Victims Page 8

  I said, “One thing you had in common: Vita also liked using the court system?”

  “Just against me.”

  “She never sued anyone else?”

  “Nah,” said Sloat. “She was a wimp. Like when I went after that black guy, she’s yelling at me, what if he’s a gang member, the car isn’t worth it. Which didn’t stop her from going after it, years later. Same thing with suing the trucking company. Don’t do it, Jay, they could be Mafia, it’s not worth it. I said, to you it’s not worth it, to me it is. Rights are rights, that’s why we fight wars.”

  Milo said, “You were in the service?”

  “My dad was. Three years in Europe. So can I go back to work?”

  Still no anxiety tell. Milo said, “What you’re saying makes sense, Jay. On the other hand, you hated her, you’re clearly not upset she’s dead, and you won’t back up your alibi.”

  “I can back it up but I don’t want to.”

  “Why?”

  Sloat looked over his shoulder, through the glass, at the interior of the store.

  Milo said, “Don’t worry, no customers.”

  “I know that. There’s never any.”

  I said, “The cowgirl has something to do with the shop.”

  Rapid constriction of pupil. A carotid pulse sprang into action.

  Milo saw it. “Give us a name, Jay, or we’re going to develop a chronic interest in menswear.”

  Sloat blew out acrid tobacco-air. “Aw, man.”

  Milo said, “We’re talking murder, Jay—”

  “I know, I know—okay but swear to keep it secret.”

  “We don’t swear, Jay. We don’t even promise. But unless there’s some reason to go public, we won’t.”

  “What kind of reason? I didn’t kill Vita!”

  “Then you’ll have no problem, Jay.”

  Sloat sucked down half an inch of cigarette. “Okay, okay, it’s Nina. Nina Hassan.”

  “George’s ex.”

  “He finds out, he’ll fire my ass and roast my balls on one of those shish-kebab thingies.”

  Milo pulled out his pad. “What’s her number?”

  “You have to write it down?”

  “Phone number, Jay.”

  “You actually have to call her?”

  Milo stared him down.

  Sloat gave up the number. “Just don’t say what I said about her. Being a cowgirl.”

  “That I can promise you.”

  “She’s hot,” said Sloat. “You see her, you’ll understand.”

  “Looking forward to it, Jay.”

  “I need this job, guys.”

  “You also need to be cleared as a suspect.”

  “What suspect, I didn’t do squat to Vita.”

  “Hopefully Nina will confirm that, Jay. Hopefully we’ll believe her.”

  “Why wouldn’t you believe her?”

  “Maybe she’s so crazy about you, she’d lie.”

  “She digs me,” said Sloat. “But she ain’t going to lie.”

  “It’s really important, Jay, that you don’t call her before we show up. We’re gonna check phone records, so we’ll know.”

  “Yeah, yeah sure.” His neck pulse hammered away. Shifty eyes said Milo had altered his plans.

  I said, “How long were you and Vita married?”

  “Six years.”

  “No kids.”

  “We didn’t want. Both of us.”

  “Not into kids.”

  “Kids are a pain,” said Sloat. “So when’re you seeing Nina?”

  Milo said, “When we’re ready.”

  “She’ll clear me. She’ll impress you, she’s a very impressive girl.”

  “Bye, Jay.”

  Jay Sloat said, “You absolutely need to talk to her?”

  We walked away from him.

  Milo looked up Nina Hassan’s address, found it on the western edge of Bel Air, a short drive away.

  “Vita and Jay,” he said, heading east on Sunset. “Thank God those two didn’t breed. So what do you think of him?”

  I said, “Unless he’s Oscar-caliber, I don’t see it.”

  “Me, neither.”

  Half a mile later: “Screw those D.A. ghouls, this isn’t going serial, it’s gonna be one of those wrong-time, wrong-place things. Vita finally ticked off the wrong guy. Speaking of which, I did sic Reed on Western Peds, see if he could come up with any oncology parents with bad tempers. Specifically, black parents.”

  “You’re telling me this because ...”

  “I’m telling you in the spirit of openness.”

  I said, “Do what you need to do.”

  “No one would tell him anything.”

  “Good.”

  “I figured you’d say that.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Nina Hassan’s house in the Bel Air hills was sleek, contemporary, gorgeous.

  Just like her.

  She eased open one of the twin brushed-copper double doors, regarded us as if we were salesmen. Late thirties with velvety skin a tad darker than the doors, she sported a mauve top that revealed an inch of hard belly, a pair of sprayed-on white jeans, silver sandals that revealed pampered, lavender-nailed feet. Her face was heart-shaped, topped by a cloud of black waves and curls. A full nose was graced by a cute little upward sweep at the tip. Probably surgical, but well done. Massive white hoops hung from seashell ears. A long, smooth neck swooped to a pair of high-end collarbones.

  Milo flashed the badge.

  “Yes? And?” Her eyes were a uniform black, defying analysis of her pupils.

  “We’d like to talk to you about Jay Sloat.”

  “Him? He’s not okay?” As if inquiring about the weather.

  “Why wouldn’t he be okay?”

  “My husband,” said Nina Hassan. “He’s not human, he’s an animal.”

  “Jay’s fine. May we come in, Mrs. Hassan?”

  She didn’t budge. “Call me Nina. I’m getting rid of that name as soon as the divorce is final. What’s with Jay?”

  “We need to know the last time you saw him.”

  “Why?”

  “His ex-wife was murdered.”

  “Ex-wife? Jay was married?”

  “A while back, ma’am.”

  “He said he was never married.”

  Milo said, “It was a long time ago.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t put up with lies.” Her hand slashed air. “What, you think he killed her?”

  “No, ma’am. These are what we call routine questions.”

  “Nina,” she said. “I don’t like ma’am. Too old. Too ... ma’amish.”

  A Maserati coupe purred past the house. The woman behind the wheel slowed to study us. Thin, blond, steely as the car. Nina Hassan waved gaily.

  Milo said, “It’s better if we talk inside.”

  Hassan’s turn to study us. “How do I know you’re really the police?”

  “Would you like another look at my—”

  “Anyone can make a badge.”

  “Who else would we be?”

  “Scumbags hired by George.”

  “George is your ex?”

  “My scumbag ex. He’s always sending them around, trying to find something he can use against me. I sleep with Jay? So what? George sleeps with young girls—maybe you should investigate him, he says they’re twenty, maybe they’re younger.”

  She tapped a foot. “What am I supposed to do, sit around like his mother and have no fun and tell stories from the old country?”

  Milo said, “Sounds like good riddance, Nina, but we’re investigating a murder, so if you can remember the last time you were with Jay, that would be helpful.”

  “Ex-wife,” she said. “Liar—was she hot?”

  “The way we found her, not in the least. Can you remember?”

  “Of course I can remember, I’m not old. The last time was ... two nights ago.” She smiled. “Every night until two nights ago. Then I told him I needed a re
st.”

  “Five nights ago, as well?”

  “I just told you: every night.”

  “What time?”

  “Jay comes over after work, five thirty, five forty.”

  “How long does he stay?”

  “Long as I want him to.” Her head drew back. She laughed. “That’s a cheeky question.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You want to know do we do it all night. Why’s that your business?”

  “Sorry for any misunderstanding,” said Milo. “What I’m after is can Jay’s whereabouts be accounted for five nights ago.”

  “Five nights,” said Nina Hassan. “Wait out here.”

  She returned moments later with a receipt. “Here it is, five nights ago: takeout from Chinois. I keep everything for documentation. So that bastard has to pay what he deserves.”

  “Takeout from—”

  “For two people,” she said. “Me and Jay. He tried to get me to eat chicken feet. Yuck.”

  “He was here all night.”

  “You bet,” said Nina Hassan, winking. “He was too tired to leave.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “I helped him out, huh? Too bad. I don’t like liars.” She tossed her hair. “But I tell it like it is, that’s how to handle all of you boys. Buh-bye.”

  Stepping back into her house, she nudged the door shut with a manicured finger.

  We drove back to Sunset, passing big houses, small dogs leading maids, gardeners blowing dirt with airguns.

  Milo said, “Scratch the ex, why should life be logical? But it’s got to be someone else Vita really got to. Too bad she didn’t leave an enemy list.”

  “That’s for presidents.”

  He harrumphed. “Incriminating tapes would be nice, too. Okay, I’ll drop you back home, go enjoy your life while we poor civil servants toil. Not that I’m passive-aggressive.”

  Just as we approached the Glen, his cell played Mahler and he switched to speaker.

  Sean Binchy said, “Loot—”

  “You found a pizza psycho.”

  “Unfortunately no, but there is something you’re going to want to—”

  “What?”

  “There’s another one.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  The man’s shirt was folded neatly by his side. His pants and underwear had been lowered to mid-thigh, arranged neatly, no rumpling. He lay on his back, ten feet to the west of a dirt entry road, in a clearing created by a seven-foot gap in a long hedge of oleander.

  Toxic plant. For the person who’d snapped the man’s neck, perfect cover.

  No towels under this body. A blue tarp had been spread neatly.

  A few blood specks dotted plastic and dry dirt, a bit more than at Vita Berlin’s apartment, but nothing extensive and no castoff, low- or high-velocity. The earth surrounding the tarp had been smoothed free of footprints.

  The man’s degradation mimicked Vita’s. Broken neck, same change-purse incision pattern, identical display of scooped-out viscera.

  The kill-spot was off Temescal Canyon in Pacific Palisades, a quarter mile into the grounds of a former summer camp occasionally used for film shoots but for the most part abandoned. An old wire gate spanning pitted asphalt was hinged to a wooden post. A second post had rotted and crumbled and access was as easy as walking in.

  The lack of security was a joke with the locals, according to the first uniform on the scene.

  “A few of them bitch about it, Lieutenant, but mostly they like it. Because it’s like having an extra park and you know the type of people who live here.”

  Her name was Cheryl Gates. She was tall, blond, square-shouldered, falcon-eyed. Outwardly unaffected by what she’d discovered on routine patrol. By what she and Milo and I were looking at through the gap in the oleander.

  Milo said, “Rich folk.”

  “Rich and entitled and connected folk, sir. By that I mean Deputy Chief Salmon’s sister lives not far away so my instruction is to drive by every day. Takes up time but it is kind of pretty. And nothing much ever happens. One time I found a boy and a girl, sixteen, went overboard with E and tequila, spent the night next to the barbecues up there, buck naked, totally wasted. Funny thing was, neither family reported them missing. All the parents in Europe or wherever. Sometimes I find bottles, roaches, condoms, food wrappers. But nothing serious.”

  Outwardly unaffected but talking fast, a bit too loud.

  Milo said, “The spot you found my victim, is that part of your routine?”

  “Yes, sir. I figure it’s a good place for some homeless type to crash and God forbid the locals should be surprised by some wild-eyed whack when they stroll in with their poodles.”

  “Come across any whacks recently?”

  “No, sir. When I find them and it’s only once in a while, it’s always up there, near those barbecues. They like to cook, fix themselves a hot meal. Which is a risk—fires, and all that. So I warn them and I’ve never had one come back twice. But I figure better safe than sorry, so yes, I do check it daily. Which is how I found your vic.”

  “Any particular whack you think I should be looking into?”

  “Doubt it, sir,” said Gates. “These aren’t aggressive guys, just the opposite. Passive, out of it, messed up physically.” She eyed the body. “I’m no expert but that looks pretty organized. The way the dirt’s kinda been swept up? I mean that’s just my impression.”

  “Makes sense,” said Milo. “Thanks for holding the scene.”

  “Doing what I’m supposed to, sir. Once backup arrived I stayed right here and had Officers Ruiz and Oliphant check the grounds. Looking just for obvious stuff, we didn’t want to mess anything up. They found nothing, sir, and there’s no exit out of here other than the way you come in. So I’m pretty confident we didn’t miss any suspect hiding out.”

  “Good work.”

  “So what do you think, sir, was this a sex thing? Those pants down, maybe some gay thing that got crazy?”

  “Could be.”

  “With a sex thing, though,” said Gates, “wouldn’t you see direct involvement of the genitals, not just ... that?”

  “There are no rules, Officer.”

  Gates tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Of course, sir. I’d best be leaving you to go about your business. If there’s nothing else.”

  “We’re fine, Officer. Hope tomorrow morning’s more pleasant.”

  Gates stood taller. “Actually, sir, and this is probably an inopportune time to say so but I’ve been thinking about applying to be a D. Would you recommend that?”

  “You’re observant, Officer Gates. Go for it and good luck.”

  “Same to you, sir. On the case, I mean.”

  Sean Binchy and Moe Reed and three other uniforms remained stationed at the entrance, guarding the road between Sunset and the broken gate. The coroner’s investigator hadn’t arrived so all we could do was stand at the mouth of the clearing and peer in.

  The man was middle-aged—closer to fifty-five than forty-five—with thick curly hair, pewter on top, silver at the sides. So tightly coiled it showed no sign of disarray.

  Not so for the head and neck below the hair.

  Incompatible with life.

  Not a particularly memorable-looking man. Average height, average build, average everything. The pants were cotton, medium beige, pressed, pleated, cuffed. Clean where blood hadn’t intruded. The shirt was nut-brown, a polo, folded in a way that obscured any logo. His shoes were white Nikes with well-worn soles. A runner or a serious walker? No car parked near the entrance fit with that.

  Blue socks clashed. He hadn’t figured on being inspected.

  I’d approached the scene expecting to react more strongly than I had to Vita Berlin’s corpse. The opposite occurred: Taking in the butchery released an odd, detergent wash of calm that settled my nervous system.

  Getting used to it?

  Maybe that was the worst part of it.

  Milo said, “No pizza
box, guess that’s not part of the signature. So maybe it’s just something the bastard came upon and used for Vita, not tracing it won’t be any big deal ... poor devil, I hope he was a total sonofabitch, Vita’s spiritual brother.”

  A female voice said, “Hi, again. Unfortunately.”

  The C.I. named Gloria walked between us and gazed into the opening. “Good God.” She gloved up and covered her feet with paper booties, stepped in, got to work.

  A wallet emerged from the right rear pocket of the man’s khakis. A driver’s license I.D.’d him as Marlon Quigg, fifty-six, with an address on Sunset, a mile or two east of the campground. A unit number said condo or apartment. We’d passed some nice buildings on the way over, neatly kept places on the south side of the boulevard, some affording ocean views.

  Five eight, one sixty-eight, gray hair, brown eyes, needs corrective lenses.

  Gloria checked his eyes. “Contacts are still in there. Kind of surprising considering the force it took to snap the neck.”

  I said, “They could’ve fallen out and the killer put them back. He’s all about order.”

  She thought about that. Tweezed out the tiny clear disks, bagged and tagged.

  Armed with a name, Milo got busy learning about his victim. Quigg’s ride was a three-year-old Kia. No wants or warrants or brushes with the criminal justice system.

  The wallet held seventy-three dollars in cash and three credit cards. Two snapshots remained in plastic sleeves. One featured Quigg and a smallish, dark-haired woman around his age, the other showed the couple with a pair of brunettes in their early twenties. One girl resembled Quigg, down to the tight, curly hair. The other could’ve been anyone’s progeny but her arm rested on the shoulder of the older woman, so the reasonable guess was Daughter Number Two.

  Both shots were studio poses, backdropped by green faux-marble. Everyone dressed up, a little stiff and uncertain, but smiling.

  Gloria said, “He’s not wearing a watch ... no pale stripe on his arm, either, so maybe he wasn’t a time-bound Type A.”

  “Or he took off his watch when he walked,” said Milo.

  I said, “The soles of his shoes say he liked to cover ground.”

  “They do,” said Gloria, “but why come in here? It’d be kind of spooky in the dark, no?”