Rage

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Drugs.”

  “And everything that goes with that lifestyle. Out all night, sleeping all day. One week he’d be working at a car wash, then he’d get fired. He’d just disappear without a word, then he’d show up at Mom’s with way too much money. My mother was a religious person, she had a real problem with money you couldn’t explain.”

  She plucked at her badge. “One time he threatened my husband.”

  “When did that happen?” I said.

  “Maybe a week after he got out. He showed up at our place late at night and demanded we let him crash there. Jim offered him money but wouldn’t let him come in. Nestor got mad and grabbed Jim’s shirt, really got in Jim’s face. He told him he’d be sorry. Then he spit on Jim and left.”

  “You call the police?”

  “I wanted to but Jim didn’t. He thought Nestor would calm down. Jim’s a really even person, nothing fazes him.”

  “Did Nestor calm down?”

  “He didn’t bother us again and a week later he showed up at the office and begged me to forgive him. He claimed he was clean, this time he was going to go straight, he needed a real job. I know a woman who runs a food stand down the block and I asked her if she’d give him a chance. She agreed but he screwed that up.”

  “How?”

  “Bad attitude, poor attendance. Now I don’t even go there for lunch.”

  “Being Nestor’s sister was a challenge,” I said.

  She exhaled and pulled at an eyelash. “Why are you asking me all this now?”

  Milo said, “Do you have any idea where Nestor was living right before he died, and who he was hanging around with?”

  “Not a clue,” said Moss. “Soon after he got out, he bought some nice clothes. I figured he’d sold some dope. A few weeks later he was back living with Mom and the fancy clothes were gone.”

  “We’re looking into something Nestor might have done when he was locked up. Maybe he talked about it.”

  Silence.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Oh,” said Anita Moss. “That.”

  * * *

  She sat back against the seat cushion. Ran her hand over her eyes. “I tried to do something about it.”

  “About what, ma’am?”

  “You’re talking about the little white kid, right? The kid who killed that baby girl.”

  “Troy Turner,” said Milo.

  Anita Moss’s shoulders tightened. A fisted right hand drummed the seat. “Now you’re here?”

  “What do you mean, ma’am?”

  “Right after Nestor told me about it I tried to tell the authorities. But no one listened.”

  “Which authorities?”

  “First, at Chaderjian. I phoned them and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of solving crimes that take place in the prison. I spoke to some therapist, counselor, I don’t know. He listened to me and said he’d get back but he never did. So I called the cops— Ramparts station because Nestor lived here. They said it was Chaderjian’s jurisdiction.”

  Her eyes blazed.

  Milo said, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “I called because Nestor was scary. He was living with Mom, I didn’t want him doing anything crazy.”

  Her eyes were wet. “It was hard to tell on him. He was my brother. But I had to think of Mom. No one cared then, and now Nestor’s dead and you’re here. Seems like a waste of time.”

  “What exactly did Nestor tell you?”

  “That he was a hit man at Chaderjian. That he got paid to hurt or kill people and that he’d killed a bunch of kids in the prison.”

  “When did he tell you this?”

  “Not long after he got out— a couple of days after. It was my brother Antonio’s birthday and we were at my mom’s, trying to have a family dinner, my brothers and their families, Jim and me. Mom wasn’t feeling well, she really didn’t look good, but she made a beautiful dinner. Nestor showed up late, with expensive tequila and a dozen Cuban cigars. He insisted all the guys go outside and smoke. Jim doesn’t touch tobacco so he refused but my brothers went out on the balcony. Soon after my oldest brother Willy came in and said Nestor was running his mouth about all kinds of crazy things, violent things, and he didn’t want Mom to hear, I should quiet Nestor down.”

  She frowned.

  “You handled Nestor better than anyone,” I said.

  “I was the only one willing to confront him and he never got hostile with me. Maybe because I’m a girl and I was nice to him even when he was a wild little kid.”

  “So you went to talk to Nestor.”

  “He was smoking this gigantic cigar, making all this stinky smoke. I told him to blow it the other way, then I said stop talking trash. He said, ‘I’m not talking trash, Anita, I’m talking real.’ Then he gave this bizarre smile and he said, ‘It’s kind of a Christian thing.’ I said what do you mean and he said, ‘Hanging dudes up and letting them bleed is making ’em like Jesus, right? That’s what I did, Anita, I didn’t have no nails but I tied up a dude and cut him and made him bleed.’

  “It made me sick. I told him to shut up, he was grossing me out and if he couldn’t behave himself he should leave. He kept going on about what he’d done, like it was really important for him to talk about it. He stayed on the Christ thing, saying he was like Judas, got twenty pieces of silver to do the job. Then he said, ‘But he was no Jesus, he was the Devil in a little white kid’s body, so I did a good thing.’ I said what are you talking about and he said the dude he hung up was some little white kid who killed another little white kid. Then he pulled something out of his pocket and showed it to me. It was an I.D. card from Chaderjian, just like Nestor’s but with another kid’s picture on it.”

  “Troy Turner.”

  “That was the name on the badge. I said you could get that anywhere. Nestor went nuts, said, ‘I did it, I did it! Hung the dude up and made him bleed, look him up on your computer, smart girl, there’s gotta be something there.’ ”

  A tremor ran down the center of Anita Moss’s throat. “He’d made me sick to my stomach. Mom had cooked this beautiful dinner, all her beautiful food and I felt like it was all coming up. I yanked the cigar out of Nestor’s mouth and ground it out with my foot. Then I told him to shut up, I meant it, and went back inside. Nestor left and didn’t return, which was fine with everyone. That night, trying to sleep, I couldn’t stop thinking about that kid’s picture on the badge. He looked so young. Even with Nestor’s always bragging and lying, he freaked me out. ’Cause of the details.”

  “What details?” said Milo.

  “He insisted on telling me how he did it. How he’d followed that little boy for days. ‘Hunted the dude like a rabbit.’ He learned Troy Turner’s routine, finally cornered him in a supply room off the gym.”

  Her face crumpled. “Talking about it now makes me sick. Nestor said he hit him in the face to subdue him. Then, he . . .” She gulped again. “That night, after Jim fell asleep, I got out of bed and went on the computer and plugged in Troy Turner’s name. Found a short article in the Times and a longer one from a paper near Chaderjian. What they both said matched everything Nestor told me. Maybe Nestor didn’t do it, maybe he just heard about it and got that badge somehow.”

  I said, “Knowing Nestor, you believe he could’ve done it.”

  “He was proud of it!”

  “Nestor said he’d been paid to kill other boys,” said Milo. “Did he mention any other names?”

  She shook her head. “Troy Turner was the only one he wanted to talk about. Like that had been a real big accomplishment for him.”

  “Because Troy was notorious?” I said.

  She nodded. “He said that. ‘Dude thought he was a stone killer but I killed his ass.’ ”

  “Did he say how much he’d been paid?”

  Anita Moss shook her head. Lowered her eyes. “I came to hate Nestor, but talking about him like this . . .”

  “Did Nestor ever talk about who paid him, ma’am?”

  Sh
e kept her head down, spoke softly. “All he said was that it was a white guy and the reason was Turner had killed a baby.”

  “Did he give you any details about this white guy?” said Milo.

  “No, just that. I told the exact same thing to that counselor. When he didn’t call back, I phoned the police. No one cared.”

  Her lips folded inward. She shook her head back and forth.

  “That boy,” she said. “That picture. He looked so young.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Milo and I sat in a rear booth of a coffee shop on Vermont just north of Wilshire, drinking Cokes, waiting for Ramparts Detective Philip Krug. Krug had been in his car when we reached him and he welcomed the opportunity for lunchtime company.

  The locale was his choice, a big, bright, half-empty place with puce-colored vinyl booths, cloudy windows, and the outward profile of a toy rocket ship.

  He was twenty minutes late and I used the time to raise the issues Allison had brought up.

  Milo said, “The premeditation thing’s interesting, but I don’t see where it takes us. Rand wanting to feel less guilty by blaming Lara could be important. If he tried it on Malley. What do you think about Nestor’s bragging?”

  “Sounds authentic. He knew all the details,” I said.

  “I was thinking about the white guy hiring him.”

  “Revenge hit. It fits.”

  He looked at his Timex.

  I said, “Troy bragged, too, when I interviewed him in jail. Said he had plans to be rich.”

  “You’re thinking he had hit-man fantasies, too?”

  “I don’t see him planning for the Ivy League. Maybe he saw Kristal as career practice.”

  “Goddamn little savages. What do you do with them?”

  * * *

  Phil Krug was a compact man in his forties with thin red hair and a copper-wire mustache so thick it extended farther than his crushed nose. He wore a gray suit with a navy shirt and a pale blue tie. The waitress knew him and said “The usual?” before he had a chance to sit down.

  Krug nodded at her and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Nice to meet you guys. Tell Elise what you’re having.”

  We ordered burgers. The waitress said, “Phil orders his with blue cheese.”

  Krug said, “That’s ‘the usual.’ ”

  Milo said, “Sure.”

  Nonconformity seemed impolitic. I said, “Ditto.”

  * * *

  In between bites of cheese-slathered ground chuck on an undistinguished bun, Krug discussed the little he’d learned about Nestor Almedeira’s murder. Unknown assailant, no leads, granules of heroin on the dirt near the body.

  A single head-shot, close proximity, through-and-through temple wound, coroner’s guess was a .38, no bullet recovered and no casing, so the killer had picked up or used a revolver.

  I side-glanced at Milo. Expressionless.

  “Lafayette Park,” he said.

  Krug wiped cheese from his mustache. “Let me tell you about Lafayette Park. Coupla months ago I got called for jury duty, civil case, they hear them over at the courthouse on Commonwealth, which is right near the park. I knew I’d be disqualified but I had to show up and wait and do all that good citizen stuff. Lunch break comes and the clerk reads off this prepared statement telling all the jurors where to eat. Then she goes into this speech about never going into Lafayette Park, even during the day. We’re talking a courthouse yards away swarming with law enforcement, and they’re saying don’t step foot inside.”

  “That bad,” I said.

  “It sure was for our boy Nestor,” said Krug. “So what’s the connection to West L.A.?”

  Milo told him about Rand Duchay and Troy Turner’s murders, but left out Lara Malley’s suicide and the similarities between the shootings.

  “I remember that one, snatched little baby,” said Krug. “Depressing, glad it wasn’t mine. So maybe Nestor was the hit boy on Turner, huh?”

  “He claimed he was to his sister.”

  “She never mentioned that to me.”

  “She told C.Y.A. right after Nestor bragged about it, got no interest, phoned Ramparts, same deal.”

  “She probably talked to some clerk,” said Krug. “We don’t always get the sharpest knives in the drawer . . . they do that, the idiots. Brag. How many you solve that way? Plenty, right?”

  “Plenty,” said Milo.

  “So what are you thinking, someone went on a revenge kick and hit the other baby killer? With all those years in between? What’s it been, ten?”

  “Eight,” said Milo.

  “Long time,” said Krug.

  “It’s a problem, Phil, but there’re no other leads.”

  “I’ve been figuring Nestor as your basic dope thing. Patrol officers I.D.’d him as a bottom-feeder with a bad disposition, he was working Lafayette and MacArthur and the streets.”

  “Bottom-feeder user?”

  Krug pantomimed a bellpull. “Bingo. His arms and legs were full of tracks and there was dope in his blood. You know what it’s like when they get to that point. They’re just selling to stay healthy.”

  Milo nodded. “How much heroin was in him?”

  Krug said, “Don’t remember the numbers, but it was enough to get him high. The way I figure, being numbed out made him easier to kill. They found a knife on him but it never got out of his pocket.”

  “The killer feeds him, then does him?” said Milo.

  “Or Nestor fed himself and ran into bad luck. If I was out to get a guy like Nestor, that’s how I’d do it. And a guy like Nestor would have enemies.”

  “Bad disposition.”

  “The worst,” said Krug, “but we never picked up any specific street talk on who he pissed off.”

  “Where was he living?” said Milo.

  “Dump on Shatto, pay by the week. You could go there but you’d find nothing. Nestor’s total belongings fit into one box and there was nothing interesting. Maybe the coroner still has it but you know the storage problems at the crypt. My guess is it got tossed.”

  “Nestor’s sister said he showed her Turner’s I.D.”

  “It wasn’t in his stuff.”

  “What was?”

  “Clothes, needles, spoons, crappy clothing.”

  “Anyone at his crib have anything to say?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Krug. “We’re talking transients and a clerk who does the blind-dumb-deaf bit.”

  Krug took a bite of his burger. “Excellent, huh? One thing the French are good for is cheese . . . anyway, whatever bragging Nestor might’ve done in the past, his crowing days were over.”

  He reached in his pocket and brought out a postmortem shot of a hollow-cheeked visage. Matted hair, sallow complexion, death-glazed eyes bottomed by gray pouches. Patchy facial hair came across as a gray skin rash.

  Like his sister, Nestor Almedeira had a round face. Bad living had wiped out any other resemblance to her.

  I motioned for the picture and took a closer look. Nestor had been the baby of the family, but he looked ten years older than Anita. His head had been tilted by the morgue photographer to give a view of the entrance wound. Left temple, black-and-ruby hole sharpened by stellate skin shredding and framed by a pointillist ring of powder.

  Milo said, “Was he sitting when he was shot?”

  “Right on the park bench,” said Krug. “Your kiddie killer was sitting, too?”

  “Maybe in a car. Anything happening on the case, Phil?”

  “You’re about it,” said Krug, finishing his burger and wiping his lips. “Be sure to let me know if you learn anything. Be nice to close this one, even if no one else gives a shit.”

  “No family agitation,” said Milo.

  “You met the sister. She thinks Nestor was scum. Family wasn’t making any moves to claim the body, coroner had to keep bugging them. Finally, one of the brothers paid for the mortuary to pick it up.”

  Krug waved and the waitress brought the check and placed it in the center of the ta
ble. He took some time cleaning his mustache, pulled a steel toothpick from his shirt pocket and worked it around his gum line.

  “So.” He smiled.