Evidence (8 page)

We
watched them leave, Passant yammering as Sanfelice stomped ahead of her.

Milo
said, “Blondie was nudging up against you pretty blatantly.”

“You
have no idea,” I said.

“Serious
footsies?”

“Beyond.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll
send the department a bill for freelance decoy work. Did Passant have anything
to add when you got her alone?”

“Nada,
she’s an airhead. Though she did try to fool with my desert boots. If only she
knew, huh? What about Sanfelice over by the john?”

“Please
don’t tell Mom. Looks like Des was a creature of habit.”

“That
Kill Me
sign’s looking bigger and brighter. Okay, we’re outta here.”

“Italian?”

“You’re
hungry?”

“I
assumed you were.”

“Yeah,
I could ingest, we could even stay here. Alternatively, we could go for the
mixed antipasto, that headcheese with delicate but smoky overtones, the fried
artichokes Roman-style, nice salad with thin-sliced Parmesan and pepperoncini
and intensely cured black olives, the big, hot bowl of baked ziti with the
bread crumbs sprinkled on top. If there’s still room, there’s always the
double-cut veal chop with the Sicilian sauce, wedge of spumoni, triple
espresso, pump in the caffeine.”

Sliding
his bulk out of the booth. “Not that I’ve been thinking about it.”

Out
in the parking lot, I said, “Nice lateral pass on the interview.”

He
grinned. “Nice catch. I figured psychological sensitivity was called for.”

“Flattered.”

“It
had nothing to do with the fact that I don’t sleep with women.”

“That
never occurred to me.”

“No?”

“Who
is more aware than I of your painful shyness?”

“To
be honest, Alex, if we were dealing with men, I’da come out and asked. Because
men can’t wait to talk about their sex lives. I figured
women
were different, it would be like oral surgery, but go know. Sorry for your
having to deal with Blondie’s lack of filter.”

“Mercy
me, the trauma,” I said. “Where’s the self-help group?”

He
laughed. Turned serious. “A married woman old enough to be his mama, a wild
girl, and a shy, nerdy type. Guy was all over the map.”

“What
strikes me,” I said, “is that none of them seem particularly impacted by his
death. There was initial shock but once that wore off, all three discussed him
objectively. Same way they did at the cocktail lounge. He meant very little to
them emotionally and probably vice versa, but what if Jane Doe was different?”

“Someone
Don Juan actually got involved with. Maybe. When you factor in the zip code, he
did take her on a fancy date.”

Several
plates full of Italian food later, I drove back to the city over Benedict
Canyon while Milo phoned a judge known to skim rather than read and requested a
victim search warrant for Desmond Backer’s residence.

The
next call was to Santa Monica PD, making nice with the day-shift homicide
lieutenant by promising not to tie up her detectives and convincing her to send
a locksmith to Backer’s apartment as soon as possible.

We
reached Santa Monica at the end of a nice beach day; tourists and wild-eyed
homeless people divvied up Ocean Front Boulevard. Backer’s building on
California was four stories of rain-streaked white stucco pimpled by juliet
balconies too small to be functional and bottomed by a subterranean lot. The
view was the massive, five-story condo across the street.

Three
blocks east of the beach bought you the smell of the ocean but no big blue
kiss.

The
building’s interior was cool and gray and sterile. The locksmith was already in
place at the door to Backer’s second-floor flat, looking sleepy. He said,
“Murder case, huh?” and opened his bag. Milo gave him latex gloves and sheathed
his own hands and mine. The locksmith said, “Must be a biggie,” and got to
work. The deadbolt
yielded quickly, a receipt was
signed, the locksmith tossed his gloves onto the hallway carpet and left.

I
waited until Milo called out the all-clear.

Desmond
Backer had been trained in structural design and aesthetics but he’d lived in a
plain-wrap one-bedroom, one-bath, had made no attempt to personalize.

Brown
cloth sofa and matching love seat in the living room, cheap bamboo tables,
framed generic photographs of trees, lakes, foxes, owls, eagles. A
cinder-block-and-glass-shelf bookcase housed architecture texts and a few
large-format paperbacks. Population control, biodiversity, tropical reforestry,
renewable fuels.

Plastic-wrapped
six-packs of generic springwater filled the upper shelf of the low-profile
fridge. Three bottles of Corona below, along with unopened salad bags and a
vacuum-wrapped package of organic trout. The fake-granite counter of the
mini-kitchen held a coffeemaker, a juicer, knives in a block, yesterday’s paper,
still folded and rubber-banded.

No
disorder, no obvious blood. No woman’s presence.

Same
for the puny, dim bedroom nearly filled by a king-sized bed in a black wood
frame. A single high window framed the blue flank of the building next door. A
birch cube nightstand hosted a gooseneck lamp, a box of tissues, two more books
on forestry. No dresser, but part of the closet was sectioned into drawers. Not
a lot of clothes, but what was there was high quality. Two cashmere sweaters,
navy and chocolate brown, same style as the black one worn by Backer on his
last breathing night. Italian loafers and a pair of New Balance running shoes.

Milo
inspected the soles of the runners. “Sand in the grooves, probably jogged on
the beach.”

A
you-build desk next to the closet hosted a silver iMac and a second adjustable
lamp. In a top drawer, Milo found condoms, boxes of them, in a variety of
brands, styles, and colors. Below all that, several pages printed from the
Internet. Straight sex, athletic positions, women in ecstasy, genuine or not,
nothing cruel or outré.

I said, “He practiced safe sex but left semen on
Jane’s thigh and no condoms at the scene.”

Milo
scratched his nose. “Maybe a box of rubbers was another take-home goodie for
Baddie.”

“Jane’s
purse, whatever bedding Backer brought, the BMW,” I said. “Interesting haul.”

He
got down and peered under the bed.

I
said, “Catching Backer in the act of unpeeling a condom would be a perfect time
to make your move.”

“Zoned
out, off-guard, off-balance,” he said. “Here comes the big death.”

“The
alternative is, Backer didn’t glove up with Jane because he did have something
special with her.”

He
thought about that, returned to the closet, checked a high shelf, then the
floor beneath some long coats. Slid out a box. Drawing pads, pencils, erasers,
pens, last year’s tax return, a few credit card bills, cell phone records,
loose photos.

Milo
examined the receipts first. “Not much activity last month … talking to someone
in Washington State … four times—and here’s our tyke, again.”

Unfolding
four snaps in plastic holders.

Solo
portraits of “Samantha” except for one shot in which the child appeared on the
lap of a good-looking woman in her thirties. Next to her a large-jawed,
bespectacled blond man and a golden retriever. Decorated Christmas tree in the
background, everyone in matching reindeer sweaters.

Dear
Uncle Desi, Merry Christmas. Thanks for the play oven, I love to cook on it.
Yumm numm. I wish we could hang out. Love, Samantha
.

Milo
said, “Someone cared about him,” and headed for Backer’s computer.

The
screen opened directly to a server, preset by a “remember me” password. Nine
unread e-mails, all spam except for a missive from [email protected].

hey lil sib, how goes it? really desi you need to
write more miss you, specially sam. write, call, sing a song, send an e-card
use a messenger pigeon. lol. Luv xoxox ricki

Milo
printed the page, slipped it into an evidence bag. Returned to the screen and
checked the toolbar for Backer’s recent searches.

“Nothing’s
been cleared for days,” he said, “the guy definitely wasn’t worried about
privacy.”

I
said, “Fits with the direct approach.”

He
ran his finger down the list of recently visited sites.

EBay,
news outlets, ecology chat rooms, online men’s clothing resellers. In a solid
block at the bottom, thirty-three porn sites.

“What
a shock.” He began scrolling.

Five
minutes later: “Same straight-on stuff. Okay, let’s see if I can ruin someone’s
day.”

The
Washington State number connected to a message machine. Identifying himself by
rank, he left his number.

“You
have reached the home of Scott and Ricki and Samantha and Lionel, we’re not in
now but please blah blah blah. My hooh-hah detective instincts tell me Lionel’s
the pooch.”

Returning
to the closet, yet again, he pawed through the pockets of Desmond Backer’s
clothing. Four crumpled Trader Joe’s receipts, a half-year-old sales slip from
Foot Locker for the running shoes, a cheap plastic pen, a few loose coins.

“So
what’s missing from this picture, Doc?”

“Anything
to do with Jane Doe.”

“So—and
perish the thought—you could be off about her being a significant other, she
was just another booty-cutie.”

“He
took Holman to Santa Monica, stayed in the Valley with Passant.”

“So
maybe she lives near Holmby? But her clothes say not as a resident—an au pair
or something? Time to revisit the hood. But first, this Shangri-la’s parking
amenities.”

The building’s sub-lot was one-third full, and
Backer’s BMW was easy to spot. Milo gloved up again, peered through the
windows, tried the doors, found them locked, ran his flashlight over the
interior.

“Nothing
looks off, but let’s see what the techies have to say.”

I
said, “Backer and Jane got to Borodi some other way.”

“She
drove? Why not, a smooth guy like Uncle Desi could probably get women to do all
sorts of things. And if I had any idea who the hell she is, I could look for
her goddamn car.”

“You
up for another visit to the scene?”

“Why?”

“Nothing
else comes to mind.”

Milo
punched in Robin’s cell as I headed to Holmby Hills. Her voice filtered through
the dash-mounted speaker. “Hi, babe. Long day?”

Milo
said, “And not over yet, Sugarplum.”

“Big
Guy,” she said, laughing. “You’re his receptionist?”

I
said, “No, I’m
his
unpaid driver.”

“Or
I’m
his
patient,” said Milo. “How’s it going, kid?”

“It’s
going well. You guys sound far away.”

“It’s
the hands-off,” I said, “ergo the lack of privacy. I should be home within the
hour.”

Milo
said, “Privacy? There’s something to hide from Uncle M?”

Robin
said, “Never, m’dear. Not over yet as in making progress or just the opposite?”

“Nothing
plus nothing, Rob. I’ll get him back to you A-sap.”

“Come
on over for dinner, Milo. I’ll grill something.”

“I
drool in anticipation, but Dr. Silverman is expecting a cozy dinner.”

“Rick
can come over, too.”

“Thanks, kiddo, but he’s on call until late. The plan
is we grab something at Cedars.”

“Cafeteria
food is cozy?”

“Love
hurts, darling.”

A
single uniform remained at the construction site, leaning against his cruiser
and talking on his cell phone. Yellow tape ran along the fence. The chain was
still loose enough to allow a walk-through.

Milo
sat up and shot his jaw. “Oh, gimme a
break!”
Jabbing his finger at the
parking ticket pinned under one of the unmarked’s windshield wipers.

Before
I cut the engine, he was out, ripping the summons free.

The
patrolman lowered his phone. Milo strode over to him. “Were you here when they
papered me?”

Silence.

“You
just let it happen?”

The
uniform was young, smooth-faced, muscular.
A. Ramos-Martinez
. “You know
the traffic nazis, sir. They’re on commission, sir, can’t talk them out of
nothing.”

“Did
you try?”

Ramos-Martinez
hesitated, decided against lying. “No, sir. I was keeping my eye on the scene.”

“Gee,
thanks, Officer.”

“Sorry,
sir. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do, sir.”

“That’s
a lot of sirs. How long you been out of the service?”

“Eight
months, sir.”

“Overseas?”