The room was divided by a waist-high partition of plywood stapled with sheets of black velvet. To the right were jumbles of junk, including some mangy-looking stuffed birds in cheap cages. To the left an old barber chair, porcelain chipped, steel oxidized. An ominous-looking needle replacing the dental drill dangled overhead.
The wall was papered with patterns and stencils. Monsters, demons, African animals, space aliens, nothing that matched the ink on Frankie DiMargio’s DMV shot.
No customers in either side today. The proprietor was a huge black man wearing a red jersey tank top, green lederhosen, and knee-high riding boots. His own body art was done in an iridescent pale blue that created a head-to-toe brocade over dark skin. The effect was like viewing him through lace.
His earlobes were stretched to three times their normal size by studs and chains and a pair of rings pierced his septum—doing Bekka from Even Odd one better. Both eyebrows were paralleled overhead by seams of tiny diamonds embedded in his flesh. His welcoming smile flashed upper incisors filed to points.
Gesturing to the chair, he reached for the needle.
When I showed him Frankie DiMargio’s picture both movements froze. “You want low-level like this? Don’t do it, man.”
I said, “Not up to your standards?”
“This is mundane, brother.”
“Any idea who—”
“Don’t waste my time.” He turned away.
“This woman was murdered.”
He stopped. Metal clanked. “You a cop?”
Pondering truth versus falsehood took less than a second. I flashed my useless consultant badge. Most people aren’t attuned to details. He didn’t even bother to look.
“Well, I don’t know her, man.”
I stepped forward and held the photo closer to him. “You have any idea who inked her?”
One of the diamond trails above his brows arced. The effect was a burst of miniature fireworks in a starless sky.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe or definitely?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m talking my brother.”
“A colleague?”
“No, man, my brother, like he’s Cain to the Abel.”
“Your real brother?”
“Same mommy, different daddy. I taught him everything and he goes off on his own and does that?”
“He opened a competing business.”
“Competing? I don’t think so, man. That’s like finger-painting competing with Michelangelo.”
I glanced at the junk-pile portion of the store. “Does he also do antiques?”
“He does crap is what he does.” He took Frankie’s photo from me, studied, sneered. “Yeah, he did a lot of this crap. Like, that butt-ugly snake. Ever seen an asp looks like that? More like a toad with anorexia—this, too.”
He pointed to a row of dots diagonally sectioning Frankie’s chin. “And look at that bug, that qualify for Egyptian scarab? More like a cockroach. That over there is Khepri.” Pointing to a design on his wall. “Mofo tries for scarab, ends up with a diabetic cockroach. He’s got no visual perception, man, couldn’t draw a scarab if you held a gun to his head.”
“Where can I find your untalented brother?”
“Where else?” he said. “The Valley. He’s 818 consciousness from the get-go.”
“Could I have his name and address, please?”
“She really died? Huh. Well I don’t think he killed her.” Laughing. “He’s too chicken-liver for that, his work’s like …” jabbing the photo. “Look here, all wispy, no meat and potatoes. Too scared to dig in and get down.”
“See what you mean. His name—”
“I called this place Tigray, know what it means?”
“Tiger?”
“No, man, that’s Spanish, with an ‘e.’ This is with a ‘y,’ that my tribe. Tigray nobles from Eritrea. All my life I’ve had lucid dreams informing me I’m from the union of Sheba and Solomon.”
I nodded.
“You don’t believe me,” he said, “that’s your problem. The day will come when monarchs arise and the truth blinds.”
“Hope it helps with the traffic problem.”
He stared at me. Cracked up. “Okay, you’re a comedian, I like comedians, did a few in my day.” Rattling off a series of names, some famous, others obscure.
“Mostly,” he said, “they do it hidden. What I call MBA ink.”
“Like a mullet,” I said. “Business in front, party in back.”
“Mullet’s for rednecks.” He poked Frankie DiMargio’s photo. Her image rippled. “Sorry for her, she looks like she was a serious chick. Good bone structure, I could’ve done her proud. Tigretto wasted her time.”
“That’s the name of your brother’s shop.”
“No, man, that’s what he calls himself. Tigretto aka Little Tigray. Like we’re Italian or something. The shop is Zanzibar. Like he’s from there.” Laughter. “He’s from Pasadena.”
Thirty-five minutes later I was facing a soft-bodied, light-skinned black man with a baby face. A shaved head helped foster the image of an overgrown infant. So did his voice. Michael Jackson in a hurry.
His layout was identical to his brother’s, tattoos plus random junk. When he saw Frankie DiMargio’s picture, he said, “Oh, sure, the quiet one. She send you?” Looking me over. “You want MBA ink?”
“Unfortunately, she’s dead,” I said. “Murdered.” Anticipating his next question, I flicked the consultant’s badge. He gaped, paid no attention to my insufficient qualifications.
“Murdered? Oh, no, by who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Tigretto’s eyes moistened. “I’m so sorry for her, she was a great customer.” Pointing. “I did that and that and that.”
“Who did the rest of it?”
“No idea.”
“How long has she been coming in?”
“A few months.”
“Did she ever come in with anyone else?”
“With a guy,” said Tigretto. “Her boyfriend, he knew what he wanted for her. Him I knew before because he came in with another chick. Total virgin, she was going to make the plunge but wimped out.”
“When was that?”
“Hmm … I’d say maybe … a year ago? Less, six, seven months. Then he came in with Frankie and she went all-out. I figured maybe that’s why he found himself a new chick, the first one didn’t cooperate.”
“Can you describe the first one?”
“Hell, yeah, I got great visual perception and memory. White, straight, not bad looking. Quiet. She never argued with him and she actually got in the chair but then, just as I was about to start, she just up and split.”
I said, “Stay put,” left his shop, hurried to the Seville, and found Katherine Hennepin’s photo in the pile of case material I kept in the trunk.
Tigretto said, “Yeah, that’s her. No reason for her to wimp, I use topical numbing cream. Except for people who come in not only for the art but also for the pain.”
“Was Frankie like that?”
“You know,” he said, “she was. She said the pain made her feel real.”
“Tell me about the guy with her.”
“Knew what he wanted.”
“How so?”
“She’s the one getting inked but he’s directing. What to draw, where to put it, what color. And unless he’s MBA’d under his clothes, he’s got no ink of his own. I asked him if he wanted something for himself, doing a couples thing, some people find it romantic, you know? He shakes his head and points to Frankie and tells me she’s the canvas.”
“That’s the word he used? ‘Canvas.’ ”
Nod. “Like he thinks he’s the artist when I am. But he had the money so I got going. It took time, that Nile asp was big and complicated, Cleopatra would be proud.”
He beamed.
I said, “Frankie tolerated it well.”
“She just sat there, no topical, not moving a muscle. Like a dog on tranq
s. I’ve seen it before. I see all kinds of things. Psychology, you know?”
“Describe the guy with her.”
He did.
Everything changed.
CHAPTER
30
Another shift of a mad prism, a new paradigm.
I dialed Milo’s mobile frantically. Voice mail; same for his desk phone. I tried the landline at his house, got Rick’s grave rendition: If this is an emergency for Dr. Silverman … if you’re trying to reach Detective Sturgis …
“It’s me, call me back, A-sap.” Swinging away from the curb, I sped back to Laurel Canyon. Two blocks in, my cell chirped.
Milo said, “Glad I reached you.”
“You got my message?”
“What message? No, I’ve got one for you, guess who just called? Grant Fellinger. Sounding scared as hell and asking to meet sooner, not later. I’m on my way over right now. Feel free to join the party, maybe he’ll validate parking for both of us.”
Click.
I caught up with him in the reception area of Grant Fellinger’s law firm. Pocketing his badge as the receptionist said, “This way,” and rose to escort him.
New face at the front desk: a fuzzy-bearded boy-man around five four in place of the pretty young Latina who’d been there the first time. Milo’s long legs outpaced him and after struggling to keep up, Fuzzy said, “I’m just a temp,” and returned to his post.
Like the first time, Fellinger was waiting out in the hallway. The moment he saw us, he ducked into his office.
When we entered he was behind his desk, sitting up straight, trying to look calm and authoritative. Futile attempt; he’d sweated navy splotches all over his pale-blue shirt, his tie hung off center, and patches of his hair had come unslicked.
An empty Old-Fashioned glass sat at his elbow, next to a fifth of Johnnie Blue.
“Thank you for responding quickly. I hope I’m overreacting.”
Milo said, “To what, sir?”
“Merry’s disappearance,” said Fellinger. “Maybe it’s nothing, I hope it is, but this isn’t like her.”
“Merry being—”
“Meredith Santos, our receptionist.”
“Pretty girl—”
“Gorgeous girl,” said Fellinger, eyes sailing to the right.
More than professional feelings? Catching himself, he looked directly at us. “By that I mean gorgeous inside as well as out. She’s a real class kid, terrific worker, military vet, never took a sick day. You don’t see that often. I try to reward exemplary employees by taking them to dinner, just did that for Merry.”
“The problem is—”
“She hasn’t shown up for work for three days running and no one can reach her.”
Fellinger kneaded some of the extra flesh beneath his ears. “Maybe that doesn’t sound like a big deal, Lieutenant, but as I said, you’d have to know Merry. Calls, texts, nothing. It’s just not like her.”
“Does she live alone?”
“No, in Venice,” said Fellinger. “Oh. That was a non sequitur, wasn’t it? Sorry.” Deep breath. “She lives in a house in Venice with two roommates, girls around her age. Problem is, they’re both traveling, couple of weeks in Europe. This morning we called Merry’s folks in Phoenix. Her parents were getting worried, too, and I’m afraid we did nothing to calm them down.”
“Has anyone been by her apartment?”
Fellinger blushed. “I did. On the way home from work, last night. I knocked, rang, no answer. Looked through her mail slot and saw mail on the floor.”
A fresh coat of sweat glazed his forehead. “You probably think I’m overreacting. But here’s the thing—and this is going to sound strange, particularly in view of what happened to Ursula—as if we’re some sort of … we’re just a boring law firm, nothing out of the ordinary occurs here … I’m sure this is irrelevant but the timing … maybe I shouldn’t even open up this Pandora’s box, if I’m wrong and frankly I hope I am, it’ll turn out irrelevant. Because this person’s already unhappy with the firm and the last thing we need is complications.”
“Which person is that, sir?”
Fellinger pinged his empty glass with a fingernail. Long, deep breath. “Recently, we let an employee go. A couple of days before Merry disappeared. I’m sure there’s no link, but … Merry had problems with him. Other people, as well.”
Milo said, “Other women?”
Fellinger poured himself scotch, tossed it back. “Several female employees were made to feel uncomfortable, so we were forced to take action. He didn’t take well to being fired, not well at all. In fact, he showed me a different side of himself. Nasty. We confronted him and the day he left I noticed him passing Merry’s desk and giving her a look. I’d have to call it rage. Cold rage. I forgot about it but then Merry didn’t show up and by the third day—” A second quick snort. He burped. Grimaced.
“Lieutenant, here’s where it’s really going to get dodgy, but I might as well …”
Rolling the glass between his hands. “Not only did I get to thinking about Merry, I also began wondering about Ursula. Because this person was with Ursula shortly before she died. Walked her to the elevator, for all I know he rode down with her. By itself that means nothing, if he hadn’t showed me that other side of himself, I’d never have given it a second thought. But the look he gave Merry plus all the other complaints. And now no one can find Merry—I just don’t know.”
I said, “What was Jens Williams accused of specifically?”
Milo’s head whipped toward me.
Fellinger blinked. “You already had him on your radar? Oh, God.”
Still studying me, Milo said, “How about we start at the beginning, Mr. Fellinger?”
“The beginning was nine months ago when we hired Jens. My previous assistant left to have a baby and I happened to be talking to a colleague and she said she had a cousin who’d fit the bill perfectly.”
“Which colleague was that?”
“Another attorney in the building,” said Fellinger. “We’ve worked together, there was a trust level and this cousin sounded ideal. Yale graduate, had worked as a playwright, smart, industrious. He interviewed fine. A bit on the wimpy side but that’s okay, I don’t need attitude. I even paid him a bit more than I might normally because of the Ivy League thing.”
“Give me the name of Williams’s cousin, Mr. Fellinger.”
“She needs to be involved? You’re sure it’s relevant?”
“I’m not sure of anything.”
“All right … her name is Flora Sullivan but I can’t believe she’d have anything to do with something … unsavory.”
Tall, lanky woman. Bird-like, myopic. Same body type as Jens Williams. A pair of storks.
Once you knew, the family resemblance was obvious.
I said, “Williams ended up being a disappointment.”
Grant Fellinger said, “He was no great shakes as an assistant, but adequate. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that other attorneys in the firm began to take me aside. Their staffers had started complaining about Jens. Had been feeling uneasy for a while but no one came forward because no one knew it was more than an individual issue. But once women began talking to each other, a pattern arose. Not something you could really sink your teeth into, no inappropriate touching, not even remarks. He’d just begun to bother female employees by looking at them. By being there when he didn’t need to be.”
I said, “Showing up and creeping them out.”
“Exactly. The complainants—there were seven of them, all younger women—would find him staring at them. The adjectives they used included lascivious, sly, weird, spooky, stalky. Even rapey, which is a new one on me. In any event, you get the picture. So how do you deal with something so ambiguous? There were certainly no legal grounds but I met with the partners and we agreed we’d have to do something.”
He looked back at the bar. “Here’s where it gets sensitive. I absolutely need you to be discreet.”
We waite
d.
Fellinger said, “Well … what we decided was that we’d try to find something else about Jens that was objectionable and use that to get him out. And he made it easy because his work had begun to suffer. Tardiness, lack of focus, downright apathetic toward the end. I began wondering about some sort of emotional issue. Particularly in view of the complaints.”
I said, “Inhibitions breaking down.”
“Here’s an example,” said Fellinger. “One of the partners has a crackerjack assistant, she’s been with him for years. One day she exited the ladies’ room and found Jens right outside the door. Lurking, as she called it. He didn’t move when she saw him, just stayed there. Smirking. We’re not talking the main lav which is out in the open, men’s and women’s side by side. This was a smaller unisex bathroom in the storage room. She was searching for files but Jens wasn’t. I know because I didn’t assign him to look for anything.”
Milo said, “See what you mean. So the firm looked for dirt on him.”
Fellinger frowned. “I’d prefer to call it constructive research. I assumed the primary responsibility because I’d hired him. I went over his résumé with a fine-tooth comb. Which, I’m embarrassed to say, I didn’t do the first time. He was Flora’s cousin and she gave him high accolades. Turns out he fooled everyone including Flora. At first when I told her we’d have to let him go, she wasn’t pleased, we actually had words. But then when she learned the truth, she understood. And called me later that day to apologize, turns out he’s only her third cousin, she didn’t know him that well.”
Tense chat in the parking garage.
Milo said, “What truth did she learn?”
Fellinger threw up his hands. “He lied about everything. He did attend Yale, but only for a semester, he flunked out. Playwriting was total b.s. No productions, no credits, nor did he work for any of the firms he listed.”
“What kind of firms?”
“A theatrical publisher, ad agencies. Even the law firm in New York where he’d claimed to work knew him as a client. They defended him in a battery case.”
Milo said, “A defendant who uses it for his bio. That’s pretty nervy.”
Motive Page 22
