the corner, where kids were kicking a ball around on the sidewalk, moving sluggishly in the heat. He picked his way among them and went into the market.
It was a small cluttered room with a meat counter along one wall and a bakery case along the other. Two rattling box fans stood beside the cash register, adding to the noise of a radio playing banda music. The woman behind the register was hunched with age and staring at her phone.
Nyman asked if there were flowers for sale.
She raised her head reluctantly. “Flowers?”
“Doesn’t matter what kind. Something I could give as a gift.”
“For a birthday?”
“For a death in the family.”
In that case, the woman said, putting down her phone and lurching out from behind the register, the correct gift was food, not flowers.
She led him over to the bakery case. Snapping a white paper sack down from the glass, she filled it with conchas and polvorones, tied the sack with a piece of plastic, and told him the price. He paid and went back outside.
The kids with the ball were gone. He made his way north, passing vacant storefronts and small stucco houses separated from each other by iron fences. At 105th the neighborhood changed abruptly; the storefronts disappeared and the houses became more or less identical: lime-green cottages arranged around a grassy common. A city sign said that he was entering the Rancho Village housing project.
The Buick was still parked in front of cottage 26. The man who answered the door was Alana’s uncle: taller than Nyman, heavier, twenty years older. He wore a starched khaki shirt with the name of a company written in thread on the breast pocket.
“Something I can do for you, son?”
Nyman told him who he was. “A woman named Alana Bell came to my office yesterday. I think this is where her mother lives.”
The man shut the door and came out onto the porch, forcing Nyman to take a step backward.
“No,” he said, “this is where I live. Valerie’s my sister.”
“And Valerie is Alana’s mother?”
“That’s right.” He looked at the sack of food in Nyman’s hand but didn’t acknowledge it. “What did Allie talk to you about?”
“Nothing very definite. She said she needed help, and asked me to help her.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I couldn’t help her, because she couldn’t pay me. I turned her away.”
The man crossed his arms over his chest. In the window behind him, leaning against the glass, was a sun-faded crucifix. “If you sent her away, why bother to come out here?”
“I wanted to talk to her mother, if that’s possible.”
“That’s not possible,” the man said equably. “She’s in no mood to talk to anybody right now. And I’m in no mood to pay you.”
“You have nothing to pay me for, Mr. Bell. Your niece asked me to help her, and I said no. If I’d said yes, she might still be alive.”
The man said: “My name’s not Bell. It’s Lattimer. Bell was my brother-in-law.”
Nyman apologized.
“That’s all right,” Lattimer said, and nodded to the sack. “What’s that, anyway?”
“Just some food.”
Nyman held it out in a gesture of offering. Lattimer’s arms remained crossed over his chest. Without accepting the gift, he nodded to the grass.
“Come on. We’ll talk over here.”
They walked together to a picnic table that stood in the center of the common, bleached by the sun. Lattimer sat down and leaned forward on his elbows.
“You say Allie didn’t tell you what sort of trouble she was in?”
Nyman put the sack on the table between them. “She mentioned something about politics, but only in a vague way. I was hoping you or her mom might be able to tell me more.”
“Well, there’s not much chance of that. Allie thought that stuff was over our heads. She saved it for her friends at Pacifica.”
“Did she say anything about being in danger?”
“Not to me. Not to Val, either. To be honest with you, we didn’t see a whole lot of her. She moved out of Val’s house last year, when she started her program.”
“Did she spend much time in Vista Hills?”
Lattimer lifted his shoulders. “Today was the first time I ever heard about it. I can’t imagine she’d have any reason to be in a place like that. Neither can Val.”
“You asked your sister about it?”
“The investigator did. Ruiz. She wanted to know if Allie went up there to go to clubs or bars or something.”
Nyman asked if such a thing sounded plausible.
“Allie never touched alcohol when she lived down here—I can tell you that. She never cared for that kind of life. Now whether this Freed turned her onto it afterward: that’s something I don’t know.”
“Who’s Freed?”
Lattimer’s eyes narrowed. “Allie didn’t mention her professors to you?”
“She didn’t mention anyone at all.”
“Well, if you didn’t hear it from her, you’re not going to hear it from me. I don’t tell stories about my own family. That’s all there is to say about that.”
Nyman nodded and said nothing. The breeze had slackened, making the heat heavier and more oppressive. From the sack on the table came the smell of melting sugar glaze.
“I don’t mean to say Allie was a bad person,” Lattimer said. “She wasn’t that at all. She was a kind-hearted girl. Too kind-hearted, maybe. I never had my own kids, so she was...”
He let the sentence go unfinished and turned his head away. Nyman, looking down at the tabletop, asked if Ruiz had said anything about Alana’s car or apartment.
Lattimer turned back with reddened eyes. “What?”
“I’m assuming she drove herself up to Vista Hills. I was wondering if the car had been found.”
“No, I didn’t hear anything about that.”
“What about the apartment? Did Ruiz say she was going to have it sealed?”
“Look, son, I don’t remember every detail. Most of the time I was trying to comfort my sister.”
“And you’re sure you won’t let me talk to her?”
Lattimer straightened his spine and leaned back, laying his hands flat on the table. “I don’t see what purpose it would serve.”
“It would help me know where to start, for one thing.”
“Start what?”
“An investigation.”
Lattimer moved a hand dismissively. “Ruiz said there wasn’t any need for that. She said it was an accident.”
“Maybe it was. The thing about the coroner’s office, though, is that they don’t have enough investigators to deal with the workload. There’s a temptation to call it an accident and move on.”
“That’s not true of the cops in Vista Hills.”
“No, but they have their own priorities. Towns like Vista Hills don’t like the publicity of a murder.”
Lattimer’s expression was skeptical. “You really think she was murdered?”
“I think it’s
possible. I could tell she was frightened when I talked to her.”
“And you think if you find the killer for us, that’ll make up for not helping her?”
Nyman shook his head. “No.”
A pair of jays had settled on the branch of an oak, chattering at each other and shaking their wet-looking wings. Lattimer glanced at the birds, then turned to Nyman with a half-smile.
“Look, son, I’m sorry Allie came around and wasted your time, but I’m not going to let you upset my sister with a lot of questions. I’ve left her alone too long as it is.”
He rose from the bench, gave Nyman a nod, and walked back across the grass to his house, going through the front door without a glance over his shoulder.
Nyman left the sack of melting food on the table and followed him to the porch. Taking a business card from his wallet, he dropped it in the letterbox, walked back to his car, and drove north to Pacifica.
Chapter 4
The university lay on lush green grounds on the edge of South L.A., separated from the surrounding neighborhoods by thick landscaping and a private police force. Nyman followed a walkway to the bronze doors and marble rotunda of Taylor Hall.
The School of Public Policy occupied the top two floors. A bearded secretary at the front desk told him that Professor Freed had been traveling and probably wasn’t in his office.
“You’re welcome to check, though. Down that way, on the right.”
Nyman went down the hall and knocked on a door with the name Michael Freed posted beside it. The door was opened by a man of early middle age, tall and handsome, with the bulkiness of a former athlete and gray, sensitive eyes. He wore a white Oxford shirt, a loosened tie, and rimless glasses that sat midway down the bridge of his nose.
Nyman said: “Professor Freed?”
“Yes?”
“Tom Nyman. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Exhaling, Freed took the glasses from his nose and rubbed his eyes. “I hope you’re not from the Business Journal. I had a guy in here last week, asking about the housing proposal. Took me an hour to get rid of him.”
Nyman said that he wasn’t from the Business Journal. “I work independently. Freelance, you could say.”
“Mmm.” Freed’s smile was cordial but not warm. “Well, I can give you a few minutes, I guess.”
Nyman followed him into the office. Freed, sitting down behind a glass-topped desk, said in a conversational tone:
“Not easy to get by as a freelancer, from what I hear. Financially speaking.”
“Not easy at all,” Nyman said. “And the client I’m working for now isn’t paying anything.”
“What client is that?”
“Alana Bell.”
Freed’s cordial smile went away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Nyman took a card from his wallet and handed it across. Freed read the faded lettering with an expression of distaste.
“You’re telling me Alana’s hired herself a private investigator?”
Nyman slipped the wallet back into his pocket. “She came to see me yesterday afternoon. Said she was a student in this department and needed help.”
“Help with what?”
“Have you seen her recently, professor?”
“Not since she left for Vegas, no. I didn’t know she was back in town. What’d she hire you for?”
“Well, for starters,” Nyman said, not answering the question, “we talked about politics. The way things get done in L.A. Is that something you know much about?”
Sunshine slanted in through the office window, covering Freed’s desk and revealing the sweat that was gathering on his forehead.
“Of course I know about it. My specialty’s urban economics.”
“And that’s her specialty too?”
“She just finished the first year of our master’s program; she hasn’t had time to develop a specialty.”
“But she’s been working with you. Her family tells me you’ve had a strong influence on her.”
Freed’s distaste seemed to be increasing. “There’s no need for innuendo. If you want to accuse me of something, go ahead.”
“Are you romantically involved with her, professor?”
“No, I am not. I’m a happily married man.” He picked up his phone to check the time. “As a matter of fact, Sarah and I have a lunch reservation in a few minutes.”
“Then I’ll make this quick,” Nyman said. “How long have you been working with Alana?”
“Directly? Not long at all. Just since I asked her to help with the Merchant South research.”
“Merchant South?”
Freed seemed happy to change the subject. “It’s a development,” he said, “in the Merchant District downtown. The city owned four parcels of land that weren’t being used, so they leased them to a developer. The idea’s to build condos and restaurants and a hotel. Something to revitalize the neighborhood.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Potentially nice. The city hired me to analyze the pros and cons.”
“And you asked Alana to help with the analysis?”
“That’s right. We turned in our findings two weeks ago.”
“What did you find?”
Freed said nothing for a moment. Then, picking up the card, he glanced at it again and said: “If she’s really your client, you should already know the answer.”
“Unfortunately I didn’t get the chance to ask her. She was murdered last night in Vista Hills.”
A carillon was ringing somewhere nearby, in another part of the campus, chiming twelve times to mark the hour. Blood left Freed’s face in disconnected patches until the skin was nearly the same color as his shirt.
“What?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you up front, but the mention of murder has a way of ending conversations.”
Freed rose from his chair and walked to the window. He stood in silence for the better part of a minute, breathing irregularly and looking down at the sun-dappled grounds. His broad muscular back stretched the seams of his shirt and showed wetness under the arms.
“Murdered how?” he said without turning around.
“By a car, most likely. The coroner’s still piecing it together. It’ll be a while before they release their report.”
“And the driver?”
“The driver seems to have gotten away without being seen. Unless you saw him.”
Freed turned around. “Me?”
“Were you in Vista Hills late last night?”
“Of course not.”
“Mind telling me where you were?”
Anger brought the blood back to Freed’s cheeks. “I was on a red-eye from Boston. Coming back from a conference at Tremont College. Would you like to see my boarding pass?”
“Take it easy, professor. You’re not on trial. Asking questions is the nature of the job.”
Freed stood glaring at him for a time, then exhaled and let his shoulders drop. Sitting down, he made a steeple with his hands and said:
“Of course. I understand that.”
“You mentioned a trip to Vegas. Do you remember when Alana left town?”
Freed said that it must’ve been a week or two ago. “Right after we turned in our analysis. She said she needed to get away for a while.”
“For any particular reason?”
“Not that she mentioned.”
“Did she go alone?”
“She didn’t mention that, either.”
“Can you think of anyone, professor, who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”
Freed hesitated. “I didn’t really want go into this,” he said, “but Alana wasn’t a fan of Merchant South. There were homeless people living on the city’s land, and now they’re being forced out by the development. She got to know them through her research—came to sympathize with them. She became something of an advocate.”
“And you think that might’ve put her in danger?”
“Possibly. Most of the people living there
were harmless. But there were one or two—one in particular—who seemed overly interested in her.”
“Interested in a violent way?”
“Potentially violent. Or at least that was my impression. Alana didn’t agree.”
Nyman took the notebook from his pocket. “Do you remember the name?”
“Eric Trujillo,” Freed said at once. “A young kid—probably no more than eighteen. He’d been sleeping in Zamora Park, on the city’s land. Alana used him as one of her research subjects. Tried to document how the development was forcing him out of his home.”
“What makes you think he was violent?”
“More a feeling than anything else. I only met him once, when I went to the park to see Alana, but he seemed dangerous to me. Following her around, calling her phone.”
“And this Trujillo’s still in the park? Or has he moved on?”
“No, he’s gone now; the city cleared everybody out two days ago. God knows where he ended up.”
Before Nyman could ask another question, Freed rose to his feet and stepped out from behind the desk. His tone became brisk and businesslike.
“We’ll have to leave it there for now, Tom. The dean has to be told about this, and the other grad students. And I should probably call Alana’s family.”
With a curt gesture, he got Nyman out of his chair and led him over to the door, steering him with a hand on his shoulder.
Nyman allowed himself to be steered. In the hallway, he put away his notebook and said that he’d come by again later, when Freed had more time. “If that’s all right with you, professor.”
Freed hesitated, but only for a moment. “Of course. Anytime.”
They shook hands and Nyman made his way back to the front desk, where the secretary looked up from his computer.
“Find him?”
“I did, yes,” Nyman said. “He was just telling me about a place on campus he likes to go for lunch, but I didn’t catch the name. One that takes reservations. Know which one he meant?”
The secretary said: “Probably the Founders’ Club. Between the library and Spanner Hall. But they won’t let you in if you’re not a member.”
“That’s all right,” Nyman said, already moving to the elevator. “I was just curious.”
