The Murder Book (11 page)

It was nearly 10
A.M.
, and Schwinn still hadn’t shown up. Figuring sooner rather than later was the best time to spring Janie’s photo on Del Monte and his patrol buddies, Milo threw on his jacket and left the station.

Del Monte had been decent enough to call and look where it got him.

No good deed goes unpunished.

It took nearly forty minutes to reach Bel Air. The patrol office was a white, tile-roofed bungalow tucked behind the west gate. Lots of architectural detail inside and out — Milo would’ve been happy to make it his house. He’d heard that the gates and the private-cop scrutiny had been instituted by Howard Hughes when he lived in Bel Air because the billionaire didn’t trust LAPD.

The rich taking care of their own. Just like the party on Stone Canyon: ticked-off neighbors, but everything kept private, no nuisance call had reached the West L.A. station.

Del Monte was at the front desk, and when Milo came in, his dark, round face turned sour. Milo apologized and whipped out a crime-scene snap he’d taken from the pile Schwinn had left in his desk. The least horrifying of the collection — side view of Janie’s face, just the hint of ligature ring around the neck. Del Monte’s response was a cursory head flick. Two other guards were drinking coffee, and they gave the picture more careful study, then shook their heads. Milo would have liked to show Melinda Waters’s photo, but Schwinn had pocketed it.

He left the patrol office and drove to the party house on Stone Canyon Drive. Huge, redbrick, three-story, six-column Colonial. Black double doors, black shutters, mullioned windows, multiple gables. Milo’s guess was twenty, twenty-five rooms.

The Cossack family had moved to something more generous.

A huge dry lawn and flaking paint on some of the shutters said the maintenance schedule had slackened since the house had emptied. Shredded hedges and scraps of paper confettiing the brick walkway were the only evidence of revelry gone too far. Milo parked, got out, picked up one of the shreds, hoping for some writing, but it was soft and absorbent and blank — heavy-duty paper towel. The gate to the backyard was bolted and opaque. He peered over, saw a big blue egg of a pool, rolling greenery, lots of brick patio, blue jays pecking. Behind one of the hedges, the glint of glass — cans and bottles.

The nearest neighbor was to the south, well separated from the colonial by the broad lawns of both houses. A much smaller, meticulously maintained one-story ranch emblazoned with flower beds and fronted by dwarf junipers trimmed Japanese-style. The northern border of the Cossack property was marked by a ten-foot stone wall that went on for a good thousand feet up Stone Canyon. Probably some multiacre estate, a humongous chateau pushed back too far from the street to be visible.

Milo walked across the dry lawn and the colonial’s empty driveway, up to the ranch house’s front door. Teak door, with a shiny brass knocker shaped like a swan. Off to the right a small cement Shinto shrine presided over a tiny, babbling stream.

A very tall woman in her late sixties answered his ring. Stout and regal with puffy, rouged cheeks, she wore her silver hair tied back in a bun so tight it looked painful, had sheathed her impressive frame in a cream kimono hand-painted with herons and butterflies. In one liver-spotted hand was an ivory-handled brush with pointed bristles tipped with black ink. Even in black satin flat slippers she was nearly eye level with Milo. Heels would have made her a giantess.

“Ye-es?” Watchful eyes, deliberate contralto.

Out came the badge. “Detective Sturgis, Mrs.…”

“Schwartzman. What brings a detective to Bel Air?”

“Well, ma’am, last Friday your neighbors had a party—”

“A party,” she said, as if the description was absurd. She aimed the brush at the empty Colonial. “More like rooting at the trough. The aptly named Cossacks.”

“Aptly named?”

“Barbarians,” said Mrs. Schwartzman. “A scourge.”

“You’ve had problems with them before.”

“They lived there for less than two years, let the place go to seed. That’s their pattern, apparently. Move in, degrade, move out.”

“To something bigger.”

“But of
course
. Bigger is better, right? They’re vulgarians. No surprise, given what the father does.”

“What does he do?”

“He destroys period architecture and substitutes grotesquerie. Packing cartons pretending to be office buildings, those drive-in monstrosities — strip malls. And
she
… desperately blond, the sweaty anxiety of an
arriviste
. Both of them gone all the time. No supervision for those brats.”

“Mrs. Schwart—”

“If you’d care to be precise, it’s Dr. Schwartzman.”

“Pardon me, Doctor—”

“I’m an endocrinologist — retired. My husband is Professor Arnold Schwartzman, the orthopedic surgeon. We’ve lived here twenty-eight years, had wonderful neighbors for twenty-six — the Cantwells, he was in metals, she was the loveliest person. The two of them passed on within months of one another. The house went into probate, and
they
bought it.”

“Who lives on the other side?” said Milo, indicating the stone walls.

“Officially, Gerhard Loetz.”

Milo shot her a puzzled look.

“German industrialist.” As if everyone should know. “Baron Loetz has homes all over the world. Palaces, I’ve been told. He’s rarely here. Which is fine with me, keeps the neighborhood quiet. Baron Loetz’s property extends to the mountains, the deer come down to graze. We get all sorts of wildlife in the canyon. We love it. Everything was perfect until
they
moved in. Why are you asking all these questions?”

“A girl went missing,” said Milo. “There’s a rumor she attended a party on the Westside Friday night.”

Dr. Schwartzman shook her head. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. Didn’t get a close look at those hoodlums, didn’t want to. Never left the house. Afraid to, if you’d like to know. I was alone, Professor Schwartzman was in Chicago, lecturing. Usually, that doesn’t bother me, we have an alarm, used to have an Akita.” The hand around the brush tightened. Man-sized knuckles bulged. “But Friday night was alarming. So
many
of them, running in and out, screaming like banshees. As usual, I called the patrol, had them stay until the last barbarian left. Even so, I was nervous. What if they came back?”

“But they didn’t.”

“No.”

“So you never got close enough to see any of the kids.”

“That’;s correct.”

Milo considered showing her the death photo anyway. Decided against it. Maybe the story hadn’t hit the papers because someone upstairs wanted it that way. Dr. Schwartzman’s hostility to the Cossacks might very well fuel another rumor. Working alone like this, he didn’t want to screw up big-time.

“The patrol,” he said, “not the police—”

“That’s what we do in Bel Air, Detective. We pay the patrol, so they respond. Your department, on the other hand — there seems to be a belief among law enforcement types that the problems of the… fortunate are trivial. I learned that the hard way, when Sumi — my doggie — was murdered.”

“When was this?”

“Last summer. Someone poisoned him. I found him right there.” Indicating the front lawn. “They unlatched the gate and fed him meat laced with rat poison. That time, I did call your department, and they finally sent someone out. A detective. Allegedly.”

“Do you remember his name?”

Dr. Schwartzman gave a violent headshake. “Why would I? He barely gave me the time of day, clearly didn’t take me seriously. Didn’t even bother to go over there, just referred it to Animal Control, and all
they
offered to do was dispose of Sumi’s body, thank you very much for nothing.”

“They?” said Milo.

Schwartzman’s brush pointed at the party house.

“You suspect one of the Cossacks poisoned Sumi?”

“I don’t suspect, I know,” said Schwartzman. “But I can’t prove it. The daughter. She’s mad, quite definitely. Walks around talking to herself, a bizarre look in her eyes, all hunched over. Wears the same clothes for days on end. And she brings black boys home — clearly not right. Sumi despised her. Dogs have a nose for madness. Anytime that crazy girl walked by, poor Sumi would fly into a rage, throw himself against the gate, it was all I could do to calm him down. And let me tell you, Detective, the only time he responded that way was to stranger intrusion. Protective, Akitas are, that’s the whole point of an Akita. But sweet and smart — he loved the Cantwells, even grew accustomed to the gardeners and the mailman. But never to that girl. He knew when someone was wrong. Simply despised her. I’m sure she poisoned him. The day I found his poor body, I spied her. Watching me through a second-story window. That pair of mad eyes. Staring. I stared right back and waved my fist, and you’d better believe that drapery snapped back into place.
She
knew that
I
knew. But soon after, she came out and walked past me — right past me, staring. She’s a frightening thing, that girl. Hopefully that party was the last time we’ll see them around here.”

“She was at the party?” said Milo.

Dr. Schwartzman crossed her arms across her bosom. “Have you been listening to me, young man? I told you, I didn’t get close enough to check.”

“Sorry,” said Milo. “How old is she?”

“Seventeen or eighteen.”

“Younger than her brothers.”

“
Those
two,” said Schwartzman. “So
arrogant
.”

“Ever have any problems with the brothers other than parties?”

“All the time. Their attitude.”

“Attitude?”

“Entitled,” said Schwartzman. “Smug. Just thinking about them makes me angry, and anger is bad for my health, so I’m going to resume my calligraphy. Good day.”

Before Milo could utter another syllable, the door slammed shut and he was staring at teak. No sense pushing it;
Frau Doktor
Schwartzman could probably beat him in an arm wrestle. He returned to the car, sat there wondering if anything she’d said mattered.

The Cossack brothers had a bad attitude. Like every other rich kid in L.A.

The sister, on the other hand, sounded anything but typical — if Schwartzman could be believed. And if Schwartzman’s suspicion about her dog was right, Sister Cossack’s quirkiness was something to worry about.

Seventeen years old made Caroline Cossack an age peer of Janie Ingalls and Melinda Waters. A rich girl with a wild side and access to the right toys might very well have attracted two street kids.

Taking black boys home. Racism aside, that spelled rebel. Someone willing to push the envelope.

Dope, a couple of party girls venturing from Hollywood into uncharted territory… still, it came down to nothing more than rumor, and he had nowhere to take it.

He stared at the empty party house, took in Bel Air silence, shabby grace, a lifestyle he’d never attain. Feeling out of his element, every inch the ignorant rookie.

And now he had to report back to Schwinn.

This is a whodunit. This likes to munch on your insides, then shit you out in pellets…

The bastard’s reproachful voice had crept into his head and camped there, obnoxious but authoritative.

While Milo’d spun his wheels, Schwinn had come up with the single useful lead on the Ingalls case: the tip that had led them straight to Janie’s father.

A source he wouldn’t identify. Not even bothering to be coy, coming right out and accusing Milo of spying for the brass.

Because he knew he was under suspicion? Maybe
that’s
why the other D’s seemed to shun the guy. Whatever was going on, Milo’d been shoved square in the middle of it… he had to push all that aside and concentrate on the
job
. But the job — going nowhere — made him feel inadequate.

Poor Janie. And Melinda Waters — what was the chance
she
was alive? What would
she
look like when they finally found her?

It was nearly noon and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. But he could find no reason to stop for grease. Had no appetite for anything.

H
e arrived back at the station wondering if Schwinn had returned and hoping he hadn’t. Before he made it to the stairwell, the desk sergeant said, “Someone’s waiting for you,” without looking up.

“Who?”

“Go see for yourself. Interview Five.”

Something in the guy’s voice pinged Milo’s gut. “Interview Five?”

“Uh-huh.” The blue kept his head down, busy with paperwork.

An interrogation room. Someone being questioned — a suspect for Ingalls in custody so soon? Had Schwinn pulled off another solo end run?

“I wouldn’t keep them waiting,” said the sergeant, writing something down, still avoiding eye contact.

Milo peered over the counter, saw a crossword puzzle book. “Them.”

No answer.

Milo hurried down the too-bright corridor that housed the interview rooms and knocked on Five. A voice, not Schwinn’s, said, “Come in.”

He opened the door and came face-to-face with two tall men in their thirties. Both were broad-shouldered and good-looking, in well-cut charcoal suits, starched white shirts, and blue silk ties.

Corporate Bobbsey twins — except one guy was white — Swedish pink, actually, with a crew cut the color of cornflakes — and the other was black as the night.

Together they nearly spanned the width of the tiny, stale room, a two-man offensive line. Black had opened the door. He had a smooth, round head topped by a razor-trimmed cap of ebony fuzz and glowing, hairless, blue-tinged skin. The clear, hard eyes of a drill instructor. His unsmiling mouth was a fissure in a tar pit.

Pinkie hung toward the rear of the tiny room, but he was the first to speak.

“Detective Sturgis. Have a seat.” Reedy voice, Northern inflection — Wisconsin or Minnesota. He pointed to the room’s solitary chair, a folding metal affair on the near side of the interrogation table, facing the one-way mirror. The mirror, not even close to subterfuge, every suspect knew he was being observed, the only question was by whom? And now Milo was wondering the same thing.