Forty Thieves (2 page)

Millikan was at the front of the room, standing straight, no longer behind the podium, because the final few minutes of his class didn’t require notes or references. He had already covered the lecture on the origins and evolution of the search and seizure laws. Now was the moment when he let his students ask questions about anything they wished. He nodded at a male student in the second row. The name came back to him. “Mr. Terrano?”

“When you’re searching a home of a homicide victim who is lying on the floor, what is the first thing you’re looking for?”

“A place to step.”

There was a small wave of laughter, but Millikan rolled over it.

“There’s often blood and other organic matter, of course. Your first concern is to be sure you don’t contaminate the scene. You have a single chance to protect it and be sure nothing there is lost or damaged, and nothing new is introduced. We live on a planet where it’s not possible to move through a space without bringing with us a trail of particles and compounds. The killer has left something of himself here, and taken with him particles that he got here. But you have to be aware that you’ll do the same.”

“And the second thing to look for?”

“Nothing.”

A dozen hands thrust up, but he ignored them for the moment. “You don’t look for anything. For a few minutes, you just stand still and look. You don’t start sorting through your theories about the scene, or the case, or anything else. You make your eyes move to the floors, the walls, the ceiling, the windows, and everything else you can see. You pay attention to what you can hear and smell. Now, I’m assuming this isn’t a case in which there are twenty witnesses around who have already said, ‘We saw her husband shoot her.’”

“No, sir. I was thinking of the other kind of case.”

“Right. Well, once you’ve given yourself time to look at every inch of the place, you move, cautiously and sparingly, focusing on details. Your attention will be drawn to the body of the victim and the area around it, and you’ll find that your mind notices things that start to tell a story.”

A woman to his left said, “Cause of death?”

“That sort of thing, of course. But here’s a tip. Most murders are first murders. Amateurs never seem to have any trouble getting to the point where the victim is lying dead on the floor. The crime is called ‘premeditated’ because he came to the house to kill the victim. But the crime doesn’t fit the commonsense meaning of the word. Not much meditation went into it ahead of time. Most murderers seem to be able to think ahead only to the point when they’ve killed their enemy, but they often seem to have been incapable of thinking past that.”

Another young man near the front said, “Why not?”

“They killed out of hatred, jealousy, greed, fear, envy. Then, suddenly, they’re standing in a room with a body. Half the time they haven’t decided what they were going to do with it. So here they stand, and they have to act quickly.
Some try to stage the scene to look like a suicide or a robbery. Others try to wrap the body up in a tarp, a blanket, or a bag, and move it to a car, and then come back and clean up. Anything they do will show, and it will expose them to additional chances of being seen, to contaminate their own clothes, cars, and so on.”

“What’s different about a professional?”

“He’s killed people before. He knows a body contains about five quarts of blood, and that it doesn’t clean up well, so he doesn’t try. He knows in advance that he’ll need an alibi, a way of getting out unseen, a place to get rid of the weapon, a way to get far away before the body is found. And he’s left nothing at the scene that can lead to him—objects, fingerprints, or DNA.”

“How do you catch a person like that?”

“Follow the leads you have, and hope your luck is better than his. If he never gets unlucky, then you don’t catch him.”

Far off, the bells of Powell Library chimed. “Remember to read chapters seventeen through twenty in Rosenberg and work on your paper topics. See you on Friday.” He stepped past the podium, picked up the file folder that held notes for his lecture, and kept going out the door.

Millikan walked down the crowded hallway, turning his shoulders to the side now and then to step between streams of young people coming out of their last classrooms or heading toward the next. When he got into his office, he inserted his file into the cabinet drawer in front of the last lecture and pushed it closed just as he heard the knock.

His office hours didn’t start for an hour and a half, and the times were on his printed syllabus, on its online version, and posted beside the office door. Whoever this was probably
didn’t have much of a future as a detective. He stepped to the door and opened it.

The man standing in the hallway was about six foot three and slim. He wore a dark gray suit that fit him perfectly, and a tie with a dark blue pattern with small round designs that Millikan couldn’t identify without his reading glasses. The man smiled and held out his hand. “Professor Millikan, I’m David Hemphill.”

Millikan shook the hand. There was nothing about Hemphill’s grip that revealed flaws. It was firm and friendly, a single shake and release.

Hemphill said, “I’m sorry to show up unannounced. I just wondered if you could spare a moment for a question.”

“Come in.” Millikan pointed to one of the three leather chairs facing his desk.

“Thank you,” Hemphill said, and sat. “I saw that you have office hours in a while. You’re probably hoping to get to lunch, so I’ll be quick. I need a referral from an expert, and I’ve been told by three sources that you’re the one to ask.”

“Go on.”

“This is about a murder. It’s been just over a year since it happened. The police investigated immediately and for a long time afterward. But now they’ve frankly admitted that their progress has stalled. They haven’t found a new lead in several months. They have no open avenues left to pursue.”

“I’m sorry,” said Millikan. “I’m not the one to help you. I’ve been retired from the police force for years. I teach now, and my academic responsibilities keep me very busy.”

“I understand,” said Hemphill. “I’ve been warned that you wouldn’t consider getting involved in a case. But I
wonder if you could do me the favor of giving me the name of someone else.”

Millikan didn’t permit his face to reveal anything, but he felt the urge to know more. “Was the victim a friend of yours?”

“No,” Hemphill said. “I never met him. We both worked for the same company, Intercelleron, but in different capacities. His name was James Ballantine. This is not personal. I’m acting on the orders of the board of directors. Because he was one of our own, they’ve taken an interest from the beginning. Now they’d like to continue the investigation.”

“Ballantine. The name is familiar, but I can’t quite place—”

“He was the man who was found in a storm drain during the big rainstorm last spring.”

“Of course,” said Millikan. He remembered the case from the newspaper accounts. “I read about it at the time.” He paused, but asked the question anyway. “Where does the victim’s family stand?”

“The board decided that it should act on the wife’s behalf, but confidentially and without involving her at this stage. She has two children, whom she’s raising alone. The company didn’t think it was fair to involve her in this.”

Millikan nodded. “You’re doing the right thing, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“In not getting her involved in an expensive investigation or giving her false hopes.”

“I don’t know if they are false. Are they?”

“The Los Angeles Police Department has more than its share of murders, which is why it also has some of the best homicide detectives in the world. An independent murder investigation is fine. But ultimately, the case belongs to
LAPD homicide. They’re the only ones who can compel witnesses, or make an arrest. They have sole possession of any physical evidence that exists, any crime scene photographs and notes, and so on. To be honest, they’re good at everything except sharing.”

“I can see why you feel a private investigation is an unlikely solution.”

“And I can see you’re still intending to try it,” said Millikan.

“It’s not my choice,” said Hemphill. “The board has decided, and set aside the funding, and so on.”

“What am I missing? You said it’s not personal. Are they expecting a lawsuit? Is there something he was responsible for that’s disappeared?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Hemphill said. “And I wouldn’t be too surprised if they didn’t know either. I think they’re trying to do the right thing, but none of them really knows how. I think that the only thing they’re sure of is that they shouldn’t just let it go.” Millikan was silent for a moment.

Hemphill said, “I know I’ve used up more of your time than I should have. If you could just give me a recommendation—a name will do—I promise not to bother you further.”

“All right,” said Millikan. “I’ll tell you what the other people you consulted should have. There are about a dozen honest agencies with competent staffs, experienced and well trained. They’ll do the footwork, and so on. For your money you’ll get a very slick, attractively printed report that proves they’ve done their job and looked under all the rocks. Or you can skip that and go to the final step.”

“The final step?”

“Hire the agency where cases like this sometimes get solved—the cases where the trail is cold and time has passed
and none of the evidence has ever added up to anything. Those cases are their specialty. They’re a last chance—sometimes to find out what happened to a victim, and sometimes to set somebody free. They’re a couple of old cops like me.”

“What’s this agency called?”

“Abels. If you’re going to do this, that’s the kind of help you want.”

Hemphill took a small black notebook out of his coat pocket, and a silver pen. He wrote “Abel’s.”

Millikan saw it. “Without the apostrophe. The name means more than one Abel.”

2

The prime moment of a night at the Galaxy Club was a sweet stretch that began after 1:00 a.m., but before the bartender started taking last-call orders. This bartender was an attractive woman about fifty years old, with sharp, alert blue eyes, and hair that looked as though it might be something lighter and wilder than platinum blond. It was actually natural gray. She was wearing a pullover top and jeans that made her look much younger from a distance. She had a strong, athletic body but graceful hands with manicured nails. Her gray hair hung behind her in a long, low ponytail, so it swung a little when she moved.

At one o’clock people were still arriving from late suppers, shows, and other bars where they shouldn’t have wasted their time. As they arrived, the bartender glided along the bar listening to orders, taking money, bestowing garnished glasses, wiping the mirror-shiny wooden surface, and focusing her piercing blue eyes on the next customer. “What can I get for you?”

The wise customer would reply quickly, knowing from the energy of the place that there would be a brief chance to
order, and a long wait before the next chance. The bartender would listen and then nod and begin to make the drink, or she would wait then say, “I’ll be back.” As she stepped away along the bar, the customer would have to resign himself to waiting for her next circuit.

At the far end of the bar was a broad-shouldered man wearing a gray sport coat and a crisp white shirt. He seemed to be in his fifties, out alone, watching the stream of people coming and going at the Galaxy, but without a great deal of interest in any one of them. He drank steadily from a narrow chilled glass with a slice of lime and clear bubbly liquid.

Now and then customers might speculate about him as they waited for a turn at the bar. He was only about six feet tall, but he gave the impression that there was much more to him than that—something solid and heavy. Some professional football players had that quality, but a person could stare at this man all evening without recognizing his face. He couldn’t be working at the Galaxy, because he was drinking continually, and that meant he couldn’t be a cop either. He was about the age and description of the sort of man who came to the Galaxy to look for much younger women who liked money. But there were plenty of those women here tonight, and he barely glanced at any of them. He wasn’t friendly or hostile or shy or drunk. He was just there, not a permanent fixture but in no hurry.

At one thirty, his eyes flicked to the bartender and stayed there until she happened to see him in the mirror behind the bar when she turned to reach for a vodka bottle.

She didn’t hesitate or change her expression, but as she pivoted toward the bar to get the glass and pour, she let her eyes pass across the man at the end of the bar. After a half
second she looked in the direction of the person he was looking at and then gave her customer his drink and took his money.

The man who had just entered the bar was about thirty-five to forty years old. He wore a pair of yellow-brown glasses with lenses just dark enough to keep his eyes half-hidden from view, and a black sport coat and jeans. When he had come three steps inside, two younger men came in after him and remained behind his shoulders, scanning the crowd intently. He looked across a stretch of floor at a table where there were four young women. These four could be seen at the Galaxy most nights waiting to find somebody who could do something for their careers.

They had seen him, probably, before he had pushed open the door. They all stood and hurried over to him, impersonating four naïve girls who were honestly smitten by his fortuitous arrival, because it let them strike poses and utter noises that would make people notice them. He gave them each a quick hug and walked with them to their table. Their smiles were sincere, because he was Alex Rinosa, the music producer. He had money, drugs, and the ability to walk up to doors that were closed to most people, enter, and bring anyone in with him.

The two bodyguards took extra chairs from a couple of nearby tables, and the group launched into an overlapping stream of banter, forced laughter, and nervous chatter. After a minute, Rinosa turned toward the bar wondering why the waiter hadn’t come, but he didn’t see one. He told his two bodyguards to go up and get three bottles of Cristal and some glasses.