Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  No ink I could see from a distance. His skin had cleared.

  I backed into the shadow of the station’s façade. Whatever the blonde had to say held Efren’s attention. As they got closer I made out details. His face was longer, bonier, with thick black eyebrows and a beak nose bottomed by a faint dark smudge.

  Mustache or shadow.

  The blond woman was about Efren’s age, taller than him by an inch with Marilyn Monroe hair and a shape to match. She wore a fitted red satin blouse, black pencil skirt, crimson stockings flocked in black, silver stilettos that did nothing to slow her prance-like gait.

  They were five yards away. The flocking on her legs turned to applique: tiny black roses. A maroon suede briefcase swung from a black-nailed hand.

  Gorgeous face, exuberant makeup, gigantic hazel eyes.

  The smudge under Efren’s nose was, indeed, a wispy ’stache.

  I stepped in front of them. Efren’s hand shot to a pant pocket. Reflexive move.

  He took a second to focus, grinned and grabbed my hand. “Hey, it’s my doctor—this is him, Leese. This is the patron save my life when I was a stupid sugar baby.”

  His voice had taken on more East L.A. singsong than before. Hormones had lowered it to tenor. His teeth had been straightened, his smile was radiant, his hair smelled of citrus pomade.

  Gangster prince. Same look of easy confidence you saw on Ivy League legacies and showbiz brats.

  We shook hands. His bones had laid on some calcium but they still felt flimsy. Nice manicure.

  The blonde watched disapprovingly.

  Efren said, “Man, it’s been a long time. How you been doin’, Doc—oh, yeah, not so good.” His irises turned to lumps of coal. “Bitch tryin’ to do that. Crazy.”

  I shrugged.

  The blonde said, “Anyway …”

  Efren turned to her. Her gaze was stony.

  “This is him, Leese.”

  Unimpressed, she offered her fingertips to me. As she pulled away, curving black nails grazed my knuckles and I couldn’t help but take that as a warning.

  She said, “Lisa Lefko, Mr. Casagrande’s attorney.”

  “Alex—”

  “I know who you are,” she said, consulting a Ulysse Nardin watch rimmed with diamonds. “We need to get going, E.C.”

  Efren said, “Wait one sec—so, Doc, you sure you okay? I mean psychological.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He studied me. “So how’re things going for you? Besides all this shit?”

  “Great. How about you?”

  “Me? Life is be-yootiful, got what they call a thriving business.”

  I knew but I asked. “What kind?”

  Lisa Lefko tensed up.

  Efren said, “Car audiovisual.” He kissed air, bounced on shiny new loafers. “Top-of-the-line entertainment systems, Doc—hey, why don’t you come in, I set you up with something really sick—what kind of music you like?”

  “All kinds.”

  “All kinds, huh? Well, I got systems for all kinds. We also got a place next door, do custom rims. Got a guy with the best blue squirrel brush in town, does pin-striping it’s like art. Don’t you think, Leese? That stripe on your Jag pretty cool, no?”

  Lisa Lefko said, “Lovely. Now, can we—”

  “Doc, anything you drive we can make it hyper-bitchin’. What’s your wheels now?”

  “The Seville.”

  “Same one?”

  I nodded.

  “You kidding.”

  “She’s been good to me, Ef.”

  “Whoa,” he said. “That’s like … historical. Original engine?”

  “Third.”

  “Third,” he said. “Caddy?”

  I nodded. “New old stock.”

  “Wow wow wow, that’s like antique.”

  Lisa Lefko tapped a stiletto heel on the pavement. A black-and-white drove past, entered the staff parking lot. She followed its trajectory. So did Efren.

  “Cops,” he said. “They could use better wheels. Make ’em happier, they stop giving problems to everyone.”

  Steel in his voice. Lisa Lefko cleared her throat, arched her back advertising her figure, dared anyone to make a comment.

  Movie-star face, pinup body, the eyes of an IRS auditor. She reminded me of someone—Connie’s lawyer, Medea Wright, another looker with a J.D. not afraid to flaunt.

  Lisa Lefko could be Wright’s taller, blonder sorority sister. Maybe law schools were looking for a type.

  Efren said, “Okay, Doc, let’s do this.”

  Lefko said, “He’s not part of it, E.C.”

  “What you talking about?”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you on the way over, E.C. Got a call from that lieutenant. Dr. Delaware’s not going to be part of your interview.”

  “Why not?”

  “Police procedure.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means whatever they want it to mean, E.C. Bottom line: They don’t want him participating.”

  He turned to me. “You know about that?”

  I shook my head. “All I was told was you requested I show up.”

  “Shit,” he said. “They wasting your time, they wasting my time.”

  Lisa Lefko said, “Before you get too friendly with the doctor, consider that maybe he’s closer to them than he is to you, showed up as a sop to you.”

  Efren said, “Sock?”

  She sighed. “Sop. Throwing you a bone.”

  “Huh?”

  “Cops want you here, you wanted Dr. Delaware here. They probably figured you two would talk for a few minutes, then they’d corral you. But now you managed that on your own. So can we go in and get it over?” Turning to me, she continued to address him. “It’s not like you have anything to tell them, Efren.”

  He blinked. “Yeah. True.” To me: “Good to see you, Doc. Just wanted to make sure you’re healthy.”

  “I am. Thanks.”

  He hooked a thumb at the station entrance. “Lisa says you work with the cops.”

  Always did.

  I said, “Sometimes.”

  “Like what, getting inside bad guys’ heads?” Smiling.

  “Basically.”

  “You still seein’ sugar babies?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “Mostly it’s the cops?”

  Lisa Lefko said, “E.C., we really need to—”

  He waved her quiet, gripped my hand with both of his. “Been real, Doc. Stay healthy.”

  I waited a couple of minutes before phoning Milo’s desk.

  Moe Reed answered. “He just started talking to the suspect, Doc. You’re supposed to go to his office, video feed’s on his computer.”

  “Right on the desktop?” I said. “New system?”

  “Been operative for over a year,” said Reed. “This morning he let me show him how to use it.”

  Clean, beige room. One table, three chairs, no water, no coffee. The table was pushed into a far corner. No physical barrier for psychological protection. Efren sat next to Lisa Lefko. Both of them faced Milo.

  Milo said, “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Casagrande.”

  Efren said, “Hey, my pleasure.”

  “Okay, let’s start—”

  Lisa Lefko said, “In this case, start equals finish. Mr. Casagrande has nothing to discuss about anything.”

  She got up, hefted her briefcase.

  Milo turned scarlet. “What the—”

  “Mr. Casagrande has nothing probative to offer about any criminal or civil matters and upon advice of legal counsel, he will offer no replies to any questions whatsoever.”

  Milo leaned toward Efren. “That the way you feel?”

  Efren’s smile was gone. His shoulders were stiff as he turned to Lefko.

  As surprised as Milo.

  Lefko said, “That’s exactly the way he feels, Lieutenant.”

  Milo said, “She talks for you, huh?”

  Efren said, “Hey, Leese, we can talk
about the Dodgers, no?”

  Lefko’s face was stony.

  Milo said, “If you intended this all along, Ms. Lefko, why did we waste time—”

  “Good question, Lieutenant.”

  Both men stared at her. She cocked a hip, tossed hair, switched her briefcase to the other hand. “Ready, Mr. Casagrande?”

  Efren shifted in his chair. His laugh was strained.

  Milo said, “Adios,” and stomped out of the room.

  Once he was gone, Lisa Lefko smiled down at her client. First indication I’d seen that she was capable.

  Efren sat there.

  She said, “Don’t say anything, I’m sure the room is bugged.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Got some mail for you back at my office,” she said. “From out of town.”

  Emphasis on town. Efren’s eyebrows climbed. She walked to the door. Held it open for him.

  His turn to follow. He did. Moving like a much older man.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Milo flung open his office door hard enough to propel the knob into the wall. Easy fit into the hole he’d established years ago. He yanked the knob out. Plaster snowed on linoleum.

  Flicking a black lick of hair off his mottled forehead, he said, “What a fun job, that mouthy little lawyer …”

  Dropping onto his chair, he set off a chorus of squeaks.

  I said, “She’s Efren’s attorney of record but I doubt he’s her primary client.”

  “Who, then?”

  “The greater organization.”

  “Barbie the Mob Mouthpiece?” He rolled his neck, loosened his tie. “What makes you say that?”

  “Efren looked as surprised as you by her sandbag. And after you left, he sat there until she told him she had mail waiting for him from out of town. Sounded like code to me.”

  Shuffling papers, he shoved them aside. “Probably … a total waste of time—at least you’re happy.”

  “You’re not?”

  “What do I have to be happy about?”

  I smiled. “My continuing existence.”

  He stretched his arms wide, crooked the right limb to avoid slamming a wall. Wriggling out of his jacket, he scrolled through email that made him glower.

  His office is a cramped, stuffy, windowless closet far from the big detective room. Part of a deal he and a former police chief hammered out after Milo unearthed enough dirt to demolish the boss’s personal and professional lives. An urbane, enthusiastically corrupt man, the chief probably figured the room would serve as punishment. I believe Milo regards it as a perk. When it comes to LAPD, he’s always been a man apart.

  In the old days, that resulted from being a gay detective when the department supposedly had none. It’s been years since his locker was stuffed with nasty porn and carved with swastikas. Nowadays the department has regulations that bar discrimination of anyone by anyone based on anything, anytime. What that does to internal attitude is anyone’s guess.

  What distances Milo these days from his colleagues are an affection for solitude and an allergy to authority. The new chief keeps him on because he’s a statistics fan and Milo’s close rate is always at the top. But my friend will never rise above lieutenant.

  To someone else that might be career stalemate. Milo likes it just fine because most lieutenants work the desk (“Just what the world needs, another pencil-pushing zombie”) while he’s got the title, the pay, and the promised pension, and can still detect.

  Still, on days like this, the room felt like a cell.

  He said, “Must be interesting. Having Casagrande be responsible for your continued existence but knowing if it was someone else they’d be dead.”

  I said nothing.

  “Don’t want to heap on the cognitive dissonance, Alex, but what’s your take on Ramon Guzman’s life expectancy?”

  “You figure Efren will tie up a loose end.”

  “Guzman embarrassed him by improvising. You figure otherwise?”

  “Well,” I said, “seeing as Guzman was happy to take the contract on my life and Efren stopped it, I’m not going to contemplate too deeply.”

  “So just let it rest?” he said. “Including Ol’ Connie’s murder? Seeing as you’re not mourning her in any big way.”

  “Not mourning but I am curious.”

  “An intellectual thing.”

  “You feel any personal attachment to her, big guy?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I said, “Yet you’re working the case. So we’re in the same place. What next?”

  “What next is I need to learn more about Mr. Casagrande because he remains my prime. Normally, I might be asking you for your insights. Since this is an abnormal situation, I guess we go our separate ways.”

  “Connie was an abrasive woman. There could be lots of suspects.”

  “You’ve convinced yourself Casagrande didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t know one way or the other but it might not hurt to be open-minded.”

  “Okay, then the sister.”

  I didn’t reply.

  He said, “What, some patient didn’t like her bedside manner so they sliced her diaphragm and choked her out?”

  I said, “Bedside manner doesn’t apply. She ran a pathology lab, had little or no contact with patients. But she could’ve ticked off any number of people.”

  “No forced entry, it was someone she’d open the door for.”

  “I don’t see Efren or gangbanger hit man fitting that description. Her social skills, she couldn’t have been a terrific boss.”

  “The classic disgruntled-worker scenario? Hell, with a net that wide, it could be gardeners, delivery boys.”

  “I’d still start with those she could’ve irritated chronically. Any plans to visit her lab?”

  “It’s on my list.”

  “I’m free for the rest of the day.”

  “Oh, sure, tag along, great idea.”

  “You’re on it, no reason I shouldn’t be.”

  “She didn’t try to off me, Alex.”

  “Granted,” I said. “But her plan failed and my head is clear.”

  “And now you’re directing me away from the two most obvious suspects: Casagrande and the sister.”

  “Can’t speak for Efren but I don’t see Cherie as violent. Just the opposite, she’s passive, easygoing.”

  “Not so passive she didn’t fight Connie in court.”

  “She didn’t fight, she defended herself. And she won, there’d be no reason for her to kill Connie.”

  “What if she worried Connie would keep yanking her back to court? Connie someone who’d give up that easy?”

  “I just don’t see Cherie committing murder,” I said.

  “Because you know her.”

  “Because I just don’t see it.”

  He rolled his neck. “Maybe you’re right, maybe not. Either way, there’s no sense in you getting involved because I’ve got to consider them as suspects and you’re not free to talk about either of them.”

  “I can talk to you about Ree. She’s not a patient.”

  “What is she?”

  “The subject of a report. Guardianship cases are public record.”

  “If you had something on her, you’d tell me.”

  “You bet.”

  “She convinced you she was righteous.”

  “I went in without preconceptions but it wasn’t a custody dispute where both parties are presumed to have rights. The child is legally Ree’s and Connie tried to use the system to take her away.”

  “Sounds like legalized theft.”

  “If she’d succeeded it would’ve been.”

  “Which leads me straight back to Cherie. What if Connie did tell her she was in for a long war? That’s a dandy motive.”

  “Fine, check her out,” I said. “But we could also have a look at Connie’s staff.”

  “Again with the we.”

  “I’ll buy lunch.”

  “Not hungry.”
r />   I laughed.

  He said, “I can’t stand when you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Assume I’m ruled by my digestive system.”

  “God forbid,” I said. “Want me to drive? Think T-bone.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  Con-Bio Medical Testing was housed in a gray cube on Laurel Canyon Boulevard between Burbank and Magnolia.

  Short drive to Rubin Rojo’s parking lot. Connie had been nothing but efficient. I imagined her date book the day of the meet with “George.”

  1. Analyze a few specimens.

  2. Fill out the billing slips.

  3. Have a little chat to finalize a hit on that bastard.

  Thinking about it made my jaw ache. Picturing her dead body helped a bit.

  I’d claimed objectivity to Milo but it would be a while before I could sort out my feelings. The key was constructive denial: convincing myself that she was just another victim, a puzzle to be solved.

  As I pulled into the lab’s parking lot, I caught Milo studying me. When I turned, he made a show of checking his notepad before exiting the car.

  Ten-space lot. The dedicated slot marked Dr. Sykes Only. Violators Will Be Towed at Their Expense was unoccupied. The area comprised a nice size chunk of Valley real estate. Milo had phoned the assessor as I drove over the hill, learned that Connie had purchased the property six years ago for seven figures.

  That along with the house in Westwood and the investments she’d bragged about added up to a sizable estate. What would Rambla’s life have been like growing up Westside-affluent? What would it be like with Ree?

  Milo pushed the lab’s front door open and we stepped into a windowless waiting room. Four black hard plastic chairs sat on green-blue carpeting with all the give of Formica. A corner table was piled with dog-eared throwaway magazines. Overhead light was cold, buzzing, inadequate.

  Facing the door was a sliding window of thick pebbled glass. To the right was a knobless door plastered with bold-typed instructions.

  Arrivals were to knock only once then wait until called.

  Payment prior to testing could be imposed “at Con-Bio’s discretion.”

  No smoking, no eating or drinking, no loud conversation.

  The premises had been certified by Cal/OSHA and a host of additional government watchdogs.