Milo picked up the check.
Krug said, “You made my day,” and sauntered out.
When the waitress came by for payment, Milo said, “We’ll have coffee.”
She glanced disapprovingly at the completed bill. “I’ll have to retotal.”
Milo handed her a wad of bills. “Keep it.” She flipped through the money and winked. “On the house.”
As she returned to the counter, he said, “If Malley was the white man who paid Nestor to hit Troy Turner, Nestor was an obstacle that had to be cleared up. On the other hand, Nestor had a big mouth, and for all those years at C.Y.A. he never gave Malley up.”
“Because he wanted to get out,” I said. “But once he was free— and stoned— his inhibitions dropped. He bragged to Anita, so there’s a good chance he talked to other people. The problem is, they were probably people who didn’t care.”
“Other junkies and losers,” he said. “To them he’d be just another fool shooting off his mouth. Anita did care and tried to report it and everyone shined her on.”
Milo pulled on his upper lip. “Another proud moment for the department. . . . Nestor’s crime scene sounds a lot like Rand’s. And Lara’s. Okay, that makes Malley suspect-of-the-week.”
“There’s another unnatural death we should think about. Jane Hannabee was killed a few months after Troy. When I interviewed her she predicted Troy’s death. Said his notoriety would make him a desirable target. From what Anita said, that’s exactly how Nestor saw him.”
“You think Hannabee figured out who paid to kill Troy?”
“Or she was eliminated out of revenge because she spawned Troy,” I said.
“You destroy my family, I destroy you. Man, that’s cold.”
“So is shooting your own wife six months after she’s lost her only child and faking it as suicide.”
His forehead creased. “Hannabee wasn’t shot.”
“Neither was Troy,” I said. “Because Troy was behind bars and with all of C.Y.A.’s problems, they keep firearms out. Shooting someone in a homeless encampment in the middle of the night would be possible but extremely reckless. Hannabee’s murder was so stealthy it wasn’t discovered for hours. She was pulled out of her sleeping bag, cut, slid back in, rewrapped in plastic.”
“You’re saying signature doesn’t matter to Malley.”
“He’s not governed by a structured compulsion because his goal isn’t sexual satisfaction. His goal is housecleaning. Whatever gets the job done.”
“Alex, if Malley’s really done all these people, he’s still a serial killer. Guess Rand’s grandmother’s the lucky one, dying of disease.”
The coffee arrived. The waitress set Milo’s mug down with exquisite caution, leaned over and flashed a triangle of freckled chest. Tight wrinkles tugged at her cleavage. She lingered for a second before straightening.
“Anything else?” she said with a song in her voice.
“Nope, we’re fine, Elise.”
“You’re very kind,” she said.
“So they tell me.”
* * *
We headed back to West L.A., taking Sixth again. Milo slowed to glance at Lafayette Park. Trees, lawns, benches, a few men sitting, a couple of others walking. The courthouse on Commonwealth loomed. Who’d have thought so much threat resided in empty, green space.
He said, “Anyone approaching the campgrounds where Malley lives from either direction on Soledad would be spotted easily. There’s nowhere to hide on the road, so forget surveillance. Not that surveillance would tell me anything. Doesn’t sound as if Malley’s gonna go pub-crawling and blab to lowlife friends.”
He rubbed his face and made an abrupt lane shift that evoked frenzied honks. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.
The honker’s Toyota whipped in front of us. On the rear bumper was a War Is Not the Answer sticker.
Milo growled. “It got rid of slavery in America and Nazis in Germany.”
I said, “If Malley’s still active in the drug trade, he might leave the campsite periodically.”
“Unless I can watch him, how the hell do I find that out?”
“Maybe his boss is more aware of his comings and goings than she let on.”
“Bunny the stuntwoman? Think there’s more than a work relationship, there? I sensed something personal going on.”
“Maybe. She made a point about not keeping tabs on Malley. Which was an answer to a question you didn’t ask.”
“The lady protesting too much?” he said. “If she is Barnett’s love-interest, questioning her further is only going to alert him. I’m gonna call the coroner about Nestor’s belongings, check out his dump on Shatto despite what Krug said. Anita was right about Krug. He doesn’t give a shit. I also know a Ramparts uniform who might be able to turn me on to some street junkies, maybe I’ll get lucky and find out Nestor blabbed to someone else. Better check into Jane Hannabee’s death, too. Big-time fun, huh?”
“Can you handle more complication?”
“What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”
“If Malley’s anger extends to everyone he perceives as having been on the boys’ side, and killing Rand rekindled his rage, the Daneys could be in jeopardy. If Malley was outside Rand’s window that night, he could’ve been spying on them as well.”
He thought about that. “Yeah, they should probably be warned, but it’s tricky. What if they go over to Malley’s place and try to talk things out? Being all spiritual and positive about basic human goodness and all that. If we’re right about what happened to Rand, heartfelt discussion with Cowboy Barnett is not a prescription for longevity.”
“Warn them not to have contact with him,” I said.
“Think I can compete with God?”
“Good point,” I said. “Cherish, especially, might try to talk things out. She fancies herself a therapist.”
“God bless the God-pushers. You like feel-good religion, Alex? Inherent blessedness of the human spirit, eternal forgiveness, the certainty of an afterlife where all is bright and airy?”
“Everyone needs comfort.”
He laughed angrily. “Give me that old-time religion, bro. And I ain’t talking rousing hymns and babbling in tongues. My childhood was nuns who smacked my hands raw and priests stoked by guilt and hellfire and blood sacrifice.”
“Blood sacrifice sells movies,” I said.
“Sells entire civilizations.”
“Optimism’s for wimps?”
“Hey, it’s great if you can swallow it,” he said. “Blind Faith 101.”
* * *
After dropping me back at my place, Milo leaned out the passenger window. “Has my resolute negativity brought you down? Because there’s something you can do for me while I’m up to my neck in Nestorania.”
“Sure.
“How about you warn the Daneys? Be psychologically sensitive and hold back if you sense they’re gonna do something stupid. And as long as we’re putting out warnings, what about the boys’ lawyers— talk about getting on Malley’s wrong side. Remember their names?”
“Sydney Weider for Troy, Lauritz Montez for Rand.”
“That just rolled off your tongue. The case stayed with you.”
“Until Rand called, I thought I’d forgotten about it.”
“So much for optimism, pal. Anyway, feel free to schmooze with them, too. I hate talking to lawyers.”
CHAPTER 24
Monday, I called the Daneys’ home. No one answered, so I turned to Sydney Weider and Lauritz Montez.
Weider was no longer at the Public Defender’s and I found no home or office listing for her. Lauritz Montez was still a P.D. but he’d moved uptown to the Beverly Hills office.
He answered his own extension, just the way he’d done years ago. This time, my name evoked silence. When I asked him if he’d heard about Rand, he said, “Oh . . . you’re the psychologist. No, what about him?”
“He was murdered.”
“Shit,” he said. “When?”
“Nine days ago.”
His voice went flat as lawyer’s wariness took over: “You didn’t call just to inform me.”
“I’d like to talk to you. Could we meet?”
“What about?”
“It would be better in person,” I said.
“I see . . . when were you thinking?”
“Sooner’s better than later.”
“Okay . . . what is it now, four-thirty, I’ve got paperwork but I need to eat. Know where the Bagel Bin is on Little Santa Monica?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Bet you will. Five sharp.”
* * *
The place was New Age Deli: glass cases of smoked fish and meat and all the right salads, but the stainless-steel/vinyl ambience was autopsy room. Maybe that was honest; lots of creatures had died to feed the early-dinner throng.
I arrived on time but Lauritz Montez was already at the counter ordering. I hung back and let him finish.
His hair was now completely gray but remained long and ponytailed. The same waxed mustache fanned across his bony face; the chin fuzz was gone. He wore a wrinkled cream linen suit, a pink button-down shirt, and a bottle-green bow tie. Two-tone olive suede and brown leather wingtips graced narrow feet; the left shoe tapped the floor rapidly.
He paid, got an order slip, turned, nodded.
“You look pretty much the same,” he said, motioning me toward the single open table.
“So do you.”
“Thanks for lying.”
We sat and he began arranging the salt and pepper shakers and the sugar bowl into a tight little triangle. “I did some checking and found out Rand’s a West L.A. homicide case but no one will tell me anything. You must be wired right into the cops.”
“I’m consulting on the case.”
“Who’s the detective?”
“Milo Sturgis.”
“Don’t know him.” He studied me. “Still a prosecution groupie, huh? How long was Rand out of custody before he got killed?”
“Three days.”
“Jesus. How’d it happen?”
“He was shot in the head and dumped near the 405 North in Bel Air.”
“Sounds like an execution.”
“It does.”
“Any physical evidence?” he said.
“You’d have to ask Detective Sturgis.”
“Such discretion. What do you want from me?”
A kid in a paper hat and an apron brought his order. Sliced pumpernickel bagel, baked salmon, sides of coleslaw and baked beans, Styrofoam cup of tea.
I said, “There are no real suspects, but there is a hypothesis. And speaking of discretion— ”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. So you work full time for the other side?”
“The other side?”
“The righteous bunch that sits on the other side of the courtroom. Are you a resident prosecution expert or just a freelance?”
“I do occasional consultations.”
“Have Freud, will travel?” He lined up his utensils perfectly parallel to his plate. Removed a sugar packet from the bowl and squared a folded corner before slipping it back in. “What’s the hypothesis?”
I said, “They’re looking at Kristal Malley’s father.”
He said, “That guy. Always thought he hated my guts. You really think he’d be that nuts?”
“Can’t say.”
“Isn’t it your job to say when people are nuts?”
“Don’t know Malley well enough to diagnose,” I said. “Never met him during my evaluation and haven’t spoken to him since. How about you?”
He stroked his mustache. “Only time I ever saw him in person was at the sentencing.”
“But you feel he hated your guts.”
“I don’t feel, I know. That day in court, I was up at the bench doing my thing, returned to the defense table and caught him glaring at me. I ignored it but kept getting that itchy feeling at the back of my neck. I waited until the D.A. starting blabbing before I turned around, figuring Malley’s attention would be shifted. His eyes were still on me. Let me tell you, if they were guns, I wouldn’t be here.”
“He owns real guns,” I said.
“So do I,” said Lauritz. He flicked his bow tie. “Surprised?”
“Should I be?”
“I’m a bleeding heart subversive.” His mustache lifting was the sole indication he’d smiled. “But as long as the law says I can own bang-bangs, I will.”
“Self-defense?”
“My dad was military and the one thing we did together was blast away defenseless animals.” He massaged his left eyebrow. “I was actually good enough to qualify for my college team.”
“Have you been threatened because of your work?” I said.
“Nothing explicit, but it’s an edgy job so I stay on the edge.” He removed another packet, smoothed its edges, passed it from hand to hand.
“Law begets order,” he said. “And a shitload of disorder. I stopped fooling myself a long time ago. I’m part of the system so I triple-lock my doors at night.”
“Did Malley ever do more than glare at you?”
“No, but it was a heavy-duty glare. Serious rage. I didn’t blame the guy. His kid was dead, the system’s set up to be us-them and I was them. He didn’t scare me and I’m not scared now. Why should I be? All this time’s passed and he never made a move on me. Do the cops seriously think he killed Rand?”
“It’s just a— ”
“I know, hypothesis.” He wiped salt grains from the top of the shaker. “I suppose you know Troy Turner was murdered, too.”
I nodded.
“Think there’s a connection?” he said.
“Troy was killed a month into his sentence,” I said.
“And this is eight years later. Yeah, if I was Malley and wanted to do the revenge bit, I’d have finished the job quickly. It’s something I thought about when I heard about Turner’s death. I got concerned for Rand, called his warden and asked for a special watch. The jerk said he’d look into it. Definitely bullshitting me.”
“When you called were you thinking about Barnett Malley?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But even in general terms, I was thinking Rand would make a good trophy for some testosterone-laced sociopath out to make his rep.” He looked down at his food but didn’t touch it. “Anyway, I appreciate the warning, but if I got freaked out about every victim’s family member going after me I’d be a basket case.”
He held his hands out, palms up, steady. “See, no anxiety.”
Just compulsively organized table items.
I said, “You’re in Beverly Hills now. Must be a different level of offenders.”
“B.H. is more than just celebrity shoplifters. We handle a lot of West Hollywood’s felony cases, so, no, I’m not sleeping at the wheel.”
“Didn’t mean to imply you were.”
He took a long time assembling a salmon and cream cheese sandwich. Picked out capers one by one and imbedded them around the outer edge of the bagel’s whitened, bottom half. Inspecting his handiwork, he closed the sandwich but didn’t eat.
I said, “How much contact did you have with Rand after he went away?”
“I called him a couple of times,” said Montez. “Then I moved on. Why?”
“He phoned me the day he died, said he wanted to talk about Kristal but wouldn’t give details over the phone. We made an appointment and I showed up but he didn’t. A few hours later, he was found— dead. Any idea what could’ve been on his mind?”
He played with the sandwich on his plate, nudging it with his thumb until it sat dead center. When he looked up, his jaw was taut. “This isn’t really about warning me, is it? It’s about pumping me for information.”
“It’s both,” I said.
“Right.”
“We’re not in an adversarial position, Mr. Montez.”
“I’m a lawyer,” he said. “In my world everything’s adversarial.”
“Fine, but now we’re on
the same side.”
“Which is?”
“Getting some justice for Rand.”
“By locking his killer up?”
“Wouldn’t that be a good start?” I said.
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