Guilt Read online

  Holly Ruche’s dream abode was a thirty-one-hundred-square-foot single-family residence situated in what was then the Monte Mar-Vista Tract, completed on January 5, 1927, and sold three months later to Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Thornton. After ten years, possession passed to the Thorntons’ daughter, Marjorie, who unloaded the property thirteen months later to Dr. and Mrs. Malcolm Crowell Larner.

  The Larners lived there until 1943, when the deed was transferred to Dr. and Mrs. George J. Del Rios. The Del Rioses resided at the property until 1955, after which possession shifted to the Del Rios Family Trust. In 1961, ownership passed to the Robert and Alice Hannah Family Trust and in ’74 Alice Hannah, newly widowed, took sole possession, a status that had endured until sixty days ago when her heirs sold to Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Ruche.

  Initial purchase price: forty-eight hundred dollars. Holly and Matt had gotten a recession bargain at nine hundred forty thousand dollars, with a down payment of a hundred seventy-five thousand and the remainder financed by a low-interest loan.

  Milo jabbed the list twice. “Dr. Larner to Dr. Del Rios. The time frame works, that box came from a hospital, and a shady white-coat fits with swiping medical equipment for personal use.”

  I said, “I’d start with the period of those newspaper clippings—post-’51. That narrows it to the Del Rioses’ ownership.”

  “Agreed. Let’s see what we can learn about these folk.”

  He plugged in his department password and typed away, chewing a cold cigar to pulp. Official databases yielded nothing on Dr. George Del Rios other than a death certificate in 1947, age sixty-three, natural causes. A search for other decedents with the same surname pulled up Del Rios, Ethel A., DOD 1954, age sixty-four, cancer, and Del Rios, Edward A., DOD 1960, age forty-five, vehicular accident.

  “I like Edward A. as a starting point,” he said. “The trust sold the house a year after he died, so there’s a decent chance he was George and Ethel’s boy and inherited the place.”

  I said, “A boy in his thirties who George and Ethel might’ve worried about, so they left the house in trust rather than bequeathed it to him outright. And even though the trustee didn’t get it until ’55, a son could have had access to the property before then, when Mama was living there alone.”

  “She goes to bridge club, he digs a little hole.”

  “Maybe their lack of faith was due to lifestyle issues.”

  “Eddie’s a miscreant.”

  “Back then a well-heeled miscreant could avoid stigma, so ‘vehicular accident’ might’ve been code for a one-car DUI. But some stigmas you’d need to take care of yourself. Like a socially embarrassing out-of-wedlock birth.”

  He said, “Eddie’s married and the mother’s someone other than wifey? Yeah, that would be blush-inducing at the country club.”

  “Even if Eddie was a bachelor playboy, burying a social inconvenience could’ve seemed like a grand idea.”

  He thought. “I like it, Alex, let’s dig dirt on this charmer. Pun intended.”

  He searched for obituaries on all three family members. Dr. George J. Del Rios’s was featured in the Times and the Examiner. He’d been an esteemed, certain-to-be-missed cardiologist on staff at St. Vincent Hospital as well as a faculty member at the med school where I sometimes taught. No final bio for his widow. Nothing on her at all.

  Father Edward Del Rios, director of the Good Shepherd Orphanage of Santa Barbara, had perished when a bus ferrying children from that institution to the local zoo had veered off Cabrillo Boulevard on July 6, 1960. Several of the children had been injured, a few seriously, but all had recovered. The priest and the bus driver hadn’t been so lucky.

  The Santa Barbara News-Press covered the crash on its front page, reporting that “several of the terrified youngsters describe the driver, Meldrom Perry, suddenly slumping over the wheel leading to the bus going out of control. The children also report that ‘Father Eddie’ made an heroic attempt to gain control of the vehicle. Both Perry, 54, of Vista, and Father Del Rios, just days from his 46th birthday, perished after being thrown free of the bus. But the man of God’s valiant attempts may have prevented an even worse disaster. An investigation has begun into allegations that Perry suffered from a prior heart condition, a fact known to the bus charter company, an outfit with previous violations on record.”

  “Some playboy,” said Milo. “Poor guy was a damn hero.”

  I said, “He lived in Santa Barbara so the house was probably rented out during his ownership.”

  “And try finding a tenant. Okay, time to canvass the neighborhood, maybe some old-timer will remember that far back.”

  “There’s another reason the house could’ve been left in trust: Father Eddie was in charge but he had siblings.”

  “Seeing as he was Catholic?”

  “Seeing as most people have siblings. If you can access any trust documents, they’ll list who else benefited.”

  It took a while, but an appendix stashed in the bowels of the tax rolls finally yielded the data.

  Two brothers, one sister, all younger than Father Eddie. Ferdinand and Mary Alice had passed away decades ago in their sixties, consistent with the genetic endowment bestowed by their parents.

  The baby of the family, John Jacob Del Rios, was listed as residing in Burbank. Age eighty-nine.

  Milo looked up his number and called. Generally, he switches to speaker so I can listen in. This time, he forgot or chose not to do so and I sat there as he introduced himself, explained the reason for calling as an “occurrence” at John J. Del Rios’s old family home, listened for a while, said, “Thank you, sir,” and hung up.

  “Sounds young for his age, more than happy to talk about the good old days. But it needs to be tomorrow, he’s entertaining a ‘lady friend.’ He also let me know he’d been on the job.”

  “LAPD?”

  “Sheriff.”

  He typed some more. Commander John J. Del Rios had run the Sheriff’s Correctional Division from 1967 through 1974, retired with pension, and received a citation from his boss for distinguished service. Further cyber-snooping pulled up a ten-year stretch at a private security firm. After that, nothing.

  Milo made a few calls to contacts at the tan-shirts. No one remembered Del Rios.

  I said, “Entertaining a lady friend? Maybe he’s our playboy. He’d have been in his twenties, prime time for an active sexual life.”

  “We’ll check him out tomorrow. Eleven a.m. After his golf game.”

  “Golf, women, the good life,” I said. “A good long life.”

  “The priest dies young, the hedonist thrives? Yeah, I love when justice prevails.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  The following morning, I picked Milo up on Butler Avenue and Santa Monica, just north of the West L.A. station.

  The bones had made the morning news, print and TV, with Holly Ruche’s name left out and the neighborhood described as “affluent Westside.” Milo was carrying a folded Times by his side. He wore a lint-gray suit, algae-green shirt, poly tie the color of venous blood. The sun wasn’t kind to his pockmarked face; that and his size and his glower made him someone you’d cross the street to avoid.

  He appreciates the value of publicity as much as any experienced detective. But he likes to control the flow, and I expected him to be angry about the leak. He got into the Seville, stretched, yawned, said “Top of the morning,” thumbed to the editorial pages. Scanning the op-ed columns, he muttered cheerfully: “Stupid, stupid, stupid, and big surprise … more stupid.”

  Folding the paper, he tossed it in back.

  I said, “Any tips come in from the story?”

  “Nothing serious, so far. Moe and Sean are working the phones. The good news for Mr. and Mrs. Ruche is the dogs turned up nothing else, ditto for radar and sniff-tubes. Nothing remotely iffy in the house, either, so looks like we’ve got a lone antique whodunit, not a psycho cemetery.”

  He stretched some more.

  I said, “You’re okay wit
h the leak.”

  “That’s like saying I’m okay with earthquakes. What’s my choice?”

  He closed his eyes, kept them shut as I got on the 405. By the time I was over the hills and dipping down into the Valley and the 101 East, he was snoring with glee.

  Burbank is lots of things: a working- to middle-class suburb, host to film lots and TV studios, no-nonsense neighbor to the mansions and estates of Toluca Lake where Bob Hope, William Holden, the Three Stooges, and other luminaries established a celebrity outpost that avoided the Westside riffraff.

  The city also also butts up against Griffith Park and has its own equestrian center and horse trails. John Jacob Del Rios lived just northeast of the park, on a street of ranch houses set on half-acre lots. Paddocks were visible at the ends of driveways. The aroma of well-seasoned equine dung seasoned the air. A shortage of trees helped the sun along and as noon approached, the asphalt simmered and a scorch, like that of an iron left too long on wool, melded with the horse odors.

  Del Rios’s residence was redwood-sided, shingle-roofed, fronted by a marine-buzz lawn. An old wagon wheel was propped to the left of the door. A white Suburban with utility tires was parked at the onset of the driveway, inches behind a horse trailer. No paddock in view but a corral fashioned from metal piping housed a beautiful black mare with a white diamond on her chest. She watched us approach, gave two short blinks, flicked her tail.

  I took the time to get a closer look. She cocked her head flirtatiously.

  Glossy coat, soft eyes. Years ago, I’d take breaks from the cancer wards and ride up at Sunset Ranch, near the Hollywood sign. I loved horses. It had been too long.

  I smiled at the mare. She winked.

  Milo said, “C’mon, Hopalong, time to meet John Wayne.”

  The man who answered the door was more Gregory Peck than Duke: six five, and patrician, with a shelf of deeply cleft chin, a well-aligned arrogantly tilted nose, and thick hair as snowy as well-beaten egg whites. His eyes were clear blue, his skin clear bronze veneered by a fine mesh of wrinkles, his build still athletically proportioned save for some hunching of the shoulders and widening of the hips. Nearing ninety, John J. Del Rio looked fifteen years younger.

  He wore a blue-and-white mini-check long-sleeved shirt, navy slacks, black calfskin loafers. The blue-faced steel Rolex on his left wrist was chunky and authoritative. Rimless, hexagonal eyeglasses gave him the look of a popular professor. Emeritus for years, but invited back to campus often.

  Or one of those actors hired by health insurance companies to play Elderly-but-Fit on their scam commercials.

  He proffered a hand larger than Milo’s. “Lieutenant? J. J. Del Rios, good to meet you. And this is …”

  “Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist.”

  “I was a psychology major, myself, at Stanford.” To me: “Studied with Professor Ernest Hilgard, I assume you’ve heard of him.”

  I said, “Of course.”

  He turned back to Milo. “I read about your ‘occurrence’ this morning. Least I’m assuming that’s the case you’re working. Is it?”

  Milo said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Box of baby bones. Sad. The article said they were probably old, I figure you’re here to pinpoint a likely offender using property tax rolls. Am I right?”

  Milo smiled.

  John J. Del Rios said, “Can’t fault you for that approach, makes sense. But if it’s an old 187, why the psych angle?”

  Milo said, “Cases that are out of the ordinary, we find the input helpful.”

  “Psychological autopsy?”

  “Basically. Could we come in, sir?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Del Rios. “No sense keeping you in the heat.”

  He waved us into a lime-green, beam-ceilinged front room cooled by a grumbling window A.C. Burnt-orange carpeting was synthetic, spotless, firm as hardwood. Blocky oak furniture from the seventies, the kind purchased as a suite, was placed predictably. Horse prints clipped from magazines were the concession to art. The only sign of modernity was a wall-mounted flat-screen, hung carefully so no wires showed. A pass-through counter led to a kitchen devoid of counter equipment. The house was clean and orderly, but ripe with the stale-sweat/burnt-coffee/Old Spice tang of longtime bachelorhood.

  J. J. Del Rios headed for an avocado-colored fridge. “Something to drink? I’m having a shot of grape juice. Virgin Cabernet, if you will.” He gave a bark-like chuckle. “Too early for my one-a-day booze infusion but the antioxidants in grape skin are good for you, you don’t even need the alcohol.” He brandished a bottle half full with magenta liquid. “Good stuff, no added sugar.”

  “Water’ll be fine, sir.”

  “ ‘Sir.’ Been a while since I heard that from someone who meant it.” Another low, clipped laugh. “Don’t miss the job but there was a nice order to it, everyone knowing their place.”

  “You ran the jail division.”

  “Big fun,” said Del Rios. “Keeping lowlifes locked up, making sure they knew they weren’t living at the Hilton.”

  “How long did you do it?” said Milo.

  Del Rios returned with two waters in one huge hand, juice in the other. We all sat.

  “What’s this, small talk to gain rapport? If you know I ran it, you know for how long.”

  Milo said, “Didn’t dig that deep, sir.”

  Del Rios snorted that off. “Tell me about your bones.”

  “Infant,” said Milo. “Half a year old, give or take.”

  “That was in the paper.”

  “That’s what we know so far.”

  “You’ve narrowed down the time frame to when my family owned the place?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How?”

  “Afraid I can’t get into that, sir.”

  Del Rios smiled. “Now I’m not liking the ‘sir’ so much.”

  Milo smiled back.

  The warmth generated by the exchange might’ve heated a baby gnat.

  Del Rios said, “No sense drawing this out. My family had nothing to do with it but I can’t tell you none of the tenants did. Nor can I give you a name, I have no idea who rented the place, stayed completely out of it.”

  “Out of real estate?”

  “Out of anything that got in the way of having fun.” Del Rios drank grape juice. Smacked his lips, dabbed them with a linen handkerchief. The resulting magenta stain seemed to fascinate him.

  Milo said, “We’ve narrowed the time frame to the period your mother lived in the house.”

  “And what period might that be?”

  “Nineteen fifty to ’52.”

  “Well,” said Del Rios, “I’m sure you think you’re clever. Problem is you’re wrong. After Dad died in ’47, Mom did live there by herself, but only until she was diagnosed with both heart disease and cancer.” The seams across Del Rios’s brow deepened. “She was a devout woman, talk about a one-two punch from a benevolent God. It happened winter of ’49, right after the two-year anniversary of Dad’s death. She hung on for four years, the last two were a horror show, the only question was which disease would get her first. We tried having her stay in the house with a nurse but that got to be too much and by the spring of 1950 she was living with my brother Frankie, his real name was Ferdinand, but he hated it so he had us call him Frank. He and his wife lived in Palo Alto, he was in medical residency back then, orthopedics. That lasted until the beginning of ’52, when Mom had to be put in a home near Stanford. During her last year, she was basically vegetative, by ’54 she was gone. Before she moved up north with Frankie and Bertie, she put the house in trust for the four of us. But none of us wanted to live there, it reminded us of dead parents. Frankie was living in Palo Alto, my sister Mary Alice was studying medicine in Chicago, and I, the rotten kid, the dropout, was in the marines and couldn’t care less. So Eddie—the oldest one, he was a priest—hired a management company and we rented it out for years. Like I said, I can’t tell you who any of the tenants were. And everyone else is de
ad, so you’re out of luck, son.”

  “Do you remember the name of the management company?”

  “Can’t remember something I never knew in the first place,” said Del Rios. “I’m trying to tell you: I had no interest in anything but fun. To me the damn house was a source of moolah. Each month I’d get a check from Eddie for my share of the rent and promptly blow it. Then Eddie died in a bus accident and the three of us got rid of the place, can’t even tell you who bought it, but obviously you know.”

  He finished his grape juice. “That’s the full story, my friend. Don’t imagine it makes you happy but I can’t change that.”

  Milo said, “It clarifies things.”

  Del Rios removed his glasses. “A man who sees the bright side? Funny, you don’t give that impression.”

  He stood. We did the same.

  Milo said, “Thanks for your time, Chief.”

  At the door, Del Rios said, “When I figured out what you were after, the thought that my family was under suspicion annoyed me. Even though if it was my case, I’d be doing the same thing. Then I realized I couldn’t help you and I started feeling for you, son. Having to dig that far back.” Winking. “So to speak. So here’s one more tidbit that’s probably irrelevant but I don’t want you thinking J.J.’s not simpatico with a fellow officer. Before my brother Eddie became a priest, he was a car nut, an early hot-rodder, into anything with four wheels and a big engine. He even got Dad to buy him a Ford coupe that he souped up and drag-raced. Anyway, one day Eddie and I were having lunch in the city. He was working as an assistant priest at St. Vibiana on Main Street, this was before he got transferred to Santa Barbara. During the time Mom was already living with Frankie. Anyway, Eddie says, ‘Johnny, I drove by the house a few nights ago, making sure the managers were getting the lawn cut better than the last time, and you won’t believe what was parked in the driveway. A Duesie.’ ”

  I said, “A Duesenberg.”

  “In the flesh,” said Del Rios. “The metal. It didn’t mean much to me, I didn’t care about cars, still don’t, but Eddie was excited, going on about not just a Duesenberg but one with the big chrome supercharger pipes coming out of the side, apparently that’s a big deal. He informs me this is the greatest car ever built, they were rare to begin with, twenty years later they’re a treasure. He tells me a car like that would’ve cost more new than the house did, he’s wondering how the tenant could have that kind of money, his best guess is she’s got a rich boyfriend. Then he blushes, shuts his mouth, remembering he’s a priest, no more gossip. I laughed like hell, told him he should get himself a hot rod on the sly, it bothers him he can confess about it. Meanwhile he can lay rubber right in front of the church, worst case the cardinal has a stroke. He laughed, we had our lunch, end of topic. Okay?”