Evidence (42 page)

A
review of the little we knew about the suspects suggested Rieffen would be less
violence-prone, more likely to turn. Maybe.

Reed
and Binchy took separate cars and began subtle surveillance
on the man calling himself M. Carlo Scoppio. He’d left
for work at nine a.m., drove to the East L.A. law firm, was still there by
eleven thirty.

“Loo,
one thing occurred to me,” said Reed. “The office is awfully close to where
that C.I., Escobar, got shot.”

“How
close, Moses?”

“Like
three blocks. It’s county land, owned by the med center but undeveloped.”

“You
scoped it out?”

“It
was close, I started wondering. There’s an intersection nearby. Not much
traffic but a long red light. If Escobar was a law-abiding type, it would’ve
been easy enough to catch him when he was stopped, commandeer the car.”

“Go
back and take photos,” said Milo. “After Sean takes over the watch.”

“I’ll
buy a camera,” said Reed.

“A
cheap one’s good enough for making memories, Moses. One day, we’ll scrapbook.”

Lara
Rieffen was on shift at the crypt, processing a shooting in Pacoima. The plan
was to “find” her in the parking lot when she returned to file paper, Milo
coming on friendly, pretending to be there on business. Then walking her in and
finding a space in the building for a “follow-up” interview. Keeping it
low-key, so she wouldn’t be threatened and the coroner’s staff wouldn’t be
aware of any disruption.

But
the boss had to know so Milo phoned Dave McClellan, gave him the bad news.

He
said, “I’ve been grinding my teeth since we spoke. She’s really that evil, huh?
That
makes us look great.”

“No
way you could know, Dave.”

“Whatever
it takes to nail the bitch, Milo. I’ll make sure there’s an open room on the
bottom floor.”

“Thanks.
I’ll keep it as quiet as possible.”

“Way I’m feeling about her, you can hog-tie her in
full sight,” said McClellan. “And don’t worry about quiet, we’re already
crawling with cops, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Bobby
Escobar. All of a sudden, Sheriff’s Homicide decided they need to inspect his
office, sent their own techies over, but they won’t say why. They’ve been all
over us since six a.m.”

“Who’s
the lead detective?”

“New
replacement, Irvin Wimmers.”

“I
know Irv. Good man.”

“I
think they’re here just to cover their asses. Anyway, want me to reel Rieffen
in at any particular time? Or whatever the hell her name really is.”

“When’s
she expected back?”

“Four,
five, depending on particulars and drive-time.”

“Let’s
aim for five.”

“You
got it,” said McClellan. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Milo phoned
Sheriff’s Homicide Detective Irvin Wimmers and asked for a meet when Wimmers
had time.

Wimmers
said, “I’ll make time, Milo. How about now?”

“You
don’t even know what it’s about, Irv.”

“You’re
calling me is what I know. How many of the same conferences we been to? Denver,
D.C., Philadelphia—that fun one in Nashville, all those slides on decomp. When
we see each other, we generally sit down for coffee. We get back to L.A., how
many times do we call each other?”

“I
don’t know.”

“I’ll
tell you how many,” said Wimmers. “Once. That Compton hatchet case, you clued
me in on that old file one of your retired guys worked, we ended up nailing the
bitch for turning two husbands to hamburger, not just one. So I’m figuring
you’ve got something else useful to tell me. Maybe about Escobar? Say yes, it
would make my day.”

“It is about Escobar, Irv, but it could turn out to be
nothing. Did he have a predictable schedule at the crypt?”

“He
had no schedule at all,” said Wimmers. “Going to school, not working there
anymore, but they let him keep his key, gave him a little closet office for
working on his master’s thesis.”

“What
was he researching?”

“The
technology of negligent evidence transfer—people screwing up with fingerprint
brushes, careless fiber collection, that kind of thing. What’s on your mind,
Milo?”

Wimmers
listened to the bare-bones recap, said, “That’s pretty freaky—okay, this is
something I need to sit down and think about. My partner’s due in soon and I
been up since five, need to eat or I’m gonna pass out. Where you calling from?”

“The
office.”

“You
got the time for meeting about halfway? I know a place, you’ll like it.”

Ruby’s
Theatre of Turkey operated from a storefront on Eighth Street just west of
Wilton.

Monumental
birds dunked into deep-fryers, carved to order, served up glistening.

Irvin
Wimmers was a black man taller and wider than Milo, with a pencil mustache and
a soul patch and a gleaming shaved head furrowed longitudinally. He wore a
double-breasted cinnamon-brown suit, a long-collared maroon shirt, a narrow
olive tie patterned with orange battleships.

The
platter in front of him held a crisp, brown turkey quarter, chunky cranberry
sauce, okra, collard greens, a sweating heap of macaroni and cheese. A side
plate hosted biscuits the size of baseballs, sodden with what looked like
redeye gravy. Leave your Louisville Slugger at home, the turkey leg would be a
fine substitute.

Milo
said, “Thanksgiving came early, Irv.”

Wimmers
said, “My philosophy, celebrate anytime you get the chance. So how’s it going,
City Boy?”

“It’s going.” Quick handclasps. Milo introduced me.

Wimmers
said, “I heard about you, Doc. Ever think of coming over to the county side?
We’re the one’s really out for truth, justice, and the American way.”

I
smiled.

“Unspoken
like a true shrink—sit down, guys. Want me to order you half a bird?”

“Quarter’ll
do fine, Irv.”

“Each?”

“Both.”

“On a
diet, Milo?”

“God
forbid.”

Wimmers
rumbled amusement. “What’re you drinking? The iced tea’s good, they throw in
some pomegranate juice, supposed to be healthy, slow us down from rusting.”

“They’re
outta that,” said Milo, “I’ll take WD-40.”

Wimmers
lumbered to the counter, returned with a pair of twenty-four-ounce glasses of
red-brown tea. “So you’re thinking this crooked C.I. had something to do with
Bobby Escobar?”

“I
can’t prove it, Irv, but I’m certain she wiped away a semen stain because it
belonged to her boyfriend. And Bobby’s specialty was monkeying with evidence,
meaning he coulda been sharp-eyed, seen something.”

“From
what I hear, Milo, he was definitely sharp-eyed. Back when he worked as a C.I.,
he used to get on people’s nerves for being a little too gung-ho, you know? The
kid in class who points out the teacher forgot about the test?”

Milo
said, “How far was his office from that fridge-closet where they stack up the
tagged bodies?”

“Right
across the hall,” said Wimmers. “Hmm, ain’t
that
cute? So let’s frame
this: I told you Bobby didn’t have a set schedule but before I drove here I
called his wife and she said between school and a part-time job at a medical
lab, it wasn’t unusual for him to come in at midnight,
stay
for a while. Which is exactly what he was doing the morning he got killed. Same
for the two days preceding, which was the period when Rieffen would’ve done her
tampering. So maybe she sneaks in late to do her mischief, figures no one’s
there. But Bobby’s in his office, behind a closed door, typing on his laptop.
She goes into the fridge, does her bad thing, just happens to encounter Bobby
as he pops out.”

Milo
said, “She was official, had a badge, someone else might’ve ignored her. But
Bobby got curious.”

“Only
problem, Milo, from what I’ve learned about Bobby, he sees something hinky, he
reports it. There’s no record he ever did.”

Milo
said, “Maybe he left a note on someone’s desk, Rieffen saw it, snatched it.”

“Guess
so,” said Wimmers. “But try proving that.”

I
said, “Even if Bobby suspected something and checked in the fridge, how would
he have found her out? We’re talking evidence removal, how do you confirm the
absence of something?”

“Then
why bother killing him?”

“Maybe
he gave her a look that unsettled her. Or made a comment. Not enough for him to
report, but more than enough to get Rieffen worried. She told Monte, he decided
to fix the problem.”

“Homicidal
boyfriend,” said Wimmers. “Can’t believe she actually finagled herself to
process a murder she’d done. That’s gotta be a first.”

“Didn’t
take much finagling,” said Milo. “She offered a trade to another C.I. The
tipoff is she never bothered to claim her share.”

“Too
good to be true,” said Wimmers. “Man, this girl’s a piece of work. Now all we
have to do is prove it.”

“What
brought you back to Escobar’s office today?”

Wimmer
pushed cranberry sauce around his plate. “What brought me back was my
perception of the case. It wasn’t mine, initially. Two rookies caught the call,
got pulled off to do gang stuff and wrote up the prelim as a robbery gone bad.
Given the neighborhood and Escobar’s wallet being gone, that made superficial
sense. But
when I looked closer, it started to fall
apart. Escobar’s cell phone was right there, on the passenger seat. So was a
bunch of bling on his person, all inherited from his dad, who was a pawnbroker.
I’m talking a big gold ring with a diamond, a gold I.D. bracelet, a
gold-and-diamond earring. Stuff that would’ve been easy to fence. Plus, Escobar
was sitting behind the wheel of his car when we found him but most of the blood
was outside and when I revisited the scene, I found what looked to be drag
marks.”

“He
got shot outside and put back in?”

“How
many armed robbers you know gonna take the time to do that? To me it smelled
staged.”

“Rieffen
and Monte are veterans at that.” Milo described the turret murders in greater
detail.

Wimmers
said, “Please tell me your guy was shot with a .22 revolver or maybe an automatic
and the shells were collected.”

Milo
nodded.

“Your
bullet clean enough for analysis?”

“Coroner
says frags but they can be put back together, so maybe.”

“Who’s
making the call to the gun lab, you or me?”

“Be
my guest, Irv.”

Wimmers
phoned Ballistics, arranged for the comparison asap. “They said forty-eight
hours, I got ’em down to twenty-four.” Two giant hands rubbed together. “This
is starting to taste even better than my bird.”

There’s
a sixth sense, a high-definition sensitivity to threat, experienced by soldiers
in combat, veteran cops, and a certain class of cold-blooded psychopath.

Milo’s
approach to Lara Rieffen was subtle, faking good cheer as she exited her county
car in the crypt lot. She went along with the chitchat, synched with his loose,
slow gait, but I was reading her eyes, bet she had a different rhythm in mind.

Milo
probably figured it out, but he kept up the performance as the three of us
entered the northern half of the coroner’s complex. Where the wet-work gets
done.

Once
inside, he used the barest touch of thumb on arm to direct Rieffen toward the
empty room Dave McClellan had provided. The trajectory took her toward her
cubicle, no reason for her to resist or suspect but her mouth tightened and she
pushed ahead of Milo. He caught up and when they reached the open door, took
hold of her elbow and stopped the parade.

“I
could use a few minutes of your time, Lara.”

Stiff smile. “For what, Lieutenant?”

“Go
over the Borodi scene a bit. I need to nail down a few details before I finish
my report.”

“You’ve
closed the case?”

“I
wish, just the opposite. It’s actually looking real bad for a close, but I’ve
got a new assignment from the brass, need to move on.”

Blue
eyes blinked. “Oh. That must be frustrating.”

“Part
of the job. So just a few secs, okay?” Propelling her inside before she could
answer.

Two
chairs facing one, a table to the side where Milo’s jacket was bunched up.
Kathy Vanderveldt aka Lara Rieffen sat where she was supposed to.

No
one-way for observation, no space or practical way to work Gayle Lindstrom in
and Milo had informed the S.A.

Appetizer
goes down smooth, you can share the entrée, Gayle
.

I sat
down next to Milo. Lara Rieffen watched me. More concerned with my presence
than Milo’s.

He
said, “Doc’s along for the ride.” Snapping his attaché case open, he spent some
time behind the lid, fumbling, like an inept magician scrounging for a prop.