Killer (20 page)

“Did she win often?”

“Oh, yes, she was brilliant. Clearly the smartest person in the family. She skipped a grade, sailed into medical school, graduated at the top of—if you evaluated her, Doctor, you probably know all this.”

I said, “How did Ree do in school?”

“C’s, D’s, a few F’s. She isn’t stupid, it’s just that she was all about … fun. But never at the expense of others, she always saw the best in others. I refuse to consider she’d ever harm Connie—do you have evidence she was involved?”

Milo said, “We’d like to talk to her but she’s moved out of her apartment, left no forwarding.”

“I see,” said Connor Sykes. He removed a pair of black-framed reading glasses from his jacket, passed them from hand to hand. “That doesn’t look good for her, does it?”

“Any idea where she might be, Mr. Sykes?”

“No.”

“No hints at all?”

Head shake. “Sorry.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

Connor Sykes seemed to take the question seriously. “No.”

“Well, sir, on the odd chance that Ree does contact you—”

“That would be odd, Lieutenant. But yes, if she does I’ll tell her she’s made the wrong impression by leaving and needs to get in touch with you. Now, in terms of Connie, maybe I will have time to process and get back for the recital.”

Milo phoned the coroner’s office and helped set up an appointment for Connor Sykes. The two of us walked him out of the station, watched him head up Butler Avenue. Average-sized man moving at average speed.

Milo said, “One happy family.”

“Not that we’re here to judge,” I said.

“I
live
to judge. Wish I could be the jury, too. So Ree never hinted at who daddy is?”

I shook my head.

“May I ask why you didn’t press her?”

“It wasn’t relevant.”

“She was presumed to be kosher until Connie proved otherwise.”

“Exactly.”

“Connie was certain it was Winky or Binky, late-night fun on the band bus, huh?”

“You have a flair for description.”

We headed back inside. He paused at the stairwell. “If the surviving Sykes sister doesn’t show up soon, I’ll check out the band.”

“Easy enough,” I said. “Monday night at Virgo Virgo.”

He fist-pumped. “Freebird! Meantime I’ve got a BOLO on Ree’s car and Hollywood patrol’s been sent the usual grainy DMV photo. Subpoenas on her phone and her credit cards would be a whole lot more helpful but sibling rivalry ain’t grounds for that level of paper so I need to uncover something incriminating about her in order to uncover something incriminating about her.”

“Techies get to her apartment?”

“Not yet because Martolo—the landlord—punted to her lawyer who refused entrance just for the sake of being an asshole. I left two messages on her personal line, total stonewall.”

“Tell her you’ll relieve her of the free storage she’s giving Ree.”

“Mercenary motive,” he said. “I like the way your mind works.”

Punching a preset number on his cell, he connected, smiling edgily. “Ms. Martolo? Lieutenant Sturgis … yes, I know. I … yes, but I thought you and I could work something out without having to go through … I assure you there’ll be absolutely no disruption or damage … nothing will be taken … nothing will be cut out of the carpets … I see … well, I’m sorry about that, that’s totally inexcusable but … yes, of course, you have every right to be … nothing like that will happen with my people, I promise, Ms. Martolo, scout’s honor … you were? Well, me, too, made it to Eagle, we trustworthy types need to stick together, don’t you think? Also—hear me out—if you allow my techs access I’d be happy to take all those personal items you’ve had to store for Ms. Sykes … yes, all of it … just what I said initially: quick swabs, dusts, you won’t even know they were there … thank you Ms.… thank you, Dee. I’ll remember you at the next jamboree.”

He clicked off, slapped my back hard enough to rattle my ribs, reached the crime lab, and emphasized the need to move quickly before
the property owner changed her mind. Charging the tech crew to look for “any damn thing but without doing damage. You want a fiber, tweeze it out, no slice and dice, I mean it.”

After he hung up, I said, “Martolo had a bad experience with the department?”

“Narcotics raided another building she owns. Unfortunately, they had the wrong address, scared the shit out of everyone, including the poor family living in the apartment. Door got kicked in, place was trashed, it took six months and a whole lot of paperwork before she got reimbursed.”

“Long arm of the law. So what’s next?”

“I try to locate Ree Sykes and you do whatever you want.”

“Ree’s lawyer might know where she is.”

He pulled out his pad. “Who’s the lucky mouthpiece?”

“Myron Ballister, office in the Valley.”

“What’s he like?”

“Never met him.”

“He refused to come in?”

“Both lawyers wanted to meet with me, I turned them down.”

“Why?”

“I generally avoid attorneys because their only motive is to try to influence me and I want my information straight from the principals. The exception is a custody situation where the parents will have to work together and I think the lawyers can help with that. In a guardianship suit, there’d be no reason. Which didn’t stop Connie’s lawyer from showing up at her appointment and trying to muscle in.”

“You set him straight.”

“Her. Medea Wright, works for one of the more assertive firms.”

“Think she’s worth talking to?”

“You could try but I doubt she’d cooperate.”

“Probably the same for this Ballister. But his client’s smelling dirtier each day, so let’s give it a shot. You remember where in the Valley?”

“Sherman Oaks.” I recited the address.

“You memorized it?”

“It was on every court document I read.”

“Paper storm.”

“It always is.”

“You know,” he said, “all these years I never knew much about that part of your work. Big-time fun, huh?”

“Bundle of yuks.”

We took the unmarked over the Sepulveda Pass. Neither of us talked much during the drive. Milo’s face and posture were uncharacteristically static. I had no idea what was on his mind.

I was thinking. Again.

About
it
.

How close I’d come to being a morgue statistic.

Who’d miss me, who wouldn’t.

Sherman Oaks is an upscale neighborhood but there’s a stretch, where Ventura Boulevard crosses Van Nuys and slithers west, where the ambience dips to fast food, questionable merchandise, and deferred maintenance.

Myron Ballister’s office was located square in the middle of that downgrade, on the ground floor of a two-story Band-Aid-colored building slivered between a Farsi-bannered outfit hawking disposable cell phones and a once-grand art deco movie theater converted to a “bargain emporium.”

The interior was two units wide but only one tenant deep, with Suites A and B divided by a strip of green-carpeted hallway that died at a pebbled-cement stairway. Ballister’s slide-in door shingle said he practiced solo. The door was plywood in need of refinishing. Unlocked.

What passed for a waiting room did double duty as a reception area, with barely enough space for either function. Myron Ballister’s staff consisted of a girl around twenty stationed behind a warped desk.
Her hair was a whirl of wheat-colored dreadlocks. Two visible tattoos: Tinker Bell cavorting on her left forearm,
Choose Your Weapon
on her right. Her armaments were a two-line phone, a closed laptop, and an iPod playing Pink’s “Don’t Let Me Get Me.”

Milo’s badge elicited, “Cops? What’s up?”

“We’d like to talk to Mr. Ballister.”

“He’s at lunch.”

“Where?”

“El Padron.”

“Where’s that?”

“Up the block.” She pointed to the left. “Uh no, that way.” Aiming right.

“You been working here long?”

“He’s my cousin,” she said. “I’m filling in.”

“For his regular secretary?”

She giggled. “For him. He used to do everything himself, then I came down to go to school and he’s like help me look like a lawyer, Amanda, I’ll even pay you.” She shrugged. Dreads swayed, a ballet of chorizo. “I’m like, sure.”

“What’re you studying?”

“Aesthetic technology.”

“Beauty school?”

She pouted. “It’s a lot more. We learn the science of how skin works.” She peered up at his ravaged complexion.

He said, “Hopeless, huh?”

“I mean … there’s always help. You should do moisturizer—no, maybe something actually to dry it up.”

“Thanks for the advice, Amanda. What does Myron look like?”

“He’s got pretty good skin.”

“How old is he?”

“Like thirty.”

“What’s he wearing today?”

“Um um um um … black shirt … gray tie … he’s a little fat but don’t say I said that.”

El Padron turned out to be El Patron. Mock adobe, mock Spanish tile, mock leaded glass, mock wrought iron. The logo above the door was a spavined, serape-draped burro eyeing a droopy cactus. The cactus had a disturbingly human face—lewd, squinty-eyed, unctuously malevolent.

Milo said, “Fat, cute, black shirt,” and pushed his way in.

The dining room was commodious and dim, filled with blue vinyl chairs and booths and tables molded from the same polyvinyl as the door. Fuzzy-focus bullfight poster prints hung too close together. Mariachi heavy on off-key trombones comprised the soundtrack.

For all that, nice aromas prevailed: frijoles, corn, tomatillo. The beefy sizzle of carne asada.

The host booth was unoccupied. The reservation book was blank. As our eyes accommodated to the darkness, a waitress in an off-the-shoulder peasant dress circled into view. “
Señors? Vaya con dios!
”

Sixtyish, blond, she had an open face owing more to Ghent than Guadalajara.

Milo smiled but looked past her. Only three parties in the big room, all in booths ringing the west wall. Middle-management types drinking Dos Equis and Margaritas, an elderly couple ignoring each other as they shoveled food, a younger couple ignoring their food as they held hands and nose-nuzzled. The young man was fair-haired, wore a black shirt and a gray tie, the woman dark-haired and petite, had on a sleeveless white dress.

Milo told the waitress, “Our friends are over there.”

“Okay
muy bueno
. I’ll fetch you some menus and while you’re
looking you want a couple Margaritas we got frozen strawberry on special today it’s fresh blended with real fruit?”

He read her name tag. “That’s awfully tempting, Louella, but we won’t be sticking around long enough.”

“You want nothing?”

“Not for now.”

We proceeded toward Ballister and his girlfriend. Her back was to us. Ballister’s wasn’t but he was wrapped up in her, paid no notice as we got close. His light hair was straight, waxy, longish, edging into blond at the tips. Styled for surfer, whether or not he’d ever stepped onto a board.

He had broad shoulders, a long face, big hands. No evidence of obesity.

He and the dark-haired woman continued to link fingers. He was grinning.

Milo stepped up to their booth, announced, “Sorry to intrude, kids,” with utter lack of sincerity.

Myron Ballister’s pale eyes widened. Up this close he remained lean, the only aspect of his appearance remotely suggesting spare adipose the beginning of a double chin.

“Pardon?” he said. Boyish voice. Smooth brow untrammeled by worry.

Milo said, “Myron Ballister?”

“Uh-huh—”

The woman in the white dress swung around and stared at me. “You? What the hell?”

Ballister said, “Honey, you know these—?”

Medea Wright jerked her small, manicured, bejeweled hand out of his. The other one had already formed a fist.

I made the introductions, explained Wright’s role in the Sykes case. Milo said, “So this is what, a legal conference?”

More likely the aftermath of the convention in Palm Springs. Continuing education, indeed.

Wright grimaced. “I
demand
an explanation—”

Milo said, “You two were on opposite sides, now you’re an item? Which came first, work or romance?”

Medea Wright’s perfect makeup couldn’t hide the color in her cheeks. “That’s
your
business? Who the hell
are
you, anyway?”

Milo handed her his card.

“Homicide? What the hell’s going on?”

“You don’t know.”

She drew herself up to the max but genetics limited the drama of the gesture. “If I knew would I ask you?”

Myron Ballister said, “Honey, this is getting weird—”

She showed him her palm. “Don’t say a word. Who the hell knows what they’re up to.”

Milo said, “What I’m up to is solving a murder, Ms. Wright. No curiosity as to who the victim is?”

Wright said, “Either way, you’re going to tell me.”

Singular tense; Ballister had become irrelevant.

He said, “Oh, man. Someone got killed?”

Without looking at him, Wright said, “That’s what murder usually means.”

Ballister’s face remained blandly surprised. No offense taken. He probably figured he was out of his league in the first place.

Medea Wright pointed at Milo. “Okay, go.”

When her gaze faltered, he said, “Your client, Constance Sykes.”

She shrieked, “
What!
” Her voice was talons ripping satin. The drinkers at the end of the dining room put their glasses down and stared. The elderly couple paused in their gorging.

Louella hurried over. “Everything okay?”

Medea Wright waved her away. “We’re having a discussion.”

Louella said, “Well, obviously,” and left.

Wright said, “Tell me
exactly
what happened.”

Milo said, “A couple of nights ago someone killed Dr. Sykes.”

“That’s insane.” Wright plucked a corn chip out of a lava-rock bowl, nibbled nonstop like a rabbit on meth. Swallowing hard, she pulverized two more chips with power-grinder jaws.

Ballister watched her with awe. Then he turned to us. “You’re actually saying—”

Wright cut him off. “That is totally
totally
insane.”