Evidence Page 12

  “Sometimes, when she goes out, I follow her,” he said. “Not every time, not even most of the time. I don’t know why I do it. Perhaps its because when she leaves, the house grows silent in a rather repugnant way. Somewhat like a mortuary, I suppose, and being alone makes me feel moribund. Marjie makes it easy, she’s a creature of habit, always ends up in the same place. Places.”

  Milo looked at me.

  I said, “Where’s that, Professor Holman?”

  “In the common parlance, no-tell motels,” said Holman. “Washington Boulevard, near the Marina, any of four classy establishments. I station myself across the street. Used to convince myself I was doing it for Marjie’s sake. So she’d be safe. Of course, that’s rubbish, I do it for the illusion of control, though I will say I’m tiring of it. Perhaps someday Marjie will tire, as well.”

  I said, “Four motels, but there was an exception.”

  Holman’s bright blue eyes fixed on mine. “I’m rambling along and you already know the punch line. Yes, there was an exception, I’d decided not to say anything but then it bothered me and I felt incumbent to tell you.”

  “We appreciate that.”

  “I hope so ... I’d already known about him and Marjie. I’m referring to Backer, of course. How did I know? Because I’m not an unperceptive dolt. There was an office get-together for the firm, cheap wine and stale crackers. Marjie thought it would be good for me to get out. While nibbling, I caught her and Backer exchanging a glance. Nothing flagrant, but I’ve had training in picking up nuance and men who’ve been with Marjie get a certain look. Does that sound paranoid?”

  I said, “There’s paranoia and there’s reasonable anxiety.”

  “Yes... well, I’m not anxious. Not anymore. The game’s become part of our domestic routine and I find it calms me ... comfort of the familiar. In any event, I know a meaningful glance when I see one. I won’t say it didn’t surprise me, Backer was younger than Marjie’s usual ... companion. That I found a bit disconcerting but as I thought about it, what difference did it make? This isn’t about her feelings for me, it never is, it’s about physicality and who better than a younger man? So when she told me the following week that she’d be staying late at the office, I said to myself, Aha, and followed. And sure enough, Backer’s car was out back and she’d parked right next to him. The parking lot was small, I clearly couldn’t stay there, and finding parking on Main Street, even with a handicapped sticker, isn’t easy. Plus, my hot rod’s not exactly inconspicuous—could I trouble one of you to fetch water from the van? It’s in a holder just right of the arm-brake.”

  I went over and retrieved a black plastic squeeze bottle. The van’s interior was spotless, but stale smelling. No obvious evidence of extreme cleanup. When I got back, Holman was saying, “... so I decided to circle—thank you.” Swigging and licking his lips. “It didn’t take long for Backer’s BMW to pull out and head north. I followed, made sure to allow several car lengths—something I’ve picked up from police shows. Am I right?”

  Milo smiled. “Good technique, Professor Holman.”

  “Professor emeritus, Lieutenant. That’s Latin for has-been. Be that as it may, when Backer reached Wilshire and kept going, I was surprised. He turned east and continued beyond Westwood, didn’t turn until Comstock, then headed north, again, to Sunset. You see where I’m going with this.”

  Milo said, “Borodi Lane.”

  “When I saw the news this morning, I was stunned. Mulled for a while and decided I needed to call you. Good citizen, and all that.”

  “We really do appreciate it, sir.”

  “Do I get extra points for humiliation? A psychic Purple Heart, perhaps?”

  Neither of us replied.

  Holman said, “Back to Borodi Lane. You’ll be wanting to know exactly when this occurred, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I can tell you precisely. April second. Right after April Fools’, at nine twenty-eight p.m. I keep a log of Marjie’s adventures. But this turned out not to be Marjie’s adventure. I should’ve known, she really is a creature of habit, no reason for her to break the pattern.”

  She already had, behind a construction trailer in Santa Monica. No sense stomping her husband’s toehold on dignity.

  Milo said, “Backer was there with another woman?”

  “That woman,” said Holman. “The one whose face was in the news. And yes, I’m certain, because she and Backer went out to eat afterward and I got a good look at her.”

  “Not your wife, but you continued following.”

  “Because in the beginning I was pretty sure but couldn’t be certain. It was dark when they left, they hustled quickly into Backer’s car. The woman appeared shorter than Marjie, different hair, different walk, but I wasn’t close enough to be confident of my judgment, so I stayed on their trail.”

  “Where’d they go for dinner?”

  “Beverly Hills. Kate Mantilini, Doheny and Wilshire. Fortunately, they got a window seat and I was able to cruise by and felt tremendous relief. Then I realized Marjie was still out there and suddenly I needed to know where she was. So I called her landline at the office and she answered, said she was working on a proposal that would probably end up nowhere because Helga never followed through on anything.”

  Milo said, “Backer’s car was at the office but you didn’t see the woman back there.”

  “But she must’ve been nearby, Lieutenant, because she wasn’t inside the office with Backer and Marjie.”

  “How do you know?”

  “This morning Marjie and I were watching the news and the woman’s face came on, Marjie didn’t react in the least. I know my wife, gentlemen. If she’d met her, she’d have said something. And she’d also have told you when you questioned her. So my guess is the woman was either waiting outside the office, not in the lot or near it, or she was already at Borodi when Backer arrived.”

  “Was another car parked nearby?”

  “If there was,” said Holman, “I didn’t notice. But I wasn’t paying attention to cars.”

  He turned to watch the diminishing form of the beachcomber.

  Milo said, “What else can you tell us about Backer and this other woman’s behavior?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re sure it was the woman you saw on TV?”

  “I’m absolutely certain. The image on TV was a line drawing, but to my eye, a rather good resemblance. She’s—was a good-looking woman. Young—thirty, thirty-five, to me that’s young. Good figure. Great figure, voluptuous but taut. As if she worked out. Not too tall, I’d say around five four, well below Marjie’s five seven.”

  I said, “When you saw her and Backer in the restaurant window, what was their demeanor?”

  “They didn’t seem particularly enthralled. Nor were they miserable. Two people reading menus. I guess I’d say bland.”

  “Did you ever see the woman again?”

  “Never.”

  “What about Backer?”

  “Him I saw a few times,” said Holman. “At the office, coming and going.” Blinking. “I have to say, Marjie having anything to do with him surprised me. He didn’t seem her type.”

  “How so?”

  “Shallow.”

  “How so?”

  Holman’s jaw set. His beard bristled. “No doubt my opinion is informed by the fact that I’m fairly certain he boffed my wife. But I’d like to think I’m also a decent judge of character. I don’t want to talk ill of the dead but to be frank, he struck me as a superficial little twit. The type who spends too much time at the mirror.”

  Milo said, “You didn’t like him.”

  “I didn’t know him well enough not to like him.”

  Milo studied him.

  Holman’s eyebrows rose. “You’re kidding.”

  “About what, Professor?”

  “You’re actually wondering if I could’ve done it? Well, I’m flattered, gents. That you’d think me capable. But why would I bother? Nine men in fi
ve years have bedded my wife. What reason would I have to wreak vengeance on one particular horny little twit?”

  Holman’s lips clamped tight. “No, I didn’t care for Backer. He was fluff. But I don’t care for most people. And whatever I felt about him did not rise to the level of violence.”

  Milo said, “Professor, we really do appreciate your coming forward, most people would have taken the easy way out. Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

  “No, sir,” said Holman. “Now you’re going to leave and I’m going to stay here and watch the ocean.”

  Milo gunned the unmarked past the marsh, continued east on Culver. “What just happened? Helpful, self-demeaning citizen or smart guy playing with us?”

  “Maybe neither,” I said.

  “Then what?”

  “Professor Holman found a way to unload a whole lot of pent-up misery while feeling momentarily heroic.”

  “Free therapy? So who bills him, you or me?”

  “You can have it,” I said.

  “Poor bastard. But he did just admit to being a chronic stalker, which fits our jealousy scenario. A bunch of middle-aged lotharios with his wife is one thing, Backer’s youth and vitality pushed him over the edge, he kept churning it, over and over, the rage didn’t fade so he hired a hit man. Who he was able to tip off about Borodi being a nookie-spot for Backer.”

  “Then why call for a meet where he gives himself a motive and admits he resented Backer?”

  “He’s an intellectual, Alex, thinks he’s smarter than us. A linguist, to boot—what do those guys do? Manipulate language. But maybe he just screwed himself by giving me grounds for a warrant on his financials.”

  He phoned John Nguyen, asked the deputy D.A. what he thought. Nguyen said, “Iffy at best but you can try. Who do you have in mind?”

  Milo said, “Judge Ferencz turned me down, any suggestions?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about Judge Hawkins, John?”

  “Hawkins died last month.”

  “Damn.”

  Nguyen said, “Your warmhearted sympathy toward his loved ones is overwhelming. If you want, I can ask around.”

  “Thanks, John.”

  “I’m talking a few calls, not worth a thanks.”

  At Lincoln, Milo switched the police radio to felony Muzak. Too early for waves of after-dark violence but plenty of minor-league infractions to keep uniforms busy.

  I said, “If Holman’s not the killer, he still gave you something useful: Backer and Brigid were at Borodi two months ago, lending support for a long-term relationship and suggesting it was a habitual spot for them. Maybe she’s using a false identity out of self-defense, not criminality. As in running from a rabidly jealous ex.”

  “Meaning don’t lose sight of her as the prime victim, okay, time for Hal again.”

  “Who exactly is he?”

  “Homeland Security, owes me more than one favor.” Punch punch punch, voice mail. His second message was more detailed, click. “Holman doesn’t shake out dirty, there’s still the fact that Brigid was snooping in Masterson’s files and scoping out Borodi by herself.”

  I said, “The elusive DSD Inc.”

  “Whom everyone seems to think are Arabs and that worries me. All I need is some jealous emir as a prime suspect.”

  Two traffic lights later: “Backing away from all that, I’ve got plenty of mundane local issues to deal with. Like finding out if any non-antique .22s are registered to Loony Charlie Rutger, scanning the moniker files for particularly nasty Montes, somehow getting lists of subs who worked Borodi, and checking for violent felony backgrounds.”

  “Abundance of riches,” I said.

  “I’d rather have cash.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Reed and Binchy listened to their instructions out in the hall because four people can’t fit in Milo’s office.

  “Sean, I need you to pay a personal visit to an outfit downtown called Beaudry Construction. The object is to get their employment list going five years back. I’m talking names of every single yahoo who worked for them, not just at the Borodi site. In a perfect world, you’ll find our boy Monte. Beaudry’s going to jerk you around because everyone connected to the job signed confidentiality forms, but Nguyen tells me that doesn’t hold water in a criminal case.”

  “So we can subpoena them,” said Binchy.

  “Once we have a case, we can. Problem is, we need the list for that. But threaten them with whatever you think will work, they still don’t budge, contact the state compensation board and back-reference the job for tax paper. You up for all that?”

  Someone else might’ve taken offense.

  Sean flexed a Doc Marten. “You bet, Loot.”

  “You can go now, Sean.”

  “On my way, Loot.”

  Reed had watched the exchange, expressionless. His blond crew cut was fresh, he had on the usual blue blazer, khakis, white shirt, and rep tie.

  Milo turned to him. “Moses, any theories about how we might break through that confidentiality bullshit and find out who these DSD yokels are? The general feeling is they’re Arabs but no one can say why. I’ve already tried the Internet. Zippo.”

  Reed said, “I could cold-call all the Middle East consulates, ask to speak to someone associated with DSD, see if anyone reacts. If that doesn’t work, I move on to the embassies in D.C.”

  “Why don’t you start with D.C., in case some consulate type sets off an alarm. See if you can find some old directories for when DSD was there, maybe the number’s listing’s been forwarded.”

  “Will do, Loo. In terms of your Internet search, did you check oil-business sites?”

  “No. Do it. Your time situation okay?”

  “Got plenty of time,” said Reed. “Only one case pending, that stupid-guy shooting on Pico.”

  “Two fools in a bar? Thought you closed it.”

  “So did I, Loo. Turns out, it’s more complicated because they ran the thread and the bullet angles don’t fit exactly. I’m not such a big thread fan, but if it looks like science, juries love it, right? I got my confession all nailed, there’s no doubt whodunit, but the D.A. won’t proceed until everything’s buttoned down. I’m waiting for the autopsy to verify the flesh-troughs. My vic was supposed to be on the table last week but he’s still in the fridge. I drive down there this morning, thinking I’m going to pick up the autopsy report, all I leave with is excuses.”

  “D.A.’s got you being an errand boy?”

  Reed shrugged. “Whatever gets the case moving.”

  “Crypt must be crazy busy,” said Milo. “I’m having trouble getting my female vic’s autopsy done.”

  “They’re busy and it just got worse, Loo. One of their C.I.’s was murdered last night, few blocks away, while I was there. Sheriff’s Homicide was interviewing.”

  “I know some of those guys. Who was it?”

  “Someone named Bobby,” said Reed.

  “Bob Norchow?”

  “No, something Hispanic.”

  Milo shook his head. “What happened?”

  “From what I picked up, attempted robbery gone bad. It’s a tough neighborhood, guess no one’s immune ... anyway, I’ve got time, Loo. Anything else?”

  “Matter of fact, there is. I’m trying to trace a tip that came in from a pay phone on Venice Boulevard, your old turf. Who at Pacific should I call?”

  “Sergeant Sunshine’s okay.”

  “Sunshine,” said Milo. “Hope he brings a glow to my damn day.”

  Sergeant Patrick Sunshine recommended Milo talk to the car covering that sector of Venice.

  A patrolman named Thorpe answered. “That’s one of the last coiners still works, mostly transient dopers use it. Once in a while, street girls when they don’t want to run up their hours.”

  Milo said, “My tipster was a male. Older, or trying to sound like it. Pointed me at someone named Monte.”

  “Monte,” said Thorpe. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. What time did
the tip come in?”

  Milo checked the still-thin murder book. “Just after six p.m.”

  “Could be anyone. Want me to ask around?”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “Phone booth,” said Thorpe. “Darn thing’s on its last legs, bet the phone company kills it like all the others.”