Edge of the Knife

by A. D. Miller

  “We’ll talk in my office.”

  His office was a room at the back of the building. A screen door let in a smell of garbage from the alley. Voss’ desk was a metal rectangle pushed into one corner; the rest of the space was taken up by a T.V. and a cot piled with blankets.

  Voss untied the sack and took out the food. “Ethiopian,” he said. “There’s a place on Victory that’s pretty good. If you want the best, though, you have to go down to Fairfax.”

  Nyman said: “In your column, you mentioned a nonprofit called Meridian Resources.”

  Voss held up a hand. “Back up a little. You say you’re an investigator, but I don’t know what you’re investigating.”

  Nyman told him about his case. Voss showed no surprise at the mention of murder. He gave most of his attention to the food, pausing occasionally to drink from a tall black can of Monster Energy.

  “So what you’re telling me,” he said when Nyman was finished, “is you think Salas killed the girl and the homeless kid?”

  “I think it’s possible. They both visited her before their deaths. And they both seemed fixated on her involvement with Meridian.”

  “Sorry—I don’t buy it. Salas is ambitious, but she does a lot of good work. She wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “You know her well?”

  “Well enough. I’ve interviewed her plenty of times—been out to her house. She’s got a big place in Glassell Park, at Verdugo and Holt.”

  “Have you asked her about Meridian?”

  “No, but I’m planning to.” Voss took a bite of injera. “Funny you mention Meridian, though. Out of all the charities on the list, that’s the hardest to track down. Their phone’s been disconnected, and the website’s just a logo with some boilerplate.”

  “Does it give the name of the owner?”

  “Not that I remember. I did some looking around online, too, and couldn’t find a thing. Just a little snippet about a donation they got from Koda.”

  “Koda?”

  Voss nodded. “It’s a company that owns a bunch of nightclubs in town. Started by a guy named Ethan Kovac.”

  Chapter 38

  Voss turned to the laptop on his desk. Between bites of doro wot, he found what he was looking for and tapped the screen with a greasy finger.

  “Here. This is it.”

  Nyman leaned forward. The screen showed a page from Koda’s corporate website. At the top was a photo of Ethan Kovac on a basketball court, surrounded by kids wearing t-shirts with the Koda logo.

  Under the photo was a paragraph about Koda’s support of local charities. At the bottom of the page, in smaller type, was a list of the organizations—including Meridian Resources—that had received donations.

  “That’s all I could find,” Voss said. “Doesn’t say when they made the donation or how much they gave. Which means there’s probably no connection to Salas.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would there be? Lots of people give money to the same charities. It’s not a crime.”

  “Assuming the charity’s legitimate.”

  Voss stopped chewing. “There’s reason to think it’s illegitimate?”

  Rather than answering, Nyman said: “This donation Salas is giving to Meridian. How much is it for?”

  “You the think the amount itself makes a difference?”

  “It might,” Nyman said. “Particularly if it’s for twenty thousand.”

  Voss swallowed and sat back in his chair. “How’d you know it was twenty grand?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “No, it wasn’t a guess.” He pointed a finger at Nyman’s chest. “I’ve been straight with you, Tom. Now you need to be straight with me.”

  Nyman said: “According to your article, Salas filed her motion on the Friday before last. Correct?”

  “Correct. July first.”

  “That’s the same day a man named Michael Freed went to Vegas with the first murder victim. While they were there, Freed won some money at a casino on the Strip. Twenty thousand.”

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Could be, yes. But there was a lot of money changing hands that day. I’d lay odds that Kovac gave a similar amount to Meridian around the same time.”

  “You make it sound like a conspiracy.”

  “I’m just telling you what I’ve found.”

  “But twenty grand—that means nothing to these people. Grace Salas’ office gets more than a million a year in discretionary funds. Kovac’s probably worth half a billion. Twenty grand is pocket change.”

  Nyman got to his feet. “You have a copy of Salas’ motion?”

  “Somewhere around here. Why?”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. If you give me your copy, I promise I’ll try to give you the story before any other paper can report on it. Assuming there is a story.”

  Voss’ eyes narrowed. “You can get a copy from the city clerk. You don’t need to go through me.”

  “The clerk’s office is closed,” Nyman said, “and my night isn’t over.”

  “You really think it’s too important to wait till morning?”

  “I do.”

  Voss gave him a long, probing look. Stretching out his hand, he said: “Okay. Deal.”

  Nyman took the pale hand into his own. “Deal.”

  * * *

  Moths were circling the streetlamp outside Voss’ office. Nyman paused under the light to read the photocopy of the motion, which listed the charities due to receive money from Salas’ discretionary fund. He found what he was looking for midway down the page:

  Meridian Resources, 3203 Whitlock Terrace, Hollywood.

  * * *

  Crowds of sweat-soaked tourists were milling in front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre, taking pictures of the Walk of Fame. A few blocks away, Whitlock Terrace was a side-street of shops and restaurants that catered to locals. Nyman found the small, poorly lit storefront at 3203 and passed through a door painted with the words Golden Age Collectibles.

  The only person inside was the woman behind the counter. In her late fifties, she was thick-bodied and small-featured, with reddish blonde hair, a pale face without makeup, and a faded Ramones shirt. In her hand was a teacup that smelled of bourbon.

  “Montgomery Clift,” she said as Nyman came up to the counter.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s who you look like. Around the time of Lonelyhearts, when he was going downhill. I could sell you the lobby card, but you’re probably not interested.”

  Nyman asked her what a lobby card was.

  She moved her cup, indicating the interior of the store, where shelves stood in gloomy light.

  “Promotional thing the studios used to put out. Like a one-sheet, kind of, but smaller. I’ve also got props and costumes. Are you interested in a certain kind of film?”

  “I’m interested in Meridian Resources.”

  She frowned and took a drink. “Sorry. Never heard of it.”

  Nyman turned away from the counter and was silent for a time, examining the rest of the shop.

  The woman said: “So what is it, anyway? Meridian?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s supposed to be a charity headquartered here.”

  “Well, we’re not a charity, exactly. But you could say we’re mostly non-profit.”

  She smiled at the joke and took another drink.

  Nyman returned the smile. “How long have you been open?”

  “In this space? Two or three years. We used to be down the street, but the rent’s cheaper here.”

  “Do you remember who used to be in this space?”

  “Not by name. Stores are always coming and going. It’s only a matter of time before we’ll be going, too.”

  “When you say ‘we,’ who do you mean?”

  She pointed to the ceiling, as if to indicate someone on the second floor. “Me and my dad. He opened it in the sixties. Back then it was just a little stall by the Farmer’s Market.”

  “Do you think he’d
remember who was here before you?”

  She gave him a melancholy smile. “If anyone would, he would. But I doubt you’ll be able to get it out of him.”

  Coming out from behind the counter, she turned the lock on the front door and led him to the back of the shop, where a staircase led to an attic-like room on the second floor.

  The room was taken up by a desk and more than a dozen filing cabinets. Sitting at the desk, looking at something under the lens of a jeweler’s lamp, was a man in his seventies or eighties. His sparse gray hair lay in strands across the skin of his scalp; on the bridge of his nose were half-moon glasses.

  “Dad,” the woman said, “this guy wants to ask you a question.”

  The man looked at Nyman over the rims of his glasses, his eyes vague and watery. Then, with a movement of his hand, he beckoned Nyman forward.

  Walking to the desk, Nyman saw that the lamp was focused on a tray lined in velvet. On top of the velvet were four or five bracelets, all painted gold and inlaid with imitation gems.

  “Dad collects costume jewelry,” the woman said. “Anything the studios throw out, he goes and picks up.”

  To her father she said in a louder voice: “Where are these pieces from, Dad?”

  Holding up one of the necklaces in a trembling hand, the man gave a hoarse whispering reply that was unintelligible. Then, falling silent again, he looked at Nyman with a shy smile, as if waiting for an answer.

  Nyman said: “They’re very nice.”

  The man’s smile widened and he went on whispering. He rose to his feet and beckoned Nyman over to one of the filing cabinets. He took out a succession of trinkets—fake daggers, coins, a bishop’s miter—and handed them to Nyman for his inspection.

  The woman, exhaling, said: “Dad, he wants to ask you about the people who had the store before us. Do you remember their name?”

  The man took another velvet-lined tray from the cabinet. Lying in the center was a large silver brooch. Attached to the brooch was a ticket with the words Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

  Nyman said again that it was very nice.

  The man nodded and reached for another tray.

  His daughter said: “The company that used to have this store, Dad. Was it something called Meridian?”

  Still whispering, the man put down the tray, shuffled to a cabinet in the corner of the room, and started taking out more trinkets.

  The woman turned to Nyman and shrugged. “Sorry. Once he gets started, he doesn’t stop.”

  “I shouldn’t have bothered him.”

  “Oh, it’s not a bother. You made his day just by showing an interest.”

  The man shuffled back to them carrying a green file-folder. He handed it to his daughter without a word and went back to his desk.

  She opened the folder and took out a bundle of envelopes. Glancing at the addresses, she gave a short, incredulous laugh.

  “It’s the mail we used to get when we first moved in,” she said, handing the bundle to Nyman. “Stuff that came for the old occupants. I guess there are advantages to being a hoarder.”

  Nyman looked through the letters. Almost all were addressed to a company called Roth Printing & Design. One envelope—from the Department of Water and Power—was addressed to Meridian Resources.

  Nyman said: “Mind if I open this?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Inside was a past-due notice for electrical charges. At the top of the page, under the account number and an L.A. phone number, was the name of the account holder: Bridget Becker.

  Nyman frowned and handed the bill to the woman. “That name ring a bell?”

  She held it out at arm’s length to read it. “Becker? No, I don’t think so. Why? Do you know her?”

  Nyman shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Chapter 39

  The windows of the Palm Court were dark when Nyman parked in the alley. Walking around to the street-side entrance, he rang the bell and waited for the door to be opened by the night-nurse, who smiled when she recognized him.

  “Well, it’s after ten, but I guess I can make an exception.”

  “You spoil me.”

  “I have a weakness for hard-luck cases. Come on in, Tom.”

  Nyman followed her through the common room and down to the door with the American flag. Nyman tapped the door with a knuckle. Joseph’s deep voice came through the wood:

  “Yes?”

  Nyman thanked the nurse and went inside. Joseph lay propped up in bed with a thick hardcover book in his hands. Nyman, turning his head to read the spine, saw that it was a biography of Lincoln.

  “Light reading?”

  “It was supposed to put me to sleep, but it seems to be doing the opposite. You look like hell, Tom.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

  Nyman sat down on the loveseat. “Angels win today?”

  “No, as a matter of fact.”

  “Still think they can catch Houston?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re an optimist.”

  “I can afford to be an optimist in July,” Joseph said. “And I can see you’re exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

  Nyman ignored the question. “In the old days you used to have a friend at Water and Power. Any chance he’d be willing to help me find someone?”

  “That depends on what you’re up to. This is connected to the woman’s death?”

  “To her murder, yes. And to a second murder that happened Saturday night.”

  Joseph closed the book and put it aside. “Who was the victim?”

  Nyman told him about Eric Trujillo and the rest of the investigation. Joseph listened with a frown of concentration, his eyes narrow and intent. When Nyman finished, he shook his head and said:

  “I never thought you’d be so reckless.”

  “Reckless?”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t die out there in the desert. As soon as you got to Las Vegas, you should’ve asked Larry Sutter for help.”

  Nyman said that Sutter was the first person he’d talked to. “I had to beg him just to make a phone call for me.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Larry.”

  “Times change, Joseph. People change the way they do business. Either way, I don’t have time to argue.”

  “You’re on your way somewhere else?”

  Nyman said that he’d just gotten a call from Ruiz, asking him to stop by the coroner’s office. “She’s working late and has some new information.”

  “Judging by your eyes,” Joseph said, “sleep would be more helpful than new information.”

  “You were never one to stop for sleep.”

  “I was a fool,” Joseph said. “Everyone under the age of seventy is a fool. That’s one of the things I’ve learned recently.”

  “It must be hard being around so many fools.”

  Joseph shrugged. “You get used to it.”

  Nyman, reaching into his pocket, took out the past-due notice addressed to Bridget Becker. “About that friend of yours at Water and Power.”

  “It’s been ten years since I talked to him, Tom. He’s probably retired by now. Or dead. Times change, like you say.”

  “It’s worth a try, though. I want to know how long she was at this address and where she went afterward.”

  Joseph took the bill out of his hand and looked it over. “You tried the phone number?”

  “Disconnected. And there’s no Bridget Becker in the white pages.”

  “What about the I.R.S.? If Meridian’s a nonprofit, you can get a copy of their 990 form.”

  Nyman said he was already working on it. “In the meantime, you’ll check with your friend?”

  Joseph made an irritated noise and slid the notice into his book. “First thing in the morning. Now get out of here and let an old man sleep. And take some food with you. You look like you’ve lost ten pounds since Thursday.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t care if you’r
e not hungry. There’s some food in the cupboard. Take something with you.”

  Nyman took an apple and some peanuts, told Joseph to enjoy the book, and went out into the night.

  * * *

  No wind rattled the leaves of the palms along Mission Road. The air was hot and still as Nyman parked in front of the coroner’s office. He stayed in the car long enough to eat a handful of peanuts, then went up the concrete steps.

  The guard took him down to the security floor, where Ruiz was waiting. She wore a white mask over the lower half of her face and looked at Nyman with eyes that were red and swollen. Her voice, coming through the mask, was hoarse.

  “You weren’t asleep when I called?”

  “I gave up on sleep a while ago. And I appreciate the call.”

  She handed him a mask. “Truth is, it gets a little lonely around here sometimes. Remember not to touch anything.”

  Harsh light greeted them on the other side of the double doors. Nyman kept his gaze on the gleaming floor and avoided looking at the corpses that lay on gurneys along the sides of the hallway.

  Ruiz led him into an empty autopsy suite. A plastic bag sat on a bench among the saws and forceps and dissection scissors. Inside the bag were the jeans and Pacifica shirt Alana Bell had worn during the last hours of her life; the fabric was torn and mottled with patches of dirt and crusted blood.

  “We found a few paint chips,” Ruiz said, carrying the bag over to the table. “Mostly in the right leg of the jeans and the bottom hem of the shirt. Consistent with angle of impact we’d already decided on.”

  She took the jeans from the bag and laid them on the table.

  Nyman said: “Can you match it to a particular car?”

  “We can narrow it down, at least. According to the initial analysis, the basecoat was a dark, high-luster red.”

  Nyman asked if it was the same type of paint that would’ve been used on a Toyota Prius.

  “Possibly. Once we do the pyrolysis, we’ll know more about the chemical makeup of the binders and pigment and whatnot. That should give us the make and model.”

  “When will you have the results?”