Rage (33 page)

“Makes
sense. The waitress at Patty’s said Cherish and Barnett had only been there
once before and she’s been working there for years. Cherish chose Patty’s
because she knew it from her seminary days— Wascomb used to meet there with
students. But the two of them could have other spots.”

“Their
main
spot
was the motel. I’ll go by there and see what the clerks have
to say.”

“Another
possibility,” I said, “is Cherish snitched Rand out to Drew, not Barnett.”

“She’s
cheating on Drew. Why would she confide in him?”

“She
didn’t have to confide, just mention that Rand seemed really nervous, was dropping
hints about Troy. Because she suspected that Drew played a role in
Troy’s
murder
and if she could get him to eliminate Rand, it would save Barnett the trouble.”

“Dutiful
girlfriend posing as a dutiful wife,” he said. “That’s manipulation elevated to
an art form. Wascomb said she was a spiritual girl.”

“Wascomb
hasn’t learned the fine points of cynicism.”

He
took out another cigar, left it in its plastic wrapper, and rolled it nimbly
from finger to finger. Nifty little trick; I’d never seen it before.

“There’s
another manipulation to think about,” I said. “Drew’s story about the black
truck was the reason we started looking seriously at Barnett Malley. But given
what we’ve learned about him, we need to consider that he was playing us.”

“Not
afraid of Malley, just wanting to point us in Malley’s direction.”

“Unfortunately
for Drew, it got us looking closely at him.”

“Three
dead kids,” he said. “Maybe two teams of murderers.”

We
turned a corner. “Alex, now I’m thinking I need to take Jane Hannabee more seriously
as a related crime. If Troy told his mommy about the movie and she wanted in,
that would’ve made her a problem for Sydney and Drew.”

“An
addict down on her luck,” I said, “she’d definitely want in.”

“We
were saying Cherish coulda known where Jane slept, being Jane’s spiritual
adviser, but the same applies to Drew.” He jammed his hands in his pockets.
“This is growing like cancer. You ever find out how much the Daneys are sucking
from the county tit?”

“Seven
thou a month.”

“Not
bad for a coupla defrocked mopes.”

I
said, “With some of it illegal. Olivia said no one enforces the regulations but
it could be a wedge if you need one. I asked her to fax over the names of all
the kids they’ve fostered. Drew’s got a history of falsifying documents. Maybe
he’s been naughty in other ways.”

“Good
thinking. What about Hot Pants Weider? Think I should confront her?”

“Boestling
and Montez both said the way she went off at me was her usual approach to
conflict. All you’ve got on her is hearsay adultery and she doesn’t practice
law, so any threat of disbarment would be empty.”

“I
could still embarrass her.”

“After
the way Boestling humiliated her I don’t imagine there’d be much self-esteem
left to threaten.”

“All
the more so,” he said. “Hit her when she’s down.”

“You
could try it.”

“But
you wouldn’t.”

“Not
now,” I said. “Too little bang for the buck.”

“Then
who’s my target?”

“Not
who,” I said. “What. Paperwork.”

* * *

I
walked him to the lot across the street from the station where he retrieved his
unmarked and followed me home. Passing me up at Westwood Boulevard, he got
there first.

The
fax from Olivia sat in my machine. One page of names and social security
numbers, birth dates, periods of foster care.

Twelve
girls, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Eight were still living with
the Daneys. One name was familiar.
Quezada, Valerie.
The restless,
resentful girl Cherish had tutored in math. Cherish leading her through the
steps, the essence of patience. Moments later, Cherish’s tears when she talked
about Rand. . . .

The
list covered only a twenty-five-month period. Olivia’s handwritten note at the
top said,
This was as far back as I could get. The geniuses’ archival system
is a mess. Maybe permanently.

Milo
said, “Let’s start by cross-referencing the four who no longer live with them.”

“To
what?”

“Worst-case
scenario, for starts.” He phoned the coroner, asked to speak with “Dave,” and
said, “No, not today, but I’m sure I’ll get there eventually. And get me a
better mask, next time, I’m no stranger to decomposition
but . . . yeah, nothing like water damage. Listen Dave, what I
need is just a record-check . . . yeah, I know, hearing my voice
makes your day.”

Five
minutes later we got the callback from Coroner’s Investigator David O’Reilly:
None of the four names matched the crypt’s roster of unnatural deaths. Milo
phoned the Hall of Records, got the runaround before hooking into county
records and the roster of natural deaths.

He
put the phone down. “They all seem to be alive. Our bit of good cheer for the
day.”

I
thought: They could’ve died outside of L.A. County. “What next?”

“Any
ideas?”

“You
could try to locate them, see if they’ve got anything to say about the Daneys.
I’d focus on these two, who are still minors. Maybe life got better for them
and they no longer need fostering. On the other hand . . .”

“I
like that,” he said. “Constructive pessimism.”

* * *

Olivia
gave us a contact at D.C.S. and we had the data by three p.m.

Leticia
Maryanne Hollings, seventeen, was still a state ward, living with a “kinship guardian”—
an aunt in Temecula. No one answered the number and Milo filed it for future
reference.

Wilfreda
Lee Ramos, sixteen, was no longer on the foster list. Her last known contact
was a twenty-five-year-old brother, George Ramos.

Phone
listing for him but no address. City of residence was
“L.A., Ca.”
Occupation:
“Student.”
The 825 number made the U. a good bet.

I
tried it. Inactive. A phone call to the university registrar revealed two
George Ramoses currently enrolled. One was an eighteen-year-old freshman. The
other, twenty-six, was a first-year law student, and that was all I could
learn.

Milo
got on the line, pushed his credentials, couldn’t cadge any more out of the
clerk. Same thing at the law school office.

We
drove to campus, parked on the north end, walked to the school, where Milo
bantered with an amiable white-haired secretary who said, “You just called.
Unfortunately, the answer’s the same. Privacy regulations.”

“All
we want to do is talk to Mr. Ramos, ma’am.”

“
Ma’am.
Just like in a cowboy movie,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure that’s true,
Lieutenant, but don’t forget where we are. Can you imagine how many of these
people would love to file a suit for breach of privacy?”

“Good
point,” he said. “Would it help if I told you Mr. Ramos isn’t in trouble but
his sister could be? I’m sure he’d like to know. Ma’am.”

“Sorry.
I wish I could help.”

He
relaxed his shoulders. Deliberately, slowly, the way he does when he’s
struggling to stay patient. Big smile. He pushed black hair off his forehead
and pressed his bulk against the counter. The secretary moved back
instinctively.

“Where
are the first-year students, right now?”

“They
should be out of . . . jurisprudence class. Maybe out on the
lawn.”

“How
many are we talking about?”

“Three
hundred seven.”

Milo
said, “Male Hispanic. You guys doing better with your minority admissions or
will that narrow it down?”

“He’s
not real Hispanic-looking,” said the secretary.

Milo
gazed at her. She blushed, leaned forward, whispered, “If someone was real
tall, they’d be easy to spot.”

Milo
smiled back. “We talking basketball, here?”

“Maybe
a guard.”

* * *

Long,
slow strides carried George Ramos across the lawn in an awkward but purposeful
trajectory. Like a wading bird— an egret— making its way through a marsh. I put
him at six-six. Pale and balding and stooped, carrying a stack of books and a
laptop. Whatever hair he had left was medium brown and fine and streamed over
his ears. He wore a blue V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, pressed khakis,
brown shoes. Tiny-lensed glasses perched above a beak nose. Young Ben Franklin
stretched on the rack.

When
we stepped in front of him, he blinked a couple of times and tried to pass us.
When Milo said “Mr. Ramos?” he stopped short.

“Yes?”

Badge-flash.
“Do you have a moment to talk about your sister, Wilfreda?”

Behind
his glasses, Ramos’s brown eyes hardened. His knuckles bulged and whitened.
“You’re serious.”

“We
are, sir.”

Ramos
muttered under his breath.

“Sir?”

“My
sister’s dead.”

“I’m
sorry, sir.”

“What
in the world led you to me?”

“We’re
looking into some foster children and— ”

“Lee
committed suicide three months ago,” said Ramos. “That’s what everyone called
her.
Lee.
If you knew anything about her, you’d know she hated
‘Wilfreda.’ ”

Milo
kept silent.

“She
was sixteen,” said Ramos.

Milo
said, “I know, sir.” It’s rare for him to have to look up at anyone. He didn’t
like it.

Ramos
said, “What kind of parents would name someone Wilfreda?”

* * *

The
three of us found a bench on the west side of the lawn.

George
Ramos said, “What do you want to know?”

“Lee’s
experiences in foster care.”

“What,
a scandal?”

“Maybe
something like that.”

“Her
experiences,” said Ramos. “For Lee, foster care was a lot easier than being at
home. Her father— my stepfather— is a fascist. Those preachers she lived with
didn’t give her any supervision. Custom-order for someone like Lee.”

“What
do you mean?” said Milo.

“Lee
was rebellious in the womb, did her own thing no matter what. She got pregnant
when she was in foster care, had an abortion. The coroner told us that after
the autopsy. The preachers talked a good case but my feeling is they collected
the money and let Lee run wild.”

“Which
coroner told you this?”

“Santa
Barbara County. Lee was living in Isla Vista, with some dopers, when
she . . .” Ramos removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“This
was after she got out of foster care,” said Milo.

Ramos
nodded. “The fascist finally allowed her to come home on condition she stick to
all his rules. She was home for two days before she ran away. The fascist said
she should live with the consequences of her own behavior and my mother has
always been totally under his thumb. So no one went looking for Lee. We found
out where she’d been staying after she died. Some crash pad in Isla Vista, ten
kids living like animals.”

I
said, “The fascist isn’t your father but you and Lee had the same last name.”

“We
don’t. Her name’s Monahan. When he got so fed up with her that he made her a
ward of the state, he burned her clothes and locked her out and told her she
was no longer his daughter. She said fuck you and started calling herself
Ramos.”

“Sweet
guy,” said Milo.

“Real
peach,” said Ramos, cracking his knuckles. “She phoned me from Isla Vista,
wanted me to have her name changed legally. I told her I couldn’t do it because
she was a minor and she hung up on me.”

I
said, “ ‘Ramos’ is listed on state documents.”

Ramos
laughed. “The state doesn’t know its ass from a crater on the moon. There’s
little about the system that doesn’t need changing.”

Milo
said, “That why you’re in law school?”

Ramos
stared at him myopically. “That’s a joke, right?”

Milo
smiled.

“Sure,
I’m breaking my butt for a lifetime of mindless bureaucracy and shitty pay,”
said Ramos. He laughed “When I get out I’m going corporate.”

* * *

We
talked to him for another quarter hour. I ended up doing most of the talking
because the topic had slid into my bailiwick.

Wilfreda
Lee Monahan/Ramos had exhibited severe learning disabilities and a history of
disruptive behavior as long as her brother could remember. George Ramos’s
father had died when he was five and a few years later his mother married a
former marine who thought raising kids was a variant of boot camp.

For
Lee, adolescence had meant promiscuity, drugs, and mood swings so severe I was
willing to bet they resulted from more than substance abuse. By fourteen, she’d
made two suicide attempts— overdose cries for help. Cursory attempts at
counseling followed, along with a flood of recrimination at home. When her
father found her having sex with a boy in her bedroom, he kicked her out.