Gone

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Doing what?”

  “Sanitation Department, like the rest of his family. Good pay and benefits, you get in the union, it’s all about who you know. Used to do it myself but you come home stinkin’ and I got tired of that. Tori said Mikey stunk when he came home, it wouldn’t wash off. Maybe that’s why she got it annulled, I dunno.”

  “How long did the marriage last?” said Milo.

  “Three years. Then she’s back at home sitting around, doing nothing for five years except going out on auditions for commercials, modeling, whatever.”

  “She ever get anything?”

  Giacomo shook his head. Bending, he unzipped a compartment of the red suitcase and drew out two head-shots.

  Tori Giacomo’s face was millimeters longer than the perfect oval. Huge dark eyes were topped by feathery, fake lashes. Too-dark eye shadow from another era. Same cleft chin as her father. Pretty, maybe borderline beautiful. It had taken me a few seconds to come to that conclusion, and in a world of flash impressions that wouldn’t be enough.

  In one photo, her hair was long, dark, and wavy. In the other, she’d switched to a shoulder-length, feathery platinum cut.

  “She’s always been a gorgeous kid,” said Lou Giacomo. “But that ain’t enough, right? You gotta do immoral stuff to get ahead. Tori’s a good girl, never missed mass on Sunday and that’s not ’cause we forced her. My oldest sister became a nun and Tori was always close to Mary Agnes. Mary Agnes pulled strings with the monsignor to get the annulment through.”

  “Tori had a spiritual side,” I said.

  “Very, very spiritual. When I was out here I found out where the churches were near her apartment and went to all of them.” Giacomo’s eyes narrowed. “No one knew her, not the priests, the secretaries, no one. So right away I knew something was wrong.”

  His expression said he meant that on more than one level.

  I said, “Tori’d stopped going to church.”

  Giacomo sat up straighter. “Some of those churches, they weren’t much to look at, not like St. Robert Bellarmine, where my wife goes, that’s a church. So maybe Tori wanted a nice church, like she was used to, I dunno. I went to the biggest one you guys got, downtown. Talked to an assistant to the assistant to the cardinal or whatever. Thinking maybe they had some records. No one knew a damn thing there, either.”

  He sat back. “That’s it. Ask me whatever you want.”

  Milo began with the usual questions, starting with Tori’s ex-husband, the not-too-bright, odiferous Mikey.

  Lou Giacomo said, “Mortensen wanted to know the same thing. So I’ll tell you what I told him: No way. First off, I know the family and they’re good people. Second, Mikey’s a good kid, the soft type, you know? Third, he and Tori stayed friendly, there was no problem, they were just too young. Fourth, he never been out of New York.”

  He huffed, glanced over his shoulder. “Not much business in this place. The food got a problem?”

  “How often did Tori call home?”

  “Coupla times a week she talked to her mother. She knew I wasn’t real happy about her picking up and leaving. She thought I didn’t understand nothing.”

  “What’d she tell her mother?”

  “That she was making a living on tips and learning how to act.”

  “Learning where?”

  Giacomo frowned. “She never said. I double-checked with the wife after I talked to you. You can call her and ask any questions you like, but all she’s gonna do is cry, believe me.”

  “Give me Mikey’s last name,” said Milo. “For the record.”

  “Michael Caravanza. Works at the Forest Hills branch. He and Tori looked happier split up than at the wedding. Like both of them were free, or something.” He snorted. “Like you can ever be free. Go ahead, ask me more.”

  Ten more minutes of questioning revealed a sad truth: Louis Giacomo Junior knew precious little about his daughter’s life since she’d come out to L.A.

  Milo said, “The article on Michaela Brand caught your attention.”

  “The acting thing, you know.” Giacomo’s shoulders dropped. “I read it, got sick in the stomach. I don’t wanna think the worst but it’s been two years. No matter what her mother says, Tori woulda called.”

  “What does her mother say?”

  “Arlene gets crazy theories in her head. Tori met some billionaire and she’s off on some yacht. Stupid stuff like that.” The whites of Giacomo’s eyes had pinkened around the edges. He choked back a surge of emotion with a furious growl.

  “So what do you think?” he demanded of Milo. “This dead girl have something to do with Tori?”

  “I don’t know enough to think anything yet, sir.”

  “But you figure Tori’s dead, right?”

  “I couldn’t say that either, Mr. Giacomo.”

  “You couldn’t say but you know it and I know it. Two years. No way she wouldn’t call her mother.”

  Milo didn’t answer.

  “The other girl,” said Giacomo. “Who killed her?”

  “The investigation just opened.”

  “You get a lot of those? Girls wanna be movie stars getting into big trouble?”

  “It happens— ”

  “Bet it happens plenty. What’s the name of the acting school the other girl went to?”

  Milo rubbed his face. “Sir, it really wouldn’t be a good idea for you to go over there— ”

  “Why not?”

  “Like I said, it’s a new investigation— ”

  “All I wanna do is ask if they knew Tori.”

  “I’ll ask for you, sir. If I learn something, I’ll call you. That’s a promise.”

  “Promises, promises,” said Giacomo. “It’s a free country. Nothing illegal about going over there.”

  “Interfering with an investigation’s illegal, sir. Please don’t complicate your life.”

  “That a kinda threat?”

  “It’s a request not to interfere. If I learn anything about Tori, I’ll tell you.” Milo put money on the table and stood.

  Lou Giacomo got up, too. Picked up his red suitcase and fished in a rear pants pocket. “I’ll pay for my own beer.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t worry, worrying’s a waste of time. I’ll pay for my own beer.” Giacomo pulled out a wallet stuffed so thick it was nearly round. Taking out a five, he tossed it near Milo’s cash.

  “If I call your medical examiners, ask about unclaimed bodies, what’re they gonna tell me?”

  “What makes you think that happened to Tori, Mr. Giacomo?”

  “I was watching this show on cable. Forensics detectives, something like that. They said bodies don’t get claimed, sometimes you do a DNA, solve an old case. So what would they tell me if I asked?”

  “If a decedent is identified and someone offers proof of family relationship, they’re given forms to fill out and the body can be released.”

  “Is it one of those long pain-in-the-ass red-tape things?”

  “It can usually be done in two, three days.”

  “How long do they keep ’em around?” said Giacomo. “Unclaimed bodies.”

  Milo didn’t answer.

  “How long, Lieutenant?”

  “Legally, the maximum’s a year but it’s usually sooner.”

  “How much sooner?”

  “It can be thirty to ninety days.”

  “Whoa. In and out, huh?” said Giacomo. “What, you got a dead body traffic jam?”

  Milo was impassive.

  “Even if it’s a murder?” pressed Giacomo. “For a murder they got to keep it around, right?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t they need to hold on to it for all that forensic stuff?”

  “Evidence is collected and stored. What’s not...necessary isn’t kept.”

  “What, some union flunky’s getting paid off to ditch bodies?” said Giacomo.

  “There’s a space issue.”

  “Same deal even with murd
er?”

  “Same deal,” said Milo.

  “Okay, then what? Where does the body go if nobody claims it?”

  “Sir— ”

  “Just tell me.” Giacomo buttoned his jacket. “I’m one of those people, meets crap face-to-face, don’t do no running away. I never fought in no wars but the marines trained me to deal. What’s the next step?”

  “The county crematorium.”

  “They burn it...okay, what happens to the ashes?”

  “They’re placed in an urn and kept for two years. If a verified relative steps forward and pays $541 to cover transportation costs, they get the urn. If no one claims the urn, the ashes are scattered in a mass grave at the Evergreen Memorial Cemetery in Boyle Heights— that’s East L.A., near the coroner’s office. The graves are marked with numbers. It’s a group scattering, no individual identification is possible. Not all the unclaimed bodies are kept at the main crypt. Some are out in Sylmar, which is a suburb north of L.A., and others are even farther out in Lancaster, which is a city in the Antelope Valley— the high desert, maybe seventy miles east.”

  Rattling off the facts in the low, emotionless voice of a reluctant penitent.

  Giacomo took it without flinching. Seemed almost to revel in the details. I thought about the cheap plastic urns the county used. Bundles stacked in room after room of the cold-storage basement on Mission Road, bound by sturdy white rope. The inevitable rot that sets in because refrigeration slows decomposition but doesn’t stop it.

  During my first visit to the crypt, I hadn’t thought that through and expressed surprise to Milo at the greenish patches mottling a corpse lying on a gurney in the basement hallway.

  Middle-aged man with a John Doe designation, awaiting transfer to the crematorium. Paperwork laid across his decaying torso, listing the meager details known.

  Milo’s answer had been painfully glib: “What happens to steak when you leave it in the fridge too long, Alex?”

  Now he told Lou Giacomo: “I’m really sorry for your situation, sir. If there’s anything else you want to tell us about Tori, I’d like to hear it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything that would help find her.”

  “The restaurant she worked, her mother thinks it had something with ‘Lobster’ in it.”

  “The Lobster Pot,” said Milo. “Riverside Drive, in Burbank. It went out of business eighteen months ago.”

  “You checked it out,” said Giacomo, surprised. “You’re looking for Tori because you do think it had something to do with the other girl.”

  “I’m exploring all the possibilities, sir.”

  Giacomo stared at him. “You got something you’re not telling me?”

  “No, sir. When are you going back home?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Same answer,” said Giacomo. “I’ll find something.”

  “There’s a Holiday Inn on Pico past Sepulveda,” said Milo. “Not far from here.”

  “Why would I wanna be close to here?” said Giacomo.

  “No reason.”

  “What, you wanna keep tabs on me?”

  “No, sir. Got plenty to do.” Milo motioned to me. The two of us headed for the door.

  The bespectacled woman said, “Was everything tasty, Lieutenant?”

  Milo said, “Great.”

  Lou Giacomo said, “Yeah, everything’s fantastic.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Giacomo’s rental Escort was parked in a loading zone ten yards from Café Moghul, the predictable ticket secured by a wiper blade. Milo and I watched him snatch the citation and rip it into confetti. Paper snow floated to the curb.

  He shot Milo a defiant look. Milo pretended not to notice.

  Giacomo stooped, picked up the shreds, put them in his pocket. Rolling his shoulders, he got in the Escort and drove off.

  Milo said, “Every time I start off in one of those situations I tell myself to be sensitive. Somehow, it gets messed up.”

  “You did fine.”

  He laughed.

  I said, “With all his frustration and grief it couldn’t have gone any differently.”

  “That’s exactly what you were supposed to say.”

  “At least something in life’s predictable.”

  We walked east on Santa Monica, passed an Asian import shop where Milo stopped and pretended to be fascinated by bamboo.

  When we resumed walking, I said, “Think Giacomo’s right about Tori being dead?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility, but maybe her mother’s right and she’s off partying in Capri or Dubai. What do you think of the acting-school angle?”

  “Lots of those in L.A.,” I said.

  “Lots of young waitpersons aiming for bigger and better. Be interesting if Tori took classes at the PlayHouse but short of that you see any stunning parallels?”

  “A few similarities but more differences. Michaela’s body was left out in the open. If Tori was murdered, the killer sure didn’t want her discovered.”

  We turned right and walked south on Butler.

  “What if we’re looking at an escalation thing, Alex? Our bad boy started off hiding his handiwork but acquired confidence and decided to advertise?”

  “Someone like Peaty moving from peeping to assault,” I said. “Getting progressively more violent and brazen.”

  “That does come to mind.”

  “A sexual aspect to Michaela’s killing would support it. There was no positioning and she was left fully clothed. But maybe she was played with at the kill-spot, tidied up before being transported. Autopsy’s due soon, right?”

  “It just got kicked up another day or two. Or four.”

  “Busy time at the crypt.”

  “Always.”

  “Are they really moving the bodies out that fast?”

  “If only the freeways worked as well.”

  “Wonder how many Jane Does are in storage?” I said.

  “If Tori ever was there, she’s long gone. As her daddy will learn soon enough. What are the odds he’s calling them right now?”

  “If she was my daughter, that’s what I’d be doing.”

  He sniffed, cleared his throat, scratched the side of his nose. Raised a pink, wormy welt that faded as quickly as it had materialized.

  “Got a cold?” I said.

  “Nah, air’s been itching me, probably some crap blown in by the Santa Susannas...yeah, I’d be hounding them, too.”

  Back at his office, he tried the coroner’s office again and asked for a rundown on young Caucasian Jane Does in the crypt. The attendant said the computer was down, they were short-staffed, a hand search of the records would take a long time.

  “Any calls from a guy named Louis Giacomo? Father of a missing girl...well, he probably will. He’s having a hard time, go easy...yeah, thanks, Turo. Let me ask you something else: What’s the average transfer time to cremation nowadays? Just an estimate, I’m not gonna use it in court. That’s what I thought...when you do check the inventory, go back a couple of years, okay? Twenties, Caucasian, five five, a hundred twenty. Giacomo, first name Tori.” He spelled it. “She could be a blonde or brunette or anything in between. Thanks, man.”

  He hung up, swiveled in his chair. “Sixty, seventy days and it’s off to the furnace.” Spinning back to his phone, he called the PlayHouse again, listened for a few seconds, slammed the receiver down. “Last time, it just rang. This time I got sultry female voice on tape. The next class— something called ‘Spontaneous Ingathering’— is tomorrow night at nine.”

  “Nocturnal schedule, like we guessed,” I said. “Sultry, huh?”

  “Think Lauren Bacall getting over the flu. Maybe it’s Ms. Dowd. If she’s an actor herself, velvety pipes wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Voice-overs are a mainstay for unemployed actors,” I said. “So are coaching gigs, for that matter.”

  “Those who can’t do, teach?”

  “Entire universities operate
on that premise.”

  He laughed. “Okay, let’s see what DMV has to say about the golden-throated Ms. Dowd.”