“I really don’t want to talk ill of my sister.”
“I understand.”
Marsh pinged his cup some more. “Both times she wore halter tops with no backs, very, very short skirts, spike heels, lots of makeup.” Marsh sighed. “There was faculty all around, people were staring. The first time I let it go, figuring she didn’t know what to expect. The second time I said something to her and it was a very tense meal. She cut it short, announced she had to go, and just walked out without saying good-bye. I didn’t try to follow her. Afterward, I realized I’d been a prissy jerk, phoned her to apologize, but she didn’t return the call. I tried again but by that time her number was inactive. A month later I heard from her, and she didn’t mention a thing about walking out. I asked for her new number, but she said she was using prepaid cell phones—disposable, so there was no sense copying down the number. I’d never heard of that.”
“She say why she was using prepaids?”
“She said it was simpler. I took that to mean she didn’t have enough of a credit history to get a real phone account. Or she had no permanent home.”
“Out on the streets?”
“No, I think she was living somewhere, but not in a permanent place. I tried to find out, she refused to tell me. I took that to mean she thought I’d disapprove.”
Ping ping. “I probably would’ve. Christi and I are very different.”
I said, “She called you to reconnect.”
“She managed to track me down at the History Department, I walk in one day and find a message in my box that my sister called. At first I thought it was a mistake.” Cody Marsh winced. “I didn’t think of myself as having a sister. Christi and I have the same father but different mothers, and we didn’t grow up together. Christi’s significantly younger than I—I’m thirty-three and she’s . . . was twenty-three. By the time she was old enough to relate to, I was in Oregon, so we really didn’t have a relationship.”
“Are her parents alive?”
“Our father’s dead. And so is my mother. Christi’s mother is alive, but she has serious mental problems, has been institutionalized for years.”
“How many years?” I said.
“Since Christi was four. Our father was a raging alcoholic. As far as I’m concerned, he killed my mother. Smoking in bed, blind-drunk. My mother was drinking, too, but the cigarette was his. The house went up in flames, he managed to stagger out. Lost an arm and part of his face, but it didn’t put a dent in his drinking. I was seven, went to live with my maternal grandparents. Soon after, he met Christi’s mom in a bar and started a whole new family.”
“Serious mental problems,” I said.
“Carlene’s schizophrenic,” said Marsh. “That’s why she hooked up with a one-armed, scar-faced drunk. I’m sure drinking was what they had in common. I’m sure drinking and living with my father didn’t help her mental state. I was the lucky one, my grandparents were educated, both teachers, religious. My mother was trained as a social worker. Marrying him was her big rebellion.”
“And he raised Christi after her mom was institutionalized?”
“It couldn’t have been much of a raising. I don’t know the details, I was living in Baudette, and he took Christi over to St. Paul. I heard that she dropped out of high school, but I’m not sure exactly what grade. Later, she went to Duluth with him—he was working on some sort of land crew. Then back to St. Paul. A really bad neighborhood.”
Milo said, “Sounds like you kept tabs.”
“No,” said Marsh. “I heard things from my grandparents. Filtered through their biases.” Marsh worked several strands of hair over his face, spread them back, shook his head. “They hated my father, blamed him for my mother’s death and everything else that was wrong in the world. They loved recounting his misfortunes in great detail. The slum neighborhoods he was forced to live in, Christi failing in school, dropping out. Christi getting into trouble. We’re talking editorializing, not straight reporting. They saw Christi as an extension of him—bad seed. They wanted nothing to do with her. She wasn’t their blood. So Christi and I were kept apart.”
“What kind of trouble did Christi get into?” I said.
“The usual: drugs, keeping bad company, shoplifting. My grandparents told me she got sent to one of those wilderness camps, then juvenile hall. Part of it was their schadenfreude—reveling in someone else’s misery. The other part was that deep down they worried about me. Being half-Dad genetically. So they used Dad and Christi as negative examples. They were preaching to the converted because Christi represented everything I despised about my roots. The trash side, as my grandparents called it. I was a good student, well behaved, destined for better things. I bought into that. It wasn’t until my divorce—” He smiled. “I neglected to mention that somewhere along the way I got married. That lasted nineteen months. Soon after the divorce, both my grandparents died, and I was feeling pretty alone, and I realized I did have a half sib I barely knew and maybe I should stop being a self-righteous jerk. So I tried to get in touch with Christi. Nagged my great-aunt—my grandmother’s sister—until she told me Christi was still living in St. Paul, ‘doing burlesque.’ I phoned a few strip clubs—I was motivated, the whole rebonding fantasy—and finally located the place where Christi worked. She wasn’t happy to hear from me, very distant. So I bribed her by wiring her a hundred bucks. After that, she started calling every couple of months. Sometimes to talk, sometimes to ask for more money. That seemed to bother her—having to ask. There was a shy side to her, she’d pretend to be tough but she could be sweet.”
Milo said, “She give you any other details about her lifestyle?”
“Just that she was dancing, we never got into details. When she called, it was always from a club, I could hear the music going. Sometimes I thought she might’ve sounded high. I didn’t want to do anything to put distance between us. She liked the fact that I was a teacher. Sometimes she called me ‘Teach’ instead of my name.”
Marsh removed his glasses and wiped them with his napkin. Unshielded, his eyes were small and weak. “Then her calls stopped, and the club said she was gone, no forwarding. I didn’t hear from her for over a year, until I got the message in my box at school.”
“No idea what she was doing for over a year?”
Marsh shook his head. “She said she’d made enough from dancing to relax for a while, but I wondered.”
“About what?”
“If she’d gotten into other things. I put that out of my head because I had no facts.”
“Other things such as . . .”
“Selling herself,” said Marsh. “That was another thing my grandparents were always telling me about Christi. She was promiscuous. They used less-kind language. I didn’t want to hear it.”
He took hold of his cup, managed to get down some chai.
“Christi had learning problems, but I guess one thing she could always count on was her looks. She was an extremely beautiful child. Skinny as a stick when she was little, white-blond hair below her waist. It was never clean or combed and she wore mismatched clothes—Dad didn’t have a clue. Sometimes, not often, he’d drop in unannounced. My grandfather would always storm up to his room and not come down. Grandmother called Christi ‘the street urchin.’ As in, ‘Here’s the bum and the street urchin come a-knocking. Better Lysol the cups and glasses.’ Usually, I’d escape to my room, too. One time, Christi couldn’t have been more than four, so I was fourteen, she ran up the stairs, flung my door open, and threw herself on me.”
Marsh pulled at the skin around his jaw. “Hugging me, tickling me, giggling, an idiot could’ve seen she was reaching out. But it annoyed me. I yelled at her to stop. Bellowed. And she got off me, stared with this look in her eyes. And slunk out. I really crushed her.”
His eyes were dry but he wiped them. “I was fourteen, what did I know?”
I said, “What do you know about her life in L.A?”
“In L.A. she didn’t ask me for money, I can tell y
ou that.” He nudged his teacup aside. “I guess that bothered me. Because of what she might be doing to get by. Was she involved with bad people?”
“Did she imply that?”
Marsh hesitated.
“Sir?”
“She did tell me some wild stories,” said Marsh. “The last time we spoke, over the phone—”
Milo said, “How long ago was that?”
“Three, four months.”
“What kind of wild stories?”
“More out there than wild,” said Marsh. “She talked extremely fast so I wondered if she’d gotten into drugs—amphetamines, cocaine, something that was hyping her up. Or worse, could she be ending up like her mother.”
“Tell us about the stories,” I said.
“She claimed she was working with secret agencies, doing undercover work, spying on gangsters hooked up with terrorists. Making big money, wearing expensive clothes—expensive shoes, she went on a long time about her shoes. She really wasn’t making much sense but I let her go on. Then she just stopped talking, said she had to go, hung up.”
He pulled at his hair. “That’s the last time we talked.”
Milo said, “Secret agencies.”
Marsh said, “Like I said, out there.”
I said, “And shoes were a big deal to her.”
“Spying and wearing good shoes,” said Marsh. “She even mentioned a brand, some Chinese thing.”
“Jimmy Choo.”
“That’s the one.” Marsh stared at us. “What? It was true?”
“She was wearing Jimmy Choo shoes the night she died.”
“Oh, God. And the rest—”
Milo said, “The rest was fantasy.”
“Poor Christi,” said Marsh. “Fantasy as in mental illness?”
Milo glanced at me.
“No,” I said. “She was misled.”
“By the person who killed her?”
“It’s possible.”
Marsh moaned, covered his face with his hand.
We watched his shoulders heave.
“At least,” he said, “she wasn’t going crazy.”
“That’s important to you.”
“My grandparents—they raised me well, in a pseudo-moral sense. But I came to realize that they weren’t moral people. The way they demeaned Christi, her mother. Even Dad. I hated him but I came to realize that everyone deserves grace and charity. Grandmother and Grandfather always said Christi would end up like her mother. Made jokes about it. ‘Mad as a loon.’ ‘Weaving baskets in Bedlam.’ This was a child they were talking about. My sister. I didn’t like hearing it but I never objected.”
He gathered a handful of hair and twisted it hard enough to pucker the top of his brow.
“They were wrong. That’s good.”
I said, “Did Christi mention any names of people she was working with in the secret agencies?”
“She said she couldn’t. ‘This is covert, Teach. This is the real mindfucking powerful mojo, Teach.’ ”
Marsh slid his cup closer. “Someone misled her . . . who?”
“Can’t say anything more at this point, sir,” said Milo.
Marsh’s smile was resigned, but it warmed up his face. A man comfortable being disappointed. “Running your own covert operation?”
“Something like that.”
“Can you at least tell me this: Are you feeling any optimism? About finding out who did it?”
“We’re making progress, sir.”
“I guess I have to be satisfied with that,” said Cody Marsh. “Is there anything else?”
“Not at this point, sir.” Milo took his number, and Marsh stood.
“So you’ll call the coroner for me? I really want to see my little sister.”
*
We watched him leave.
Milo said, “Secret agent mojo. Think she coulda been going off the deep end?”
“I think someone convinced a girl with learning problems that she was playing spy games. Think prepaid phones.”
“Jerry Quick.”
“He hooked her up with Gavin,” I said. “Maybe he decided to give her another assignment: spying on his fellow scamsters. What if he was pulling a con within a con and got discovered and that’s why he’s on the run?”
“Running Christi as a mole.”
“She’d be perfect for the assignment. Undereducated, gullible, low self-esteem, living on the fringe. Growing up with a neglectful alchoholic father, she would’ve craved an older man’s attention. Jerry was an operator who didn’t pay his rent on time, but he did drive a Mercedes and he lived in Beverly Hills. To girls like Angie Paul and Christi, he would seem like a sugar daddy.”
“Christi would be perfect for something else,” he said. “Partying with Hacker and Degussa and bringing Jerry back the info. Compared to those slatterns we just saw them with, Christi would’ve been a prize.”
The saried woman came over and asked if we needed anything.
“How about some mixed appetizers?” said Milo.
She walked off, beaming.
He said, “Bastard buys her Jimmy Choos.”
“And Armani perfume and various other toys,” I said.
“Parks claims he wouldn’t recognize any of the women Hacker and Degussa partied with, but I could show him Christi’s death shot. Problem with that is, he’d freak out and want to evict Hacker and Degussa, so I can’t trust him to keep quiet.”
A tray of fried things arrived.
“Want some?”
“No thanks.”
“All for me, then.” He dipped something round into parsley-topped yogurt. “Christi wasn’t killed just because she happened to be with Gavin. Her cover got blown—hell, maybe she was the target, not Gavin, like we thought at the beginning. That would explain the sexual overtones.”
I thought about that. “Degussa impaled men in prison, and did the same to at least three women. He didn’t impale Gavin. You could be right, he concentrated his rage on Christi. Even with that scenario, though, Gavin was more than an accidental victim. As Jerry Quick’s son, he’d be a target for revenge. Or, Degussa was replaying Flora Newsome.”
“What do you mean?”
“The jealousy scenario,” I said. “If Degussa had partied with Christi, seeing her make love to Gavin would not have made him happy.”
“Degussa was dating Flora,” he said. “Christi was a party girl. This asshole picks up floozies in bars, he’s not into emotional involvement.”
“Maybe he is. Not romantically, but in terms of ownership. You said it yourself: Christi would’ve been a step up. Young, good-looking, compliant. What if Degussa wanted her to himself? Think about the Mulholland crime scene, the way the bodies were found: Gavin’s fly was open and Christi’s top was off. Degussa followed them, watched them park, watched them engage in foreplay. If all he was after was a quick execution, he could’ve stepped in earlier and gotten it over with. Instead, he waited. Watched them. The timing was significant: no consummation. The message was: You may try, but you won’t succeed. By shooting Gavin in front of Christi, he demonstrated to her that he was the dominant male. She was shocked, terrified. Maybe she tried to flirt her way out of it. Degussa shot her, too, then had fun with his iron rod.”
Milo put his fork down. Looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was eat.
I said, “The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. This is a hypermacho, action-oriented psychopath who doesn’t take well to rejection.”
He put cash on the table, called Sean Binchy and ordered him to find two other cops and do a careful surveillance on Hacker and Degussa. “Don’t lose them, Sean.” Hanging up, he rubbed his face. “If you’re right about Jerry Quick assigning Christi to Gavin and to Degussa, he used her in ways she couldn’t imagine.”
He snatched up an appetizer. Gulped it down. Frowned.
“Bad batch?” I said.
“Bad world.”
CHAPTER
44
Roxbury Par
k—4:40 P.M.
The picnic tables. Shade from the Chinese elms and a declining sun turned the redwood the color of old asphalt.
This late in the afternoon, only four children occupied the play area. Two little boys roaring and running wildly, a toddling girl, hand held by her mother, making her way up the stairs of a double-hump slide and whooshing down. Over and over. Another boy, pensive, alone, sitting and scooping sand and letting it trickle through his tiny fingers. Three uniformed maids discussed something with glee and animation. Blue jays squawked and mockingbirds aped them. Traffic from Olympic was distant and hushed.
The ten-year-old ice-cream truck, once white now gray, was parked facing the fence. The truck’s flanks were decorated with hand-painted renderings of sugary delights in unlikely colors. An elaborately calligraphic statement of ownership read: GLO-GLO FROZEN DESSERTS, PROP: RAMON HERNANDEZ, COMPTON, CALIFORNIA.
On the front passenger seat was a cooler stocked with juice bars, cream sandwiches, and pop-ups. In case anyone asked.
So far, no one had. The trickle of kids and the lateness of the hour combined to discourage commerce. And the truck’s position, too, just out of sight of the play area.
Parked close enough to have a clear view of the picnic tables.
In the driver’s seat sat a detective named Sam Diaz, a technical specialist from Parker Center. Thirty-five, compact, mustachioed, Diaz wore a white sweatshirt over baggy white cotton painter’s pants. A coin dispenser hung from his waist. In his pocket was a commercial food license identifying him as Ramon Hernandez and a wallet full of small bills. Under the sweatshirt rested his holstered 9 mm.
Jerry-built into the truck’s dashboard was forty thousand dollars of long-distance, outdoor recording equipment. The kind National Geographic uses to memorialize birdcalls. The mikes were turned down, and the arias of the jays and mockingbirds were reduced to peeps. So was the noise from the play area: squeaks of high-pitched glee, the murmur of adult voices.
The equipment was hard to spot, unless you got inside the truck and saw all the knobs and the LEDs and the wires that ran under the partition separating the seats from the rear storage area. A talk hole had been cut into the partition, covered by a sliding door, now open. The truck’s doors were locked, and its windows were tinted several shades darker than the legal limit. Hasty job, some of the tinting plastic had puckered around the edges. Why anyone would go to the trouble of concealing an ice-cream truck was the obvious question, but no one was asking.
Alex 18 - Therapy Page 39
