Evidence (16 page)

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 five 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.”

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.”

I
woke up at four a.m., inspired. Minutes later, I was at the computer.

Five
hours later, I was headed toward Milo’s office.

He
was away from his desk. A report from the fingerprint lab sat next to the
murder book. Desmond Backer’s latents had been found on a wall of the turret,
just to the right of the top step, and near the bottom frame of a window hole.
Brigid Ochs, still listed as Jane Doe 014, had left palm prints on the floor.

Backer’s
could be explained as reaching for support while he climbed the rickety stairs,
then sauntering over to enjoy the view.

The
only explanation I could find for hers was a sexual position.

Milo
plodded in, drinking coffee.

“Morning.”

“Zippity-do-nothing
to you, as well.” He sat, drank. “No one’s budging on telling me who DSD is and
I can’t find a judge who disagrees. No call-back from Hal, which isn’t his
usual style, no weapons registered to Charles Rutger other than flintlocks and muskets
classified
as antiques. He might be nuts but he’s
never been in criminal trouble. Lab sent over prints from the scene but they
don’t mean much.”

“Just
read the report.” I offered my interpretation. “Sounds about right.” His phone
rang. He clicked to conference. “Sturgis.”

A
woman said, “This is Dr. Jernigan from the coroner’s returning your call.”

“Thanks
for getting back, Doctor. I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to autopsy my
victims.”

“The
Holmby double?” she said. “Gunshot for your male, strangulation for your
female.”

“That
was quick, thanks.”

“No
autopsy was done,” said Jernigan. “Not necessary. We also did a rape kit on
your female. No sexual assault.”

“So
the semen on her leg—”

“What
semen?”

“There
was a stain on her leg. I saw it at the scene.”

“Not
when I inspected the body. How do you know it was semen?”

“I’m
not an expert—”

“Exactly.”

“Was
it something else, Doctor?”

Silence.
“There was no stain of any kind, Lieutenant. Sorry to cut this short, but I
need to go.”

“No
autopsy necessary,” said Milo.

“You’ve
been doing this for a while, Lieutenant, so you know we don’t cut
unnecessarily. I x-rayed both of them. There’s a bullet in his head that we’ll
pull out soon as we can, no metal in her and ruptures in all the right places.
For all the talk about a crime drop, we’re swamped because the powers-that-be
refuse to hire any more staff and the bodies are still coming in faster than we
can process. Twenty minutes ago, I received four little kids from a house fire
in Willow-brook and they
do
need to be opened up to check for soot in
the
lungs. Trust me, we’re taking your case seriously,
the bullet will be pulled.”

“Okay,
thanks. Sorry about Bobby.”

“You
knew Bobby?”

“Only
Bobby I know is Bobby Norchow.”

“Norchow
retired last year, this is Bobby Escobar. Bright kid, spent a couple of years
with us then left to get a master’s in bio at Cal State.”

“I
heard he got shot near the crypt.”

“Few
blocks away, vacant lot that’s actually county property,” said Jernigan. “He
was here working, we gave him a little space so he could have peace and quiet.
He had three little kids, including a baby.”

“Oh,
man.”

“Oh,
man, indeed. For three years he goes through DBs’ pockets, now he’s one.”

“How’s
the investigation going?”

“Sheriff
assigned a couple of rookies and they’re calling it robbery gone bad—hey, how
about a quid pro? You solve Bobby and we grant you autopsies on demand for the
next five years, even when the body doesn’t merit it?” Dropping her voice.
“Wish I wasn’t kidding. Bye, Lieutenant.”

He
hung up, stretched his neck, produced crackle and pop. “Welcome to my world.”

I
said, “Maybe I can cheer you up. Sranil.”

“What’s
that?”

“An
oil-rich island near Indonesia.”