Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 16 - The Murder Book

by The Murder Book(Lit)

  That smile, teeth as white and gleaming as his Rolls-Royce. A man willing to do whatever it took? Or friends in the right places? Or both.

  Back when Larner had bent the rules and admitted Caroline Cossack to Achievement House, her brothers had been barely out of adolescence but already in the real estate business. Larner might have dealt initially with Garvey Cossack, Senior, but the

  relationship endured well after Senior's demise and found Larner working for men twenty-five years his junior. Then I thought of something: Bradley Larner was about the same age as the Cossack brothers. Was there some link there? Something that went beyond business?

  When searching for school data on Caroline, Milo hadn't gotten very far with the local high schools. Because everyone was litigation-wary and watched episodic TV and believed cops without warrants were impotent.

  Maybe also because Caroline's emotional problems meant she hadn't enjoyed much of a school history. But perhaps tracking her brothers would be easier.

  The next morning, I was back at the library thumbing through Who's Who. Neither Bob Cossack nor Bradley Larner was listed, but Garvey Cossack had merited a biography: a single paragraph of puffery, mostly what I'd already learned from the Web.

  Tucked among all the corporate braggadocio was Garvey's educational history. He'd completed two years of college at Cal State Northridge but hadn't graduated. Maybe that's why he'd bothered to list his high school. And the fact that he'd been student body treasurer during his senior year.

  University High.

  I checked with the reference desk and found that the library maintained three decades of local yearbooks in the reference section. Uni was as local as it got.

  Finding the right volume wasn't hard. I estimated Garvey's age and nailed it on the second try.

  His graduation picture revealed a full-faced, acne-plagued eighteen-year-old with long, wavy hair, wearing a light-colored turtleneck. Sandwiched between the top of the sweater's collar and the boy's meaty chin was a puka-shell necklace. His grin was mischievous.

  Listed under his picture were memberships in the Business Club, the 'managerial staff ' of the football team, and something called the King's Men. But there was no mention of his being treasurer. According to the Student Council page, the treasurer was a girl named Sarah Buckley. Thumbing through the three preceding

  yearbooks taught me that Garvey Cossack had never served in any student-government capacity.

  Petty fib for a middle-aged millionaire; that made it all the more interesting.

  I located Robert 'Bobo' Cossack's headshot one class back. He'd come to photo day wearing a black shirt with a high collar and a choker-length chain. Equine face, hair darker and even longer than his brother's, a more severe blemish. Bobo wore a sullen expression and his eyes were half-shut. Sleepy or stoned - or trying to look the part. His attempts to grow a beard and mustache had resulted in a halo of dark fuzz around his chin and spidery wisps above his upper

  lip.

  No affiliations below his picture other than the King's Men.

  Also in the junior class was a very skinny Bradley Larner, wearing tinted aviator glasses, a button-down shirt, and peroxide surfer-do that obscured half his face. The part that was visible was as dispirited as Bobo Cossack's.

  Another King's Man.

  I searched the yearbook for mention of the club, found a listing in the roster of school service organizations but no details. Finally, in a breathless account of the homecoming game, I spotted a reference to 'the revelry, high jinks (and other good stuff ) perpetrated by the King's Men!

  An accompanying snapshot showed a group of six boys at the beach, wearing bathing trunks and striped beanies and clowning around with cross-eyed grins, goofy poses, behind-the-head rabbit ears. The beer cans in their hands had been blacked out clumsily. In one case, the Miller logo was still visible. The caption: Surf's Up! but the King's Men crave other liquid entertainment! Partying at Zuma: G. Cossack, L. Chapman, R. Cossack, V. Coury, B. Larner, N. Hansen.

  The Cossack brothers had been high school party animals, and the Bel Air bash a couple of years later was just more of the same. And the link between them and the Larners had been forged on the sands of Zuma, not in the boardroom.

  That made me wonder if the idea for secreting problematic sister Caroline might have originated with the boys, not their father. 'Hey, Dad, Brad's dad works at this place for weirdos, maybe he can help out!

  I searched the yearbooks for mention or a picture of Caroline Cossack. Nothing.

  I drove around the pretty residential streets of Westwood, thinking about Pierce Schwinn and what he'd really wanted from Milo. Had the former detective finally decided to come clean with secrets held for two decades, as I'd suggested, or had he undertaken his own freelance investigation late in life and come up with new leads?

  Either way, Schwinn hadn't been as serene as his second wife believed. Or as faithful: he'd found a confidante to mail the murder book.

  As I'd told Milo, Ojai was a small town and it was doubtful Schwinn could've pulled off a regular assignation there without Marge finding out. But before he'd married Marge, he'd lived in Oxnard in a fleabag motel. Marge hadn't mentioned the name, but she had given us the site of Schwinn's minimum-wage job, and said Schwinn hadn't owned a car. Taking out the trash at Randall's Western Wear. Somewhere within walking distance.

  The place was still in business, on Oxnard Boulevard.

  I'd taken the scenic route because it was the quickest way and I had no stomach for the freeway: Sunset to PCH, then north on the coast highway past the L.A.-Ventura line and Deer Creek Road and the campgrounds of Sycamore Creek - fifteen miles of state land that kissed the ocean and separated the last private beach in Malibu from Oxnard. The water was sapphire blue under a chamber-of-commerce sky, and the bodies that graced the sand were brown and perfect.

  At Las Posas Road, I avoided the eastern fork that swoops into glorious, green tables of farmland and up to the foothills of Camarillo and continued on Route 1.

  Nature's beauty gave way, soon enough, to dinge and depression and seventy-five minutes after leaving the house I was enjoying the sights of central Oxnard.

  Oxnard's a funny place. The town's beach sports a marina and

  luxury hotels and fishing excursions and tour boats to the Channel Islands. But the core is built around agriculture and the migrant workers whose dreadful lives put food on the nation's tables. The crime rate's high, and the air stinks of manure and pesticide. Once you get past the marina turnoff, Oxnard Boulevard is a low-rent artery lined with trailer parks, auto-parts yards, thrift shops, taco bars, taverns blaring Mexican music, and more Spanish than English on the signage.

  Randall's Western Wear was a red barn in the center of the strip, stuck between Bernardo's Batteries and a windowless bar called El Guapo. Plenty of parking in back; only two pickups and an old Chrysler 300 in the lot.

  Inside was the smell of leather and sawdust and sweat, ceiling-high racks of denim and flannel, Stetsons stacked like waffles, cowboy boots and belts on sale, one corner devoted to sacks of feed, a few saddles and bridles off in another. Travis Tritt's mellow baritone eased through scratchy speakers, trying to convince some woman of his good intentions.

  Slow day in the ranch-duds biz. No customers, just two salesmen on duty, both white men in their thirties. One wore gray sweats, the other jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Both smoked behind the counter, showing no interest in my arrival.

  I browsed, found a tooled cowhide belt that I liked, brought it to the counter and paid. Harley-D rang me up, offering no eye contact or conversation. As he handed back my credit card, I let my wallet open and showed him my LAPD consultant badge. It's a clip-on deal with the department's badge as a logo, not good for much and if you look closely it tells you that I'm no cop. But few people get past the insignia, and Harley was no exception.

  'Police?' he said, as I closed the wallet. He wore a bad haircut like his own badge of honor, had a han
dlebar mustache that drooped to his chin, and a clogged-sinus voice. Stringy arms and stringy hair, a scatter of faded tattoos.

  I said, 'Thought maybe you could help me with something.'

  'With what?'

  Sweats looked up. He was a few years younger than Harley, with a blond-gray crew cut, a square shelf of a chin finishing a florid face. Stocky build, quiet eyes. My guess was ex-military.

  'A few questions about a guy who worked here a while back. Pierce Schwinn.'

  'Him?' said Harley. 'He hasn't been here for what - coupla years?' He looked back at Sweats.

  'Coupla,' Sweats agreed.

  Harley looked at the belt. 'What, you bought that to get friendly or something?'

  'I bought it because it's a nice belt,' I said. 'But I have no problem with being friendly. What do you remember about Schwinn?'

  Harley frowned. 'When he worked here he was a bum. What's up with him now?'

  'Have you seen him since he stopped working here?'

  'Maybe once,' he said. 'Or maybe not. If he did come in, it was with his wife - that right?' Another consultation with Sweats.

  'Probably.'

  'Why?' said Harley. 'What he do?'

  'Nothing. Just a routine investigation.' Even as I said it, I felt ridiculous, not to mention criminal. But if Milo could risk violations of the public order, so could I. 'So the last time Mr Schwinn worked here was a couple of years ago?'

  'That's right.' Harley's smile was derisive. 'If you wanna call it work.'

  'It wasn't?'

  'Man,' he said, leaning on the counter, 'let me tell you: it was a gift. From our mom to him. She owns the place. He used to live down the block, at the Happy Night. Mom felt sorry for him, let him clean up for spare change.'

  'The Happy Night Motel?' I said.

  'Right down the block.'

  'So it was a sympathy thing,' I said. 'From your mother.'

  'She's got a soft heart,' said Harley. 'Ain't that so, Roger?'

  Sweats nodded and smoked and turned up the volume on Travis Tritt. The singer's voice was plaintive and rich; I'd have been convinced.

  'Schwinn have any friends?' I said.

  'Nope.'

  'What about Marge - the woman who married him.'

  'She comes in for feed when she runs out on her bulk order,' said

  Harley. 'Yeah, she married him, but that makes her his wife, not his friend.'

  And when are you entering law school, F. Lee Picky?

  I said, 'Marge met him here.'

  'Guess so.' Harley's brows knitted. 'Haven't seen her either, for a

  while.'

  Roger said, 'She's probably ordering off the Internet, like everyone. We gotta get with that.'

  'Yeah,' said Harley, listlessly. 'So, c'mon, tell me, man, why're you asking about him? Someone off him or something?'

  'No,' I said. 'He's dead, all right. Fell off a horse a few months

  ago.'

  'That so. Well, she never mentioned it. Marge didn't.'

  'When's the last time you saw her?'

  Harley looked back at Roger. 'When's the last time I saw her?'

  Roger shrugged. 'Maybe four, five months ago.'

  'Mostly everyone orders bulk from suppliers,' said Harley. 'And the Internet. We do gotta get hooked up.'

  'So Marge has been in since Schwinn died, but she never mentioned his death.'

  'Probably - I couldn't swear to it, man. Listen, don't pin me down on any a this.'

  Roger gave another sweat-suited shrug. 'Marge don't talk much, period.'

  Travis Tritt bowed out and Pam Tillis weighed in about 'The Queen of Denial.'

  Harley said, 'Is this about drugs, or something?'

  'Why do you say that?'

  Harley fidgeted. His brother said, 'What Vance means is that the Happy Night - everyone knows about it. People go in and out. You wanna do us a favor? Get it moved outta here. This block used to be a nice place.'

  I kept my car in the Randall's lot and walked the block to the motel. The place was a twelve-unit gray stucco C built around a central courtyard and open to the street. The yard was tiled with crumbling bricks, didn't look as if it had been designed for parking, but four dirty compact cars and an equally grubby truck with a camper shell

  occupied the space. The office was off to the right - a cubicle that smelled of gym sweat manned by a young skin-headed Hispanic man wearing an aqua blue cowboy shirt with blood-red piping. Spangling on the yokes, too, but oily splotches in the armpits and ketchup-colored freckles across the front mitigated the garment's charm. Resting on the pleat was a heavy iron crucifix attached to a stainless-steel chain.

  My entry rang a bell over the door and the clerk shot a look at me then glanced under the counter. Reflexively. Probably checking out the requisite pistol. Or just wanting to let me know he was armed. A sign on the wall behind him said CASH ONLY. Same message in Spanish, right below. He didn't move but his eyes jumped around and the left lid twitched. He couldn't be more than twenty-two or -three, could probably take the adrenaline surges and blood-pressure spikes for a few more years.

  I showed him the badge, and he shook his head. Atop the counter was a novella - black-and-white photos of characters speaking in captions, storyboard laid out like a comic book. Upside down I caught a few words: 'sexualismo', 'con pasion.'

  He said, 'Don' know nothin'.' Heavy accent.

  'I haven't asked anything.'

  'Don' know nothin'.'

  'Good for you,' I said. 'Ignorance is bliss.'

  His stare was dull.

  'Pierce Schwinn,' I said. 'He used to live here.'

  No answer.

  I repeated the name.

  'Don' know nothin'.'

  'An old man, Anglo, white hair, white beard?'

  Nothing.

  'He used to work at Randall's.'

  Uncomprehending look.

  'Randall's Western Wear - down the block?'

  'Don't know nothin'.'

  'What's your name?'

  'Don' kno-' Lights on in the brown eyes. 'Gustavo.'

  'Gustavo what?'

  'Gustavo Martinez Reyes.'

  'You speak any English, Mr Martinez Reyes?'

  Headshake.

  'Anyone work here who does?'

  'Don' know noth-'

  So much for ace detective work. But I'd come this far, why not give Ojai another try - check out a place I knew Marge Schwinn had frequented. The shop where she'd bought the blue albums - O'Neill & Chapin... over by the Celestial Cafe... from, England... discontinued... I bought the last three.

  Maybe she hadn't. Or maybe Schwinn had also shopped for himself.

  I continued to the next freeway on-ramp and was back on Highway 33 within minutes. The air was cold and clean, every color on full volume, and I could smell ripening fruit in the neighboring groves. O'Neill & Chapin sat in one of those cozy commercial groupings that had sprouted along the road, this one a well-shaded segment just past the center of Ojai but several miles before the turnoff to Marge Schwinn's ranch. The shop was a minuscule, shingle-roofed, clapboard cottage dominated by live oaks. The boards were painted forest green, and the store was fronted by five feet of cobblestones running from the earthen curb to Dutch doors painted creamy mint. Gold leaf lettering across the front window proclaimed:

  O'Neill & Chapin, Purveyors of Fine Paper and Pigments.

  Est. 1986

  Behind the windows were dark oak shutters. A sign leaning against the slats said:

  On a buying trip in Europe. Back soon

  I checked out the neighboring business. To the right was the candlery, also shuttered. Then Marta, Spiritual Counselor, and the Humanos Theosophic Institute. To the left was a one-story office building faced in river rock: chiropractor's office, a notary public-cum-insurance broker, a travel agent specializing in 'nature-friendly

  excursions.' Next to that, in a sunnier spot, sat an adobe cube with a wooden sign over the door.

  Celestial Cafe

&nbs
p; Gold stars danced around the edges of the signs. Lights flickered behind blue gingham curtains. It was nearly 3 P.M. and I'd fed neither my brain nor my gut. Times like this, I supposed, organic muffins and herbal tea wouldn't be half-bad.

  But according to the blackboard mounted above the open kitchen, the cafe specialized in country French food - crepes, quiche, souffles, chocolate desserts. Real coffee, Lord almighty.

  Some kind of New Age soundtrack - tinkly bells, flute, and harp - eased out of speakers set into the low, wood-beam ceiling. More blue gingham covered half a dozen tables. A woman with elaborately braided gray hair wearing a buckskin jacket over a crinkly, pink dress sat enjoying what looked to be ratatouille. No server was in sight, just a pasty-faced, heavyset, white-aproned woman wearing a blue bandana over her hair cutting vegetables in the kitchen. At her elbow was a six-burner Wolfe range, with one flame aglow under a cast-iron crepe pan. Fresh batter had just been poured into the pan, and the cook stopped cutting long enough to grab a towel and take hold of the handle. Tilting deftly, she created a perfect disc that she slid onto a plate, then topped with creamed spinach. A dash of nutmeg, and the crepe was rolled and placed on the counter. Then back to the vegetables.