Motive

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Three other eateries with similar clienteles. Every inch of curb the dominion of private valets.

  I eased the Seville behind a Bentley coupe that shouldn’t have been painted orange, and cut the engine.

  Perfect view of the cut. Milo said, “Now we wait.”

  A red-jacket ran over and tried to open the driver’s door I’d kept locked. He squinted. “Ah teck it forrr you.”

  High-pitched, eager, Mideast accent.

  Milo said, “We’ll just stay here.”

  “No, no, rrrestorant awnly.”

  “No, no, us.”

  “Sirrr—”

  “Come closer, my friend.”

  “Huh?”

  “C’mere.”

  No reason for the man to comply but Milo’s curled finger drew him in as if the digit were magnetically charged. Flashing a twenty, Milo unfolded the bill and revealed what he had wrapped underneath.

  The valet’s eyes caromed from the cash to the gold shield.

  “Huh?”

  “This is your lucky day, friend. Money for nothing and we stay here for free.”

  The valet blinked. “Det’s a song?”

  “No, just reality.”

  CHAPTER

  41

  L.A.’s not known for wearing out shoe leather, especially when the sun shines and sitting around beckons. But the stretch of Melrose where Beppo Bippo and a slew of other eateries sat boasted an intermittent but healthy parade of pedestrians.

  Some of the foot-traffic veered to sample Darius Kleffer’s cuisine. Others kept going and made different choices.

  The cut between the buildings remained empty. Kleffer back to his knives or still enjoying the company of the woman in the red jersey.

  Milo said, “She look like a stripper to you? ’Scuse me, a dancer.”

  I drew back in mock outrage. “A girl’s curvy, she can’t be a neurosurgeon?”

  “Curvy with tattoos?”

  “Actually,” I said. “I gave a lecture to a bunch of med students a couple of months ago. A few had been inked.”

  “Changing world.” He yawned. “Not really. Not where it counts.”

  The valet he’d paid off took keys from an Audi, sped off, and returned to drop off a Mercedes. A second man joined him at the booth. Heavyset mustachioed Anglo wearing a black sport coat, red slacks and bow tie.

  The head valet. Did he get to play with the Lamborghinis?

  He looked at us, said something to his colleague. Brief chat, then Bow Tie rolled over like a tank on treads.

  “I’m afraid you’ll need to move.”

  Milo repeated the money-wrapped badge routine. Bow Tie grinned. “Thanks, guys.” Examining the bill, he rolled away.

  I said, “What was that?”

  “The rhythm of life.”

  Forty bucks was enough for the valets to work around us, as we sat for half an hour. Twenty-five minutes in, Frank Gonzales reported more good news: the discovery of John Jensen Williams’s van.

  “Right there at the harbor, he didn’t even try to be subtle.”

  “Took a while to find it.”

  “It’s a big place, he left it out on the north end, near one of the boatyards. No, not the one where Corey stored his tub, that’s still in dry dock. And no one has Williams renting any kind of watercraft.”

  “Anything interesting in the van, Frank?”

  “Nothing obvious, let’s see what the scrapers pull up. I asked for it to be towed to our lab, Ventura had no problem with that. Anything on your end?”

  Milo told him about the woman flirting with Kleffer.

  Gonzales said, “Sounds like the one got my rookie’s pulse throbbing. So not Santos?”

  “Nope.”

  “That could be too bad for her. I’ll keep on the alerts, results are supposed to come straight to my computer, but you know how it is.”

  “I do, Frank.”

  “Look at us,” said Gonzales. “We can send a man to the moon but we can’t find squat.”

  Thirty-four minutes into the surveillance, the head valet began to approach us a second time, smiling hungrily.

  All that nothing hadn’t done much for Milo’s mood and the warning look he shot was enough to send the man scampering away.

  “Greedy fool,” he said.

  I said, “Look.”

  Darius Kleffer and the woman in the red top had exited the restaurant and turned left. Toward the cut. Kleffer already had his cigarettes out.

  Even with the giant heels on her boots, the woman was petite, not much over five feet tall. That and a tiny, tight waist and first-rate posture made her chest seem even bigger.

  She carried a small purse covered in some sort of white-and-black fur. Her gait was pride epitomized, flaring hips rolling as if on ball bearings, each buttock cheek functioning independently.

  Great muscle control. Accustomed to flaunting her body.

  Maybe a “dancer,” indeed.

  Walking next to her, Darius Kleffer’s slouch was sad.

  He stopped at the same spot he’d chosen when we’d talked to him, pressing his back to the brick wall and facing the woman. She edged closer.

  He offered her a cigarette that she accepted. He lit up both of them.

  They smoked and flirted some more and a couple of times the woman’s mouth opened wide with glee and she threw her head back and set off a brunette tsunami, finished the mini-production by touching Kleffer’s arm.

  The badinage continued, interrupted in spurts by passing pedestrians.

  “Ah, true love,” said Milo.

  A few more minutes of clear view, more passersby. Milo tapped the dashboard.

  I said, “What’s the song?”

  “ ‘Colonel Bogey March.’ ” He shut his eyes.

  I kept watching. More pedestrians.

  One of them had stopped a couple of feet shy of the cut.

  Tall man in a black baseball cap and long black raincoat.

  Illogical choice for a warm, clear afternoon.

  Just as I nudged Milo, the man turned into the cut, hand reaching under the coat.

  I swung the driver’s door open. Milo was already out of the car, running across Melrose, dodging traffic in two directions, setting off a storm of honks and curses. I hurried to catch up, caught my own share of hostility.

  Maybe it was the noise, maybe not. The man in the baseball cap turned.

  Long, bony face.

  Wide, black-lensed sunglasses.

  A perfectly square dark soul patch bottomed a thin lower lip. The portion of scalp visible beneath the cap was shaved clean. Fingernails were polished black.

  But no mistaking John Jensen Williams. The knife in his hand.

  A sudden thrust toward the interior of the cut.

  Milo neared the curb, gun drawn. Pedestrians screamed, scattered. Someone shouted, “Dial 911!”

  Williams waved the knife. Long, curved blade. Like the one Robin and I used to gut and bone fish.

  Inches of metal glazed crimson.

  Darius Kleffer lay on the ground, clutching his abdomen.

  The woman in the red jersey stood between him and J. J. Williams, expressionless. Unsurprised.

  Then, spotting Milo and his gun, she began fake-crying.

  Hnh hnh hnh.

  John Jensen Williams looked at his knife. Turned back to Kleffer, now moaning in agony.

  Milo said, “Drop it! Now! Drop it!”

  Williams said, “You bet, this was self-defense,” in a mild voice. He lowered his arm. His fingers loosened. The knife dangled.

  “Drop it!”

  “I’m trying to, I’m a little nervous.” Williams smiled shyly. The knife canted downward.

  His fingers tightened. Now the blade was tilting up.

  He lunged at Milo.

  Milo shot him, center of body mass, just like they teach you at the academy.

  Williams, the rip in his raincoat barely noticeable, remained on his feet.

  “Aw,” he murmured, looking stea
dy.

  Protective vest?

  Milo must have wondered the same thing. He shot again, creating a noticeable hole in John Jensen Williams’s smooth, pale forehead.

  Williams said, “Wow,” and dropped hard. Nearly landed on Kleffer, who was mewling and losing color.

  The woman in the red top flipped her hair. “Oh, thank you, sir! You saved my life.”

  Not a glance at Darius Kleffer, now screaming in agony, blood leaking around his fingers.

  I went to tend to him.

  Milo cuffed the woman.

  She said, “Sir. I’m the victim.”

  “Of your own stupidity.”

  “You’re stupid. Fat and ugly, too.”

  “Sticks and stones,” said Milo, dialing 911.

  CHAPTER

  42

  She called herself Kashmeer Katte, had fake I.D. to prove it. The same bogus document listed her age as twenty-five. The card shared scant space in her rabbit-fur purse with four hundred dollars in cash, two condoms, two plastic-wrapped nuggets of cocaine and one of methamphetamine.

  Her real name was Agnes Brzica, her actual age, thirty-one. No sense disputing that, she came up five times on NCIC. Arrests for solicitation and drugs and once for assault.

  Despite being found out, she lied about everything, starting with how long she’d known J. J. Williams.

  “Just a couple weeks, sir.” She’d managed to cadge a jail uniform one size too small, setting off a power struggle with the silicon implanted in her chest.

  Milo said, “A girl who dances with you at Black Velvet says Williams has been coming in for months, lots of times you two went home together.”

  “Which girl?” said Brzica.

  “That matters?”

  “Some a them lie.”

  He waited.

  “Okay,” said Brzica. “Yeah, I partied with him, I just didn’t want to get in trouble.”

  “I see.”

  “Honest, sir. I had no idea what he was.”

  “You thought he was a wholesome guy.”

  Long pause. “He was okay.”

  “He used you to lure Darius Kleffer outside so he could kill Kleffer.”

  “No way, sir.”

  “Yes way, Agnes.”

  “Uh-uh. It wasn’t like that, sir.”

  “What were you doing in Kleffer’s restaurant? Don’t say eating.”

  “Eating.” Giggle. Hair toss. “Okay. I just went in ’cause he said he was a friend, wanted to surprise him.”

  “Williams said Kleffer was a friend.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So he did use you to lure Kleffer?”

  Silence.

  “Agnes?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  “If all Williams wanted was to surprise Kleffer, why not just bop in himself?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “Kinda hard, Agnes.”

  Big smile. Hair toss.

  “Why’d Williams use you if it was just a surprise?”

  “I guess I was a bigger surprise.”

  “Kleffer said you worked at getting him out of the kitchen. Sent three compliments-to-the-chef messages, nagged the server.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “No thanks to you, Agnes.”

  “Wow, that’s awesome, sir. I was surprised when that happened. Really. He’s got really stinky breath.”

  “Kleffer or Williams?”

  “The German. Really stinky.”

  “He’s lucky he’s got any breath at all, Agnes.”

  “You can call me Kashmeer, I like it better.”

  “Fair enough, Kashmeer. What else are you going to tell me?”

  “I didn’t do nothing, sir.”

  “Sounds like you actually need to believe that.”

  “I don’t need, I know, sir.”

  “Okay, Kashmeer. Let’s talk about Richard Corey.”

  “Who?” Exaggerated innocence.

  Milo smiled. “Kashmeer, Kashmeer.”

  “What?”

  “Your DNA came up in the apartment next to Richard Corey’s. It’s not exactly a huge complex.”

  “All right,” said Brzica. “J.J. said he was a friend. Also.”

  “All those friends. J.J. was a popular guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just a regular social butterfly.”

  “I guess. He did live next to him, said he wasn’t paying rent. That’s what a friend does. Right? They help.”

  “When did Williams tell you what he planned to do to Corey?”

  “Never, sir. I didn’t even know until you told me, sir. Honest.”

  “Williams goes into Corey’s place, comes out with bags of money, you didn’t wonder.”

  “If I knew, maybe.”

  “He never showed you the money.”

  “No, sir,” she said. “I’d a liked that.”

  “Liked what?”

  Big smile. “When they show me the money.” Dropping her hand to her crotch. “When it drops into the g-string. The greatest feeling, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s move on, Ag—Kashmeer. Meredith Santos.”

  “Who?”

  “A girl who used to work with Williams.”

  “Don’t know her. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “For what?”

  “Calling you fat and ugly. I was scared.”

  “Hey,” said Milo, “reality is reality.”

  “No way, sir. You’re muscular and masculine.”

  “Gosh.”

  “Can I go now? It’s almost time for lunch.”

  “Not quite yet, Kashmeer. We need to talk about Meredith Santos. She’s disappeared.”

  “Okay.”

  “Williams never mentioned her?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Meredith Santos, Kashmeer.”

  “Nope.”

  “Hispanic, a little younger than you.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Gorgeous girl,” said Milo. “I’m talking beauty-queen caliber.”

  Anger striped Brzica’s face. “He didn’t need that.”

  “Didn’t need what?”

  “Fancy pussy. He had me.”

  He spent another two hours with her, gave me a try, allowed Frank Gonzales to have a go. By the time she asked for a lawyer, all of us were tired but Agnes Brzica remained full of energy and refusing to say where she’d lived before meeting Williams.

  Hard to say how much of that was temperament, how much a residual effect of the meth she’d smoked.

  Left alone in the interview room, knowing she was being videotaped, she danced and sang and shimmied and fluffed her hair and her breasts. Removing her jail slippers, she waved them like cheerleading props.

  When her public defender arrived, she was standing on her head and wiggling her toes.

  Her legal representation was a twenty-something named Ira Newgrass. He forbade her from saying another word, assured Milo he was wasting his time, anyway, “nothing is going to stick.”

  The Oxnard deputy D.A. assigned to the case, a woman named Pam Theroux, agreed privately. “All you have her on is flirting with Kleffer.”

  Frank Gonzales said, “C’mon, we’ve got her living with Williams right next to Corey, leaving before Corey’s murder, waiting at that motel and meeting up with Williams and then coming to L.A. to abet a homicide.”

  “Residing and waiting aren’t crimes, Detective.”

  “She’s evil,” said Gonzales.

  “Evil isn’t my business,” said Theroux. “The penal code is.”

  “You can’t do anything?”

  “The most we could attempt would be conspiracy and that’s a stretch. We’re not wasting time on something that isn’t winnable.”

  “What about the dope in her purse?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Theroux. “We can get her a couple years on that, some of it’ll probably be suspended. I thought you were talking a serious charge.”
/>
  Milo said, “I’m less concerned with punishing her than finding out where Meredith Santos is. If we can’t hold anything over her head, there’s no leverage to get her to talk.”

  “So dangle a totally suspended sentence on the dope and see if she bites.”

  Later that day, Milo called Newgrass and made the offer.

  The PD said, “I’ll ask her.”

  An hour later: “She says she’d love to make a deal but she really never heard of this person. How about you don’t file on the drugs, anyway?”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s being sincere.”

  “Just like you,” said Milo. He slammed down the phone.

  When Frank Gonzales heard the news, he said, “That’s the way it goes. Cookies crumbling all over the damn place. No, forget that. No more food analogies.”

  Three days after the death of John Jensen Williams, Milo called Albert Tranh.

  “It’s safe for the girls to come home now, Mr. Tranh.”

  “Why’s that, Lieutenant?”

  “The bad guy’s out of the picture.”

  “Arrested?”

  “Six feet under.”

  “Oh,” said Tranh. “I see. Well, that’s good but I’m not sure why you’re telling me.”

  “If you find yourself in a situation where you can pass along the information, I’m sure the girls will appreciate it.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, Lieutenant.”

  A day later, Tranh phoned. “Ashley and Marissa are appreciative, though obviously there’s a lot else on their minds.”

  “When are they coming back?”

  “I’ve been informed that they may remain where they are.”

  “In Vancouver.”

  “Apparently,” said Tranh, “they’ve found employment. Seem to be learning responsibility.”

  “Good lesson for rich girls,” said Milo.

  “All the more reason,” said Tranh.

  “Any horses up there?”

  “The topic has come up.”

  Eight days after the death of John Jensen Williams, the combined force of Milo and Frank Gonzales finally convinced one of Kashmeer Katte’s fellow dancers to spill.

  Kashmeer had sublet off the books, scoring the converted garage of a dingy bungalow in East Hollywood rented by three of the other strippers.

  “Another back house,” I said.