Evidence

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Well... I’m just feeling my way around, don’t want to miss anything.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “Okay, then.” To me: “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

  Milo said, “This is Dr. Delaware. He’s a consulting psychologist.”

  “Psychologist,” she said. “For a profile?”

  Milo knows I rate profiling just below reading tea leaves and political polling. “Something like that.” Glancing at the rickety spiral framework that led down to the second floor, he said, “We’re okay here, Lara, go take your next call.”

  C.I. Rieffen gathered up her stuff and hurried down.

  When her footsteps had stopped echoing, he pulled a panatela from a pocket of his forlorn, lint-colored windbreaker, jammed it in his mouth but didn’t light up. As his jaw bunched, the cigar tilted upward. He stared at the bodies some more. Got on the phone and searched for Desmond Backer’s registered vehicle.

  Five-year-old BMW 320i. He put a BOLO on it, with instructions to transport but not search until processed forensically.

  Pocketing his cell, he said, “Caught in the act but maybe staged to reconstruct.” Half smile. “The little death followed by the big one.”

  He studied the sky. “No casings says our boy was careful, unless he’s nostalgic and likes revolvers. No bullet holes anywhere but the one in Mr. Backer’s head, and the diameter says probably small caliber. With her purse gone and no vehicle in sight, I’d say a jacking might indeed be part of it. Except Backer’s wallet is full of cash and that watch is serious money.”

  I said, “Maybe this was about her and the purse has nothing to do with robbery.”

  “Such as?”

  “This early I’m better with questions than answers.”

  “Join the club. Now all I need to do is find out who the hell she is. Any insights? Won’t hold you to them.”

  “No sign of struggle and a contact wound says the bad guy achieved control early on. That could be the result of good planning. My bet is they were staged—there’s almost a theatrical quality to the position.”

  “Something personal.”

  “Strangling’s about as up close and personal as it gets,” I said.

  “Control with a small-caliber gun? Shoot him, first, she’s too freaked out to resist, just lays there and gets choked out?”

  “Maybe there were two killers.”

  “Repositioning them,” he said. “That could be a statement—jealous rage. Ex-boyfriend follows them here, watches them do it, goes bananas.”

  “If this was a tryst-spot, it’s pretty unromantic. No wine, no weed, no chocolate, not even a blanket.”

  “Maybe the bad guy took all that with him. Getting rid of the evidence. Or wanting a trophy. Or both.”

  “Leaving them this way could also be a way of demeaning them further. Which could mean jealousy.”

  “Or a sadistic psychopath.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but what doesn’t fit that is the lack of overkill, her not being posed with her legs spread. There’s something subtle here. Possibly victim-specific. Taking her purse points to her being the main target. Wanting to hold on to a part of her.”

  He circled the turret, took in the view to the west, lit up and blew out a blue stream that ribboned up through the rafters. “Hot date under the stars. Why here, specifically?”

  “Backer was an architect, maybe he’d worked the site. Maybe he had a key, brought her up here to impress her.”

  “I designed the Taj Mahal, baby, so do me? If so, Backer’s involvement was at least two years ago because that’s when the job went on ice. And he wouldn’t need a key, the chain’s long enough to swing the gate wide. That from the rent-a-cop who discovered the bodies. According to him, he reported it to his bosses but they shined him on. Which is consistent with security being a joke: one guy, seven to ten a.m., nothing on weekends, and the most lethal weapon they let him use is a flashlight.”

  “Why’d construction stop?”

  “Guard asked about that, too, was told to mind his own business.”

  I said, “An abandoned site would suit Backer if he liked to party here. With this woman, or others. Given the discrepancy between his clothing budget and hers, I’d start with lower-paid employees of his firm.”

  “Office romance with the receptionist, unfortunately she’s got a possessive significant other. One thing: The guard says he’s never seen evidence of other trysts.”

  “We’re talking the nervous-looking, skinny fellow with the limp.”

  “Doyle Bryczinski. Applied to the department, got into a serious T.A., messed up his leg.”

  “Milo made a new friend?” I said. “What’s his favorite food?”

  “Begrudging me the occasional helpful citizen?”

  “God forbid.”

  “Bryczinski came across nervous to you?”

  “When I drove up, he watched me. When I made eye contact, he pretended he hadn’t been watching. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t point out that you just described Bryczinski as a wannabe cop who sounds extremely frustrated about the lack of control in his life. Guy like that, girlfriend throws him over for someone cuter, smoother, richer? In the exact spot you brought her, yourself?”

  “The guy tries to help, all of a sudden he’s a prime suspect?”

  “Like the song goes,” I said, “suspect the one you’re with.”

  He took a long sour look at the bodies, made his way toward the rickety spiral staircase. “Let’s get to know ol’ Doyle a little better.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Doyle Bryczinski said, “Oh, man, they look ... worse.”

  “Worse than when you found them?” said Milo. Bryczinski turned away. “They’re more like ... people.”

  “And less like ...”

  “I dunno, it was like ... unreal. When I found them, I mean.”

  “Helluva way to start your day, Doyle.”

  “My day starts at four thirty,” said Bryczinski. “Take care of my mother before her attendant shows up at six, then I got to drive straight out here.” Head shake. “Then I find this.”

  “Mom’s sick?”

  “She’s all kinds of sick. Used to live with my brother then he moved to Nome. That’s Alaska.”

  He licked his lips. Small, fragile-looking man, nervous as a rabbit. Without a gun, he’d have trouble controlling anything.

  Before bringing him up here, Milo ran background. Bryczinski had accumulated several unpaid traffic tickets. The disabling traffic accident was a one-car, which usually means DUI, but Bryczinski’s blood alcohol had fallen short of the criterion.

  When ask to come up for a second viewing, he said, “Sure.” Then: “How come?”

  “We could use your help, Doyle.”

  The guard’s limp turned the three-story climb into a plodding ordeal.

  Milo let him stand there for a while, getting an eyeful of the bodies. Sweat beaded Bryczinski’s hairline. His back curved in an unhealthy way. Forty but he looked fifty, with wispy sandy hair gone mostly gray and a narrow face sunken in all the wrong places. Five seven, one thirty soaking wet. Small, cheap flashlight hanging from a belt drawn to the last hole. No one was serious about keeping this site secure.

  “Anyway,” he said.

  “You’re sure you don’t know them.”

  Bryczinski’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”

  “Now that you can see their faces, I mean.”

  “I see ’em but I sure don’t know ’em.” Backing away toward the wall. Just before he made contact, Milo took hold of his arm.

  Bryczinski tensed. “Hey.”

  “Sorry, Doyle. We need to print everything. I’m sure you know the drill.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  Milo said, “This kind of situation, I have to ask all kinds of questions. You’re up here more than anyone. Meaning if anyone comes by, messes the place up, you’d be in the best position to know.”

  “I’m here but I ain’t up here much.�
�� The guard stamped his foot lightly. Plywood thrummed. “Once I check up here, I don’t come back.”

  “Don’t like the view.”

  “I’m working, got no time for views.”

  “So no one ever messes around up here.”

  “Like who?”

  “Anyone,” said Milo.

  “Like some homeless guy? You’re thinking it was one of those idiots, they surprised him, he went nuts?”

  “Anything’s possible, Doyle.”

  “Well, that hasn’t happened for a long time,” said Bryczinski, chancing another look at the bodies. “A homeless, I mean.”

  “You’ve had problems with squatters?”

  “Nah, not really. About a year ago—maybe longer, year and a half, I come in one morning and find dirt. Not up here, on the second floor.”

  “Someone tracked in soil.”

  “Person dirt. You know what I mean.”

  “Someone used the place for a toilet?”

  “Right in the middle of floor two, foot of the stairs. Gross. Also there was food wrappers—Taco Bell, wax cups, greasy paper. Beans and sauce stains on the floor. Someone was eating Mexican, then crapping all over.”

  “What a mess,” said Milo.

  “I called the company, they said clean it up. With what? There’s no water, one broken hose bib out back but no pressure. I said screw that. Why bother, anyway? What’s to stop the idiot from coming back the next day and doing the same thing?”

  “Did he?”

  “Nope. But a little later, maybe a month later, some Mexicans came in and ate again. Thank God they didn’t dump.”

  “How do you know they were Mexicans?”

  “Taco Bell wrappers. And too much for one person.”

  “All kinds of people eat at Taco Bell.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Bryczinski, “all kinds of people don’t leave behind Mexican money. Idiot coins, pesos, whatever. I checked them out, not worth a thing so I gave them to my niece, she’s four.”

  “Any other intruders?”

  “Nah, that’s it.”

  “No evidence anyone ever came up here to fool around?”

  “Nope. That second time, I figured some illegal working on one of the other rich-idiot houses around here had nowhere to go so he slept here. Big surprise to me is why more idiots don’t break in. I showed you that chain. Do you want to know about animals?”

  “What kind of animals?”

  “Critters,” said Bryczinski, savoring the word. “I find animal dirt all the time. Rats, mice. Coyotes, I know it’s coyotes because their dirt is these little shriveled things, look like dry Vienna sausage. I seen plenty of coyote dirt back when I lived in Fallbrook.”

  “Avocado country,” said Milo.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t they grow avocados in Fallbrook?”

  “My dad was in the navy, we lived in an apartment.”

  “Ah ... any visitors during the day, Doyle?”

  “Never. Place is dead.” Bryczinski flinched. “So to speak.”

  “Don’t get bothered by this but like I said I need to ask routine questions of everyone associated with a homicide.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “What were you doing last night?”

  “You’re saying I’m in some kind of suspicion because I found them?”

  “Not at all, Doyle. I need to be thorough.”

  Bryczinski swiped his brow with a uniform sleeve. “Whatever. Last night, I was sleeping. I get up at four, Mom wakes me up, I hit the hay by nine.”

  “You’re Mom’s sole caretaker.”

  “Idiot cat sure can’t do much.”

  Milo laughed.

  The guard said, “Glad someone thinks it’s funny.”

  Milo watched him hobble down the stairs, wincing. “And the diagnosis is...?”

  I said, “No shortage of pent-up anger, but probably not enough physical strength and smarts to pull it off.”

  “Even with a gun?”

  “You find any kind of link between him and either one of your victims, I’ll change my mind.”

  “He claims to have only a flashlight but he could’ve packed. I’ll have uniforms check the entire property for discarded weapons. Bryczinski’s prints are on file because of the security job. Maybe they’ll show up where they shouldn’t be. Like on the floor, right where they’re laying.”

  Another glance at the bodies. “Cute couple. Tough luck for Ken and Barbie.”

  I said, “Played with like dolls. Then discarded.”

  He re-read Desmond Backer’s business card. “Up for Venice? We’ll take your gondola.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Gemein, Holman, and Cohen weren’t advertising.

  Skimpy oxidized-iron address numerals were placed low on the building’s façade, barely a foot above the sidewalk. Under that: GHC: CONCEPTS.

  This was the south end of Main Street, where calculated edgy nudges random do-your-thing and parking’s a challenge. Milo said, “Use that pay lot, on me.”

  He flashed his shield to the attendant, had to shell out seven bucks anyway. The walk back took us past boutiques featuring the kind of clothes you never see anyone wearing. Sunny weekday morning in Venice, only a scatter of pedestrians, but a piercing parlor was doing brisk business. Back in his acting days, the governor had bought up chunks of Main Street, accumulating rental income that helped finance his new hobby.

  Maybe he owned the architectural firm’s avant-garde charmer.

  A pair of isosceles triangles jousted with each other in precarious tilt, the larger one pumpkin-orange stucco, the other bluish green aluminum. A black shroud of solar panel capped the roof. A cement trough running along the base was crowded with horsetails, plant-tops lopped with neurosurgical care.

  The triangles overlapped just enough to provide walk-space for the non-obese. Milo’s been working on his weight. At a relatively svelte two thirty or so, there was no need to turn sideways, but he did so anyway. Body-memory runs long.

  Inside was a courtyard roofed by corrugated metal, bordered by an inch-deep, rectangular pond. Too shallow for fish; maybe microorganisms frolicked.

  The front door was an oxidized-iron slab. Milo’s knock produced no sound.

  No bell. He said, “Business is either real good or real bad.”

  Pounding harder evoked a sorry thud. He said, “This is gonna hurt,” and poised a foot to kick. Before he made contact, the slab swung inward silently, catching him off balance.

  A gorgeous woman with a shaved head watched him stabilize. “What is it?” All the warmth of a voice-simulator.

  She was thirty-five or so, with some sort of Teutonic accent. Hemp disks the size of saucers dangled from exquisitely shaped ears. Nothing overtly medical about her hairlessness; lashes and brows were dark and luxuriant, the eyes below them a spectacular aqua. Her skull was smooth, round, and tan, stubbled white-blond, as if rubbed in salt. Like a minimal frame on a painting, the absence of coiffure emphasized everything else about her. So did a clinging, white tank top, ectodermal black tights, red spike-heeled boots.

  Milo flashed the badge. “Police, ma’am.”

  She said, “And?”

  “We’d like to speak to someone about Desmond Backer.”

  “Des is in trouble?”

  “The worst kind of trouble, Ms....”

  “Desmond did something illegal?”

  “Desmond’s dead.”

  “Dead,” she said. “And you want to come in.”

  She marched back inside, left us to follow. Swinging her hips and stepping high.

  The interior was one big space, unfurnished but for a black desk and a rolling chair in a corner. White walls, high windows, carpeting that matched the bald beauty’s hemp earrings. Skylights in odd places, some of them partially blackened by the solar panel. Others bore the streaks and splotches of moisture damage.

  The bald woman sat behind the desk, laid her palms flat. Charcoal-gray manicure, some ki
nd of mesh effect on the nails. “I have no chairs for you.”

  “We’re fine standing, ma’am.”

  “Something criminal happened to Des.”