Passant said, “Stern with her legs wide open. And she even got into more details.” Winking. “She said he did her standing up behind a trailer. Facing her, it was real friendly, almost like they were having a conversation, except they weren’t.”
Bettina Sanfelice said, “She made it sound like his being inside her was a surprise.”
The three of us stared at her.
She burst into tears. Retched and slapped her hand to her mouth and motioned frantically with the other. Milo scooted out and she ran to the bathroom.
Sheryl Passant said, “She always had a bad stomach.”
I said, “She said the same about you.”
“Me? No way. I’ve liked chili and spicy my whole life.”
“After Marjorie told you about Des, what else did she say?”
“Nothing. She just shut up and drank some more. We had to sit there a long time until she could drive. Helga left first, me and Tina and Ms. Holman sat there looking at each other, like no one had anything to say anymore. There was CSI: Miami on a big plasma and we just watched then we all drove home.”
“What happened the next day?”
“What do you mean?”
“No mention of the discussion?”
“Nope.” Her hand dropped to fool with her napkin, again. This time she lingered at my crotch.
I shifted away. “I’m going to make sure Bettina’s okay.”
“Don’t bother, she’s okay—all right, fine, but she’s really okay.”
It took nine minutes for Sanfelice to emerge from the ladies’ room. Her steps were wobbly and her eyes were raw. When she saw me, she gasped.
“You all right?”
“I’m terrible,” she said. “That was terrible.”
“Sorry. I didn’t intend for it to get that detailed—”
“With Sheryl it would have to. She likes to show off. Her dad’s a drunk and he beat her mom all the time, Sheryl never did well in school and her mom died a few years ago. My mom says she’s a slut but she’s had it hard.”
Glancing toward the booth. “You won’t tell my mom, right?”
CHAPTER 8
Passant and Milo weren’t talking. Passant looked bored.
When Bettina Sanfelice settled back in, Milo said, “A woman died with Des—”
“Omigod—”
“—and I’ve got a picture of her. It’s not disgusting or bloody, but it was taken after death. Can you handle looking at it?”
Passant said, “I just saw it, Teen, it’s no big deal and you don’t know her.”
Sanfelice took a deep breath. “How can you be sure?”
“I didn’t know her, so no way you did.”
“That makes no sense, Sher. Show it to me, sir.”
Milo produced the death shot. Sanfelice studied. Smiled triumphantly. “I’ve seen her with Des.”
Passant said, “Sure you have.”
Milo said, “Where and when, Bettina?”
“Just once, sir. It was after work. Des and me were the last ones in the office. I was sweeping up and Des was drawing stuff on the computer. Our cars were parked in the lot out back and we walked out together.” Tapping the image with a finger. “She was there, standing next to his car. Waiting for him, he wasn’t surprised or anything.”
“Was he happy to see her?”
“He wasn’t happy or unhappy. Kind of ... in the middle.”
Passant murmured, “Once upon a time ...”
Sanfelice said, “I definitely saw her. I can tell you what she was wearing, sir. Tight jeans and a black tank top. She had a real good body. I remember thinking Des had himself a hot one.”
Glaring at Passant. As opposed to...
Passant huffed and slurped her drink.
I said, “Did Des address her by name?”
“Nope, they didn’t talk at all. He just kind of nodded at her and she nodded back.”
“Did they leave together?”
“I can’t say for sure. I drove off first and didn’t see.”
Sheryl Passant picked up the photo. “I wouldn’t call her hot.”
Milo said, “How long ago did this happen, Bettina?”
“I can’t tell you exactly when but it was way before GHC closed down, I’d guess two months, maybe a little longer, like two and a half.”
“Anything else you can tell us, Bettina?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, thanks, you’ve been really helpful. If you think of anything else, here’s my card.”
“She won’t think of nothing, trust me,” said Passant. “And give me one of those, too.”
We watched them leave, Passant yammering as Sanfelice stomped ahead of her.
Milo said, “Blondie was nudging up against you pretty blatantly.”
“You have no idea,” I said.
“Serious footsies?”
“Beyond.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll send the department a bill for freelance decoy work. Did Passant have anything to add when you got her alone?”
“Nada, she’s an airhead. Though she did try to fool with my desert boots. If only she knew, huh? What about Sanfelice over by the john?”
“Please don’t tell Mom. Looks like Des was a creature of habit.”
“That Kill Me sign’s looking bigger and brighter. Okay, we’re outta here.”
“Italian?”
“You’re hungry?”
“I assumed you were.”
“Yeah, I could ingest, we could even stay here. Alternatively, we could go for the mixed antipasto, that headcheese with delicate but smoky overtones, the fried artichokes Roman-style, nice salad with thin-sliced Parmesan and pepperoncini and intensely cured black olives, the big, hot bowl of baked ziti with the bread crumbs sprinkled on top. If there’s still room, there’s always the double-cut veal chop with the Sicilian sauce, wedge of spumoni, triple espresso, pump in the caffeine.”
Sliding his bulk out of the booth. “Not that I’ve been thinking about it.”
Out in the parking lot, I said, “Nice lateral pass on the interview.”
He grinned. “Nice catch. I figured psychological sensitivity was called for.”
“Flattered.”
“It had nothing to do with the fact that I don’t sleep with women.”
“That never occurred to me.”
“No?”
“Who is more aware than I of your painful shyness?”
“To be honest, Alex, if we were dealing with men, I’da come out and asked. Because men can’t wait to talk about their sex lives. I figured women were different, it would be like oral surgery, but go know. Sorry for your having to deal with Blondie’s lack of filter.”
“Mercy me, the trauma,” I said. “Where’s the self-help group?”
He laughed. Turned serious. “A married woman old enough to be his mama, a wild girl, and a shy, nerdy type. Guy was all over the map.”
“What strikes me,” I said, “is that none of them seem particularly impacted by his death. There was initial shock but once that wore off, all three discussed him objectively. Same way they did at the cocktail lounge. He meant very little to them emotionally and probably vice versa, but what if Jane Doe was different?”
“Someone Don Juan actually got involved with. Maybe. When you factor in the zip code, he did take her on a fancy date.”
Several plates full of Italian food later, I drove back to the city over Benedict Canyon while Milo phoned a judge known to skim rather than read and requested a victim search warrant for Desmond Backer’s residence.
The next call was to Santa Monica PD, making nice with the day-shift homicide lieutenant by promising not to tie up her detectives and convincing her to send a locksmith to Backer’s apartment as soon as possible.
We reached Santa Monica at the end of a nice beach day; tourists and wild-eyed homeless people divvied up Ocean Front Boulevard. Backer’s building on California was four stories of rain-streaked white stucco pimpled by juliet balconies to
o small to be functional and bottomed by a subterranean lot. The view was the massive, five-story condo across the street.
Three blocks east of the beach bought you the smell of the ocean but no big blue kiss.
The building’s interior was cool and gray and sterile. The locksmith was already in place at the door to Backer’s second-floor flat, looking sleepy. He said, “Murder case, huh?” and opened his bag. Milo gave him latex gloves and sheathed his own hands and mine. The locksmith said, “Must be a biggie,” and got to work. The deadbolt yielded quickly, a receipt was signed, the locksmith tossed his gloves onto the hallway carpet and left.
I waited until Milo called out the all-clear.
Desmond Backer had been trained in structural design and aesthetics but he’d lived in a plain-wrap one-bedroom, one-bath, had made no attempt to personalize.
Brown cloth sofa and matching love seat in the living room, cheap bamboo tables, framed generic photographs of trees, lakes, foxes, owls, eagles. A cinder-block-and-glass-shelf bookcase housed architecture texts and a few large-format paperbacks. Population control, biodiversity, tropical reforestry, renewable fuels.
Plastic-wrapped six-packs of generic springwater filled the upper shelf of the low-profile fridge. Three bottles of Corona below, along with unopened salad bags and a vacuum-wrapped package of organic trout. The fake-granite counter of the mini-kitchen held a coffeemaker, a juicer, knives in a block, yesterday’s paper, still folded and rubber-banded.
No disorder, no obvious blood. No woman’s presence.
Same for the puny, dim bedroom nearly filled by a king-sized bed in a black wood frame. A single high window framed the blue flank of the building next door. A birch cube nightstand hosted a gooseneck lamp, a box of tissues, two more books on forestry. No dresser, but part of the closet was sectioned into drawers. Not a lot of clothes, but what was there was high quality. Two cashmere sweaters, navy and chocolate brown, same style as the black one worn by Backer on his last breathing night. Italian loafers and a pair of New Balance running shoes.
Milo inspected the soles of the runners. “Sand in the grooves, probably jogged on the beach.”
A you-build desk next to the closet hosted a silver iMac and a second adjustable lamp. In a top drawer, Milo found condoms, boxes of them, in a variety of brands, styles, and colors. Below all that, several pages printed from the Internet. Straight sex, athletic positions, women in ecstasy, genuine or not, nothing cruel or outré.
I said, “He practiced safe sex but left semen on Jane’s thigh and no condoms at the scene.”
Milo scratched his nose. “Maybe a box of rubbers was another take-home goodie for Baddie.”
“Jane’s purse, whatever bedding Backer brought, the BMW,” I said. “Interesting haul.”
He got down and peered under the bed.
I said, “Catching Backer in the act of unpeeling a condom would be a perfect time to make your move.”
“Zoned out, off-guard, off-balance,” he said. “Here comes the big death.”
“The alternative is, Backer didn’t glove up with Jane because he did have something special with her.”
He thought about that, returned to the closet, checked a high shelf, then the floor beneath some long coats. Slid out a box. Drawing pads, pencils, erasers, pens, last year’s tax return, a few credit card bills, cell phone records, loose photos.
Milo examined the receipts first. “Not much activity last month ... talking to someone in Washington State ... four times—and here’s our tyke, again.”
Unfolding four snaps in plastic holders.
Solo portraits of “Samantha” except for one shot in which the child appeared on the lap of a good-looking woman in her thirties. Next to her a large-jawed, bespectacled blond man and a golden retriever. Decorated Christmas tree in the background, everyone in matching reindeer sweaters.
Dear Uncle Desi, Merry Christmas. Thanks for the play oven, I love to cook on it. Yumm numm. I wish we could hang out. Love, Samantha.
Milo said, “Someone cared about him,” and headed for Backer’s computer.
The screen opened directly to a server, preset by a “remember me” password. Nine unread e-mails, all spam except for a missive from [email protected].
hey lil sib, how goes it? really desi you need to write more miss you, specially sam. write, call, sing a song, send an e-card use a messenger pigeon. lol. Luv xoxox ricki
Milo printed the page, slipped it into an evidence bag. Returned to the screen and checked the toolbar for Backer’s recent searches.
“Nothing’s been cleared for days,” he said, “the guy definitely wasn’t worried about privacy.”
I said, “Fits with the direct approach.”
He ran his finger down the list of recently visited sites.
EBay, news outlets, ecology chat rooms, online men’s clothing resellers. In a solid block at the bottom, thirty-three porn sites.
“What a shock.” He began scrolling.
Five minutes later: “Same straight-on stuff. Okay, let’s see if I can ruin someone’s day.”
The Washington State number connected to a message machine. Identifying himself by rank, he left his number.
“You have reached the home of Scott and Ricki and Samantha and Lionel, we’re not in now but please blah blah blah. My hooh-hah detective instincts tell me Lionel’s the pooch.”
Returning to the closet, yet again, he pawed through the pockets of Desmond Backer’s clothing. Four crumpled Trader Joe’s receipts, a half-year-old sales slip from Foot Locker for the running shoes, a cheap plastic pen, a few loose coins.
“So what’s missing from this picture, Doc?”
“Anything to do with Jane Doe.”
“So—and perish the thought—you could be off about her being a significant other, she was just another booty-cutie.”
“He took Holman to Santa Monica, stayed in the Valley with Passant.”
“So maybe she lives near Holmby? But her clothes say not as a resident—an au pair or something? Time to revisit the hood. But first, this Shangri-la’s parking amenities.”
The building’s sub-lot was one-third full, and Backer’s BMW was easy to spot. Milo gloved up again, peered through the windows, tried the doors, found them locked, ran his flashlight over the interior.
“Nothing looks off, but let’s see what the techies have to say.”
I said, “Backer and Jane got to Borodi some other way.”
“She drove? Why not, a smooth guy like Uncle Desi could probably get women to do all sorts of things. And if I had any idea who the hell she is, I could look for her goddamn car.”
“You up for another visit to the scene?”
“Why?”
“Nothing else comes to mind.”
CHAPTER 9
Milo punched in Robin’s cell as I headed to Holmby Hills. Her voice filtered through the dash-mounted speaker. “Hi, babe. Long day?”
Milo said, “And not over yet, Sugarplum.”
“Big Guy,” she said, laughing. “You’re his receptionist?”
I said, “No, I’m his unpaid driver.”
“Or I’m his patient,” said Milo. “How’s it going, kid?”
“It’s going well. You guys sound far away.”
“It’s the hands-off,” I said, “ergo the lack of privacy. I should be home within the hour.”
Milo said, “Privacy? There’s something to hide from Uncle M?”
Robin said, “Never, m’dear. Not over yet as in making progress or just the opposite?”
“Nothing plus nothing, Rob. I’ll get him back to you A-sap.”
“Come on over for dinner, Milo. I’ll grill something.”
“I drool in anticipation, but Dr. Silverman is expecting a cozy dinner.”
“Rick can come over, too.”
“Thanks, kiddo, but he’s on call until late. The plan is we grab something at Cedars.”
“Cafeteria food is cozy?”
“Love hurts, darling.”
A single uniform remained at the construction site, leaning against his cruiser and talking on his cell phone. Yellow tape ran along the fence. The chain was still loose enough to allow a walk-through.
Evidence Page 6
