“That’s it? You promise?”
“I do.”
“I don’t mind talking, it’s just Amelie—I care about her.”
“So you want me to pass this along to Lieutenant Sturgis?”
“I guess.”
“I need you to be sure.”
“Fine, I’m sure.”
“Is there anything else you want to say about the car that checked you out?”
“Not a car, an SUV, that’s all I know, I don’t know brands.”
“Can you recall any details?”
“It wasn’t the same as my dad’s SUV, his is a Porsche, this was bigger. Higher up.”
“What about color?”
“Dark, can’t tell you a color.”
“Unusually high? Like it had been raised?”
“Hmm,” she said. “Maybe … yes, I’d say so. I definitely felt we were being looked down on—oh, yeah, it had shiny rims.”
“Did you see who was inside?”
“No, it was dark and honestly, we didn’t want to know, we just got out of there.”
“What did the SUV do?”
“It didn’t follow us,” she said. “Maybe it stayed there, I don’t know. Which would be weird, when the next morning …”
“Someone checking out the park.”
“I mean you can see right through the fence, it’s not wood, it’s just chain link. Do you think I’m making a big deal out of nothing?”
“One pass might be someone driving by, Heather. Coming back a second time’s more troublesome. Whatever the intention, you were right to leave.”
“Oh, man … city full of freaks. I don’t know if I’ll ever step foot in the park again.”
“What time did this happen?”
“Late,” she said. “Like one a.m. I know ’cause I called my parents at twelve forty-five, they were just about to leave, I figured we had half an hour more. But after the SUV freaked us out, I drove her to her car and went home.”
“Any chance you saw even part of the SUV’s license plate?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“No,” she said. “Oh, one more thing: The police guy can call me but use my personal cell, not the landline where they pick up.”
I copied down the number.
Howard Goldfeder emerged from his office. “How we doing?”
“We’re doing great, Daddy.”
He said, “Doctor?” As if his daughter hadn’t spoken.
I said, “She’s terrific.”
Goldfeder said, “I could’ve told you that.”
Heather smiled, hiding it from him but allowing me a glimpse of her satisfaction.
CHAPTER
15
Milo cursed. “Geniuses. They give a witness info then let her leave the scene before I have a chance to talk to her.”
“It could work in your favor,” I said. “Hard to keep secrets with that level of professionalism, so Maxine Cleveland’s squeeze play may be exposed. You ever touch base with that reporter?”
“We keep missing each other, wink wink. Meanwhile, no one’s reported my vic missing.”
“Maybe she hasn’t been gone long enough.”
“Always the optimist,” he said. “The prelim from the coroner just came in. She’s had good dental care, maybe orthodontia. Her blood’s clean, no booze, drugs, or disease, and her body’s free of needle marks, scars, iffy tattoos, or any other sign of a rough life. Dr. Rosenblatt said she looked like someone who shouldn’t have ended up on his table. And yeah, I know that’s politically incorrect but truth is truth, right?” He pounded his hand with his fist. “Someone has to be looking for her.”
He gulped a big chunk out of the egg bagel I’d just turned down. A bag that had once held a dozen mixed leaned against his computer. The crumbs of the jalapeño and the onion that he’d finished littered his desktop. “In terms of LeMasters, it’s all I can do not to call her and leak but when the air turns brown and the fan gets filthy, you know who the brass will be chasing down.”
“Want me to call her?”
“Oh, yeah, that would be subtle. So little Heather and her girlfriend got spooked by a dark SUV—not a Porsche—no info on the tags, no view of the driver. That narrows it to half the vehicles on the Westside.”
“Even without more info, it’s interesting, no?”
“Somebody casing the park? Hell, yeah.”
The egg bagel disappeared down his gullet. He washed it down with cold coffee from the big detective room. We were in his office, the tiny space humid from poor ventilation and discouragement. I’d arrived just before noon, honoring his early-morning request for a “sit-down.” He’d sounded anxious. I’d been there for a quarter hour, still had no idea exactly what he wanted.
He brushed crumbs into his wastebasket. “One pass by the SUV might not mean much but coming back a second time’s a bit more ominous. But ominous doesn’t mean it’s connected to my murders, there are all kinds of night-crawlers out at that hour. And showing himself that openly doesn’t fit an offender who picks up his casings, leaves nothing serious behind.”
“Or he used a revolver and got lucky.”
“Hey,” he said, “you’re supposed to see the good in everyone. Yeah, that’s possible but the overall picture’s organized, you said so yourself. Someone like that’s planning a shoot-and-dump, he’s gonna advertise his presence the night before to a coupla jumpy girls?”
“True,” I said.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Agree so readily. It scares me.”
“Keep living, you’ll have plenty of opportunity for terror.”
He grinned, stretched, pushed lank black hair off his mottled forehead, sank as low as the chair would allow. “This guy’s an exhibitionist, right? Showing off his work, look how clever I am. Having a grand old time.”
“He could be bragging,” I said. “Or his message is something not so obvious. Specific to his mode of thinking.”
“He’s crazy?”
“Not to the point where he can’t function, but his mind’s probably a scary place. Whatever his motive, it’s personal.”
“Woman and child, a family thing? Yeah, I know we talked about that but I’m having my doubts, Alex. I just can’t see a father processing his own kid’s bones then strewing them like garbage. Speaking of which, Liz Wilkinson called me just before you got here, totally beating herself up. Apparently, there’s a technique for cleaning bones that she missed.”
He pulled two sheets of paper out of his printer. One contained a pair of split-frame photos: on the left, half a dozen small, glossy, hard-shelled brown insects, to the right a single, spiky, caterpillar-type creature.
The second sheet was an order blank for “high-grade, mite-free dermestid beetles” from a lab supply company in Chicago.
I said, “Flesh-eating bugs?”
“Flesh, hair, wool carpeting, any sort of animal matter, wet, dry, or in between. Not bone and teeth, because the little buggers’ jaws can’t handle anything that hard, but anything short of that. The adults like to snack, but it’s the larvae—the ones with the whiskers—that are the serious gourmets. Set ’em loose and they can munch a bear skull sparkling clean within twenty-four hours, inflict no damage on the skeleton. Which is exactly why taxidermists and museums and scientists use ’em to spruce up specimens. Liz called it anthro for dummies, said two babies in a row probably clouded her judgment.”
He swung his feet onto the desk. “Does the use of creepy-crawlies spark any ideas?”
I said, “Set the beetles, then wax and buff? It’s starting to sound ritualistic.”
“Beetles and beeswax,” he said. “Maybe I should be looking for a deranged entomologist.”
“Or one of those guys who like to mount heads over the mantel. Her I.D. was missing, same for jewelry, if she was wearing any.”
“Trophy-taking.”
“Maybe not in the sense of a sexual
sadist evoking a memory,” I said. “If that was his aim, he’d have held on to at least some of the bones. Family or not, this one’s rooted in intimacy and specific to these victims. Can purchasers of the beetles be traced?”
“If only,” he said. “They’re legal and not protected like toxic chemicals so anyone can buy them. No way could I get a subpoena that broad.”
“You could narrow the search,” I said.
“How?”
“Order your two geniuses not to leak the information then sit back as the tips pour in.”
He started with laughter, ended with a coughing fit. When he recovered, he said, “How do you see the first bones fitting in, if at all?”
“Reading about them could have been the trigger that got our bad guy to dump his bones nearby.”
“And shoot and dump the woman the same night. What, he got a message from God? Time to take out the garbage?”
“Or hearing about the first bones jelled things for him,” I said. “Maybe he’d been holding on to them, trying to achieve mastery by transforming them. That didn’t work. Or it did. Either way, he had no further use for them.”
“I still can’t get past a father doing that to his own kid.”
“We could be dealing with a stepfather or a boyfriend. Maybe even someone who thought the baby was his until he learned differently and grew enraged. Infanticide’s not that rare among primates and that includes us. One of the most frequent motives is eliminating another male’s offspring. Our offender may have believed that getting rid of the baby would solve his problems, he’d be able to forgive her, move on. That didn’t happen so he got rid of her, too. Flaunted both victims as a final flourish: Now I’m the master of my own destiny. And by leaving the bodies in proximity he made sure they were connected: This is what she did, this is why she died.”
“So why not leave her right next to the bones?”
“Don’t know,” I said.
“Guess.”
“By placing his kills at opposite ends of the park he could’ve been symbolically laying claim to the entire area. Or I’m over-interpreting and it was a simple matter of expediency: He got distracted or alarmed by someone.”
“You guess pretty fast.”
“Used to get into trouble in school for that.”
“Thought you were Mr. Straight A.”
“That annoyed the teachers even more.”
This time he produced a complete laugh. “A stepdad, yeah, I like that. But holding on to the bones and fooling with them, you see Mommy going along with that?”
“Who says Mommy knew?”
“She has a baby one day, next day it’s gone?”
“What if he forced her to give it up for adoption? As a condition of staying together. Told her he’d handle it and took care of business in a horrible way. Even if she suspected, she could’ve been too passive or guilty or frightened to do anything about it. Back when I worked at the hospital I can’t tell you how many cases I saw where mothers stood by as stepfathers and boyfriends did terrible things to their children, including torture and murder. Any word on the DNA?”
“Maria Thomas emailed an hour ago, wanting me to know she got it prioritized. Like I’m supposed to feel grateful for her allowing me to do my job. Looks like under a week for basic analyses but fancy stuff will take longer.”
He took out a cold cigar, propped it between his index fingers. “You ever feel you’ve had enough of the garbage I send your way?”
“Nah, keeps life interesting.”
“Does it?”
“Why the question?”
“Just wondering.” He got up, opened the office door, stood gazing out to the corridor, his back to me. “What about Robin? She’s okay with it?”
All these years, first time he’d asked.
“Robin’s fine.”
“And the pooch?”
“Perfectly content. So are the fish. What’s going on, Big Guy?”
Long silence.
Then: “What you did for me … I’m not gonna forget it.”
That sounded more like complaint than gratitude.
I said, “Let’s not forget the times you saved my bacon.”
“Ancient history.”
“Everything ends up as history.”
“Then we die.”
“That, too.”
We both laughed. For lack of anything else.
CHAPTER
16
The new murders had nudged the first set of bones off Milo’s screen. But I couldn’t let go of the baby in the blue box. Kept thinking about Salome Greiner’s tension when I’d asked about a Duesenberg-driving doctor.
DMV kept no records of old registrations but a car that rare and collectible couldn’t be hard to trace.
Back home, I went straight to my office. The Auburn Cord Duesenberg Club in Indiana had a museum, an online store, and an energetic members forum.
A woman answered the phone, sounding cheerful. I told her what I was looking for and she said, “You’re in California?”
“L.A.”
“The top Duesenberg expert is right near you, in Huntington Beach.”
“Who’s that?”
“Andrew Zeiman, he’s a master restorer, works on all the serious cars, here’s his shop number.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Was a Duesie involved in a crime?”
“No,” I said, “but it might lead to information about a crime.”
“Too bad, I was hoping for something juicy. Lots of colorful characters owned our babies—Al Capone, Father Divine, Hearst—but nowadays it’s mostly nice people with money and good taste and that can get a little routine. Good luck.”
A clipped voice said, “Andy Zeiman.”
I began explaining.
He said, “Marcy from ACD just called. You want to locate an SJ for some sort of criminal investigation.”
Statement, not a question. Unperturbed.
I said, “If that’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible. Date and model.”
“We’ve been told it was a ’38 SJ, blue over blue.”
“SJ because it had pipes, right? Problem is you can put pipes on anything. Real SJs are rare.”
“Aren’t all Duesenbergs?”
“Everything’s relative. Total Duesenberg production is four hundred eighty-one, SJs are less than ten percent of that. Most were sold on the East Coast until ’32, then the trend shifted out here because that’s where the money and the flamboyance were.”
“Hollywood types.”
“Gable, Cooper, Garbo, Mae West, Tyrone Power. Et cetera.”
“How about we start with the real SJs. Is there a listing of original owners?”
“Sure.”
“Where can I find it?”
“With me,” said Zeiman. “What year does your witness think he saw this supposed SJ?”
“Nineteen fifty, give or take.”
“Twelve-year-old car, there’d be a good chance of repaint, so color might not matter. Also, it wasn’t uncommon to put new bodies on old chassis. Like a custom-made suit, altered to taste.”
“If it helps to narrow things down, the owner may have been a doctor.”
“Give me your number, something comes up I’ll let you know.”
Seven minutes later, he called back. “You might have gotten lucky. I’ve got a blue/blue Murphy-bodied Dual Cowl Phaeton ordered by a Walter Asherwood in ’37, delivered November ’38. Murphy body with later enhancement by Bohman and Schwartz. Both were L.A.-based coachbuilders.”
“The car started out on the West Coast.”
“Yup. Walter Asherwood held on to it until ’43, when he transferred ownership to James Asherwood, M.D. Nothing else in the log fits, so it’s either this one or your person didn’t see a real SJ.”
“Where did the Asherwoods live?”
“Can’t give you the address because for all I know family members are still living there and we respect privacy.”
; “Can you give me a general vicinity?”
“L.A.”
“Pasadena?”
“You can fish but I won’t bite,” said Zeiman. “You’ve got a name, that should be sufficient.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Can you tell me who owns the car, now?”
“One of our members.”
“Did he or she buy it from Dr. Asherwood?”
“There’s a complete chain of ownership but that’s all I can say. Why do you need the current owner, anyway?”
“We’re trying to trace a dead baby’s mother.”
“What?”
“The car was seen parked in the driveway of a house where an infant was buried decades ago. The bones were just dug up.”
“Dead baby?” said Zeiman. “So we’re talking murder.”
“That’s not clear.”
“I don’t get it, either it’s murder or it’s not.”
I said, “Depends on cause of death.”
“Hold on,” he said. “My wife mentioned something about that, she’d heard it on the news. Made her cry. Okay, I’ll make some calls.”
“Thanks for all the help.”
“Most interesting request I’ve had since two months ago.”
“What happened two months ago?”
“Shifty Mideastern type walks into my shop, flashing cash, wants me to build a Frankencar out of retools that he can sell as genuine to a sucker in Dubai. I said no thanks, phoned the Huntington Beach cops, they told me intent’s no felony, until a crime was committed there’s nothing they can do. That felt wrong to me so I tried the FBI, they didn’t even return my call. At least you do your job. So I’ll help you.”
It took just over an hour to hear back from Zeiman. By then I’d made progress on my own.
A search of 38 duesenberg dual cowl phaeton murphy body had produced three possibilities. The first was a “barn find” up for auction in Monterey. The once-sleek masterpiece had been the victim of a 1972 engine fire during careless storage in Greenwich, Connecticut. Hobbled by engine rot, char scars, metastatic rust, and a broken axle, it was deemed “ripe for restoration to show condition” and estimated to fetch between six and eight hundred thousand dollars. The auction company’s catalog presented a history that included a California stint, up north, under the stewardship of a Mrs. Helen Bracken of Hillsborough. But subsequent owners included neither Walter nor James Asherwood and the original color, still in evidence through the blemishes, was claret over scarlet.
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