The Murder Book (35 page)

She picked up Milo’s card. “L.A. Homicide means she was murdered in L.A. So why wasn’t an L.A. death notice ever filed?”

“Good question, ma’am.”

“Oh,” said Waters. She sat back. “This is more than a reopened case, isn’t it? Something got really screwed up.”

Milo shrugged.

“Great. Wonderful. This is going to suck me in and screw me up no matter what I do, isn’t it?”

“I’ll do my best to prevent that, ma’am.”

“You sound almost sincere.” She rubbed her forehead, took a bottle of Advil out of a desk drawer, extricated a tablet, and swallowed it dry. “What else do you want from me?”

“The party,” said Milo. “How’d you and Janie hear about it, for starters.”

“Just street talk, kids talking. There was always plenty of that, especially as the weekend approached. Everyone trying to figure out the best way to party hearty. So many of us hated our homes, would do anything to be away. Janie and I were a twosome, party-wise. Sometimes we’d end up at squat-raves — promoters sneaking into an abandoned building, or using an outdoors spot — some remote corner of Griffith Park, or Hansen Dam. We’re talking bare minimum in terms of entertainment: some tone-deaf band playing for free, cheap munchies, lots of drugs.
Mostly
lots of drugs. Because the promoters were really dealers, and their main goal was bulk sales. Other times, though, it would turn out to be a real party, in someone’s house. An open invitation, or even if it wasn’t, there was usually no problem crashing.”

She smiled. “Occasionally, we got bounced, but a girl could almost always crash and get away with it.”

“The party that night was one of those,” said Milo. “Someone’s house.”

“Someone’s
big
house, a mansion, and the talk on the street was
mucho
drugs. Janie and I figured we’d check it out. To us a trip to Bel Air was like blasting off to a different planet. Janie was going on and on about partying with rich kids, maybe finding a rich boyfriend who’d give her all the dope she wanted. As I said, she loved to fantasize. The truth is we were both such losers, no wheels, no money. So we did what we always did: hitched. We didn’t even have the address, guessed once we got to Bel Air, we’d figure it out. I picked Janie up at her place Friday afternoon, and we hung out on Hollywood Boulevard most of the day — playing arcade games, shoplifting cosmetics, panhandling for spare change but we didn’t get much. After dark, we walked back down to Sunset where the best hitching was but the first corner we tried was near some hookers and they threatened to cut our asses, so we moved west — between La Brea and Fairfax, where all the guitar stores are. I remember that, because while we waited for a ride, we were looking at guitars in windows and saying how cool it would be if we started a girl band and got rich. No matter that neither of us had a lick of talent. Anyway, finally — we must’ve have been waiting there over an hour — we got picked up.”

“What time?” said Milo.

“Must’ve been nine, ten.”

“Who picked you up?”

“A college student — nerdy type, said he went to Caltech, but he was heading to the U. because he had a date with a girl there and that was really close to Bel Air.
He
had to tell us that, because we had no idea — I don’t think either of us had ever been west of La Cienega, unless we were taking the bus straight to the beach, or, in my case, when I visited my father at the Navy base in Point Mugu. The nerd was a nice guy. Shy, probably picked us up on impulse and regretted it. Because we immediately started hassling him — turning the radio to our station, blasting it loud, teasing him — flirting. Asking him if he wanted to come to the party with us instead of some lame date with a college girl. Being real obnoxious. He got embarrassed, and that cracked us up. Also, we were hoping he might take us all the way to the party, because we still had no idea where it was. So we kept nagging him, but he said no, he liked his girlfriend. I remember Janie getting really rude about that, saying something to the effect of ‘She’s probably colder than ice. I can give you something she can’t.’ That was the
wrong
thing to say. He stopped the car at Stone Canyon and Sunset and ordered us out. I started to, but Janie held me back, started ragging on him to take us to the house, and that just made him angrier. Janie was like that, she could be extremely pushy, had a real talent for getting on people’s nerves. The nerd started shouting and shoved Janie and we got out and she flipped him off as he drove away.”

“Stone Canyon and Sunset. Close to the party.”

“
We
didn’t know that. We were ignorant. And drunk. Back on the boulevard, we’d also boosted a bottle of Southern Comfort, had guzzled our way through most of it. I hated the stuff, to me it tasted like peaches and cough syrup. But Janie loved it. It was her favorite high. She said it was what Janis Joplin had been into and she was into Janis Joplin because she had some idea that her mom had been like Janis Joplin, back in the hippie days. That she’d named Janie after Janis.”

“Another fantasy,” I said.

She nodded. “She needed them. Her mom abandoned her — ran away with a black guy when Janie was five or six, and Janie never saw her again. Maybe that’s another reason Janie always made racist comments.”

Milo said, “What’d the two of you do after you were dropped off?”

“Started walking up Stone Canyon and promptly got lost. There were no sidewalks, and the lighting was very bad. And no one was around to ask directions. All those incredible properties and not a soul in sight, none of the noises you hear in a real neighborhood. It was spooky. But we were having fun with it — an adventure. Once we saw a Bel Air Patrol car driving our way, so we hid behind some trees.”

She frowned. “Complete idiocy. Thank God my boys aren’t hearing this.”

“How’d you find the party?”

“We walked in circles for a while, finally ended up right where we started, back at Sunset. And that’s when the second car picked us up. A Cadillac, turning onto Stone Canyon. The driver was a black guy, and I was sure Janie wouldn’t want to get in — with her it was always ‘nigger’ this, ‘nigger’ that. But when the guy rolled down the window and shot us this big grin, and said, ‘You girls looking to party?’ Janie was the first one in.”

“What do you remember about the driver?”

“Early twenties, tall, thin — for some reason when I think of him I always think of Jimi Hendrix. Not that he was Hendrix’s spitting image, but there was a general resemblance. He had that rangy, mellow thing going on, loose and confident. Played his music really loud and moving his head in time.”

“A Cadillac,” said Milo.

“And a newer one but not a pimpmobile. Big conservative sedan, well taken care of, too. Shiny, fresh-smelling — sweet-smelling. Lilacs. Like it belonged to an old woman. I remember thinking that, wondering if he’d stolen it from an old woman. Because he sure didn’t match the car, dressed the way he was in this ugly denim suit with rhinestones all over it, all these gold chains.”

“What color?”

“Something pale.”

Milo opened his briefcase, removed Willie Burns’s mug shot, handed it across the desk.

Melinda Waters’s eyes got big. “That’s him.
He’s
the one who killed Janie?”

“He’s someone we’re looking for.”

“He’s still out there?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? What does
that
mean?”

“It’s been twenty years, and he was a heroin addict.”

“You’re saying he’d have a poor life expectancy,” she said. “But you’re still looking for him… why
has
Janie’s murder been reopened? What’s the real reason?”

“I was the original detective on the case,” said Milo. “I got transferred off. Now, I’ve been transferred back on.”

“Transferred back on by your department or you requested it yourself?” said Waters.

“Does it matter, ma’am?”

She smiled. “It’s personal, isn’t it? You’re trying to undo your own past.”

Milo smiled back, and Waters returned the mug shot. “Wilbert Burns. So now I have a name.”

“He never introduced himself?”

“He called himself our new friend. I knew he was a junkie as well as a dealer. From how spacey he was — slurring his words. Driving
really
slow. His music was junkie music — slow jazz — this really draggy trumpet. Janie tried to change the station, but he put his hand on hers and she didn’t try again.”

“How’d you know he was a dealer?” said Milo.

“He showed us his wares. Carried one of those men’s purses and had it on the seat next to him. When we got in, he put it in his lap and after we were driving for a while, he zipped it open, and said, ‘How about a taste of something sweet, ladies?’ Inside were envelopes of pills and little baggies full of white stuff — I couldn’t tell you if it was coke or heroin.
That
stuff I stayed away from. For me it was just grass and alcohol, once in a while acid.”

“What about Janie?”

“Janie had no boundaries.”

“Did she sample Burns’s wares?”

“Not in the car, but maybe later. Probably later. Because she and Burns got something going on right from the beginning. All three of us were in the front seat, Janie alongside Burns and me next to the door. The minute he started driving she started in — flipped her hair in his face, rested her hand on his leg, started moving it up.”

“How’d Burns react to that?”

“He loved it. Said ‘Ooh, baby,’ stuff like that. Janie was giggling, both of them were laughing at nothing in particular.”

“Despite her racism,” I said.

“I couldn’t believe it. I elbowed her a couple of times, as in, ‘What’s going on?’ But she ignored me. Burns drove to the party — he knew exactly where it was, but we had to park up the road because there were so many cars there.”

“Did he say anything about the party?” said Milo.

“He said he knew the people throwing it, that they were rich but cool, it was going to be the finest of the fine. Then, when we got there, he said something along the lines of, ‘Maybe the president’ll show up.’ Because the house had huge pillars, like the White House. Janie thought that was hilarious. I was pretty put out by then, felt like Janie was shutting me out.”

“What happened next?”

“We went inside the house. It was vacant and rancid-smelling and pretty much trashed, with beer cans and bottles and Lord knows what else all over the place. Kids running around everywhere, no band, just loud tapes — a bunch of different stereos set up all over the place, really cacophonous, but no one seemed to care. Everyone was blasted, kids were walking around looking dazed, bumping into each other, girls were on their knees, going down on guys right in the middle of the dance floor, there’d be couples dancing and right next to them, other couples would be screwing, getting kicked, stepped on. Burns seemed to know a lot of people, got plenty of high fives as we walked through the crowd. Then this funny-looking, kind of dumpy girl showed up out of nowhere and latched on to him.”

“Funny-looking, how?”

“Short, fat, zits. Odd — spaced-out. But he immediately got all kissy-kissy with her, and I could see Janie didn’t like that.” Waters shook her head. “She’d known the guy all of fifteen minutes, and she was jealous.”

“Janie do anything about that?”

“No, she just got this ticked-off look on her face. I could read it because I knew Janie. Burns didn’t see it — or he didn’t care. Threw one arm around the dumpy girl, the other around Janie, and led both of them off. That little purse of his bouncing on his shoulder.”

“And you?”

“I stayed behind. Someone handed me a beer and hands started groping me. Not delicately. It was dark, and whoever was doing it started to get rough, yanking at my clothes. I broke away, started walking around, looked for a quiet room to mellow out in, but there was none. Every inch of that place was party-time. Guys kept putting their hands all over me, once in a while someone would pull me hard onto the dance floor and rather than fight it, I’d just dance for a while, then make my escape. Then the lights went out and the house got even darker and I could barely see where I was stepping. The Southern Comfort in my system wasn’t helping, either. I felt nauseous, dizzy, wanted to get out of there, looked some more for Janie, couldn’t find her, and got angry at her for bailing on me. Finally, I told myself
forget
her and the next time someone pulled me onto a dance floor, I danced for a while. And when someone offered me a pill, I swallowed it. The next thing I remember is waking up on the floor of an upstairs bathroom, hearing shouts that the cops were going to roust the party and running out of there along with everyone else — it was like a stampede. Somehow I ended up in the back of someone’s truck, bouncing along Sunset.”

“Whose truck?”

“A bunch of guys. Surfer types. They ended up at the beach, Santa Monica or Malibu, I couldn’t tell you which. We partied some more, and I fell asleep on the sand. The next morning, I woke up and I was alone. Cold and wet and sick to my stomach. The sun was rising over the ocean and I suppose it was gorgeous but all I could think about was how lousy I felt. Then I thought about my father — stationed up at Mugu and I started crying and got it into my head that I had to go see him. It took me four hitches to get up there and when I reached the base, the sentry wouldn’t let me through the gate. I started crying again. It had been a long time since I’d seen my dad. He’d remarried, and his new wife hated me. Or at least that’s what my mother was always telling me. Whatever the truth was, he’d pretty much stopped calling. I bawled like a baby, and the sentry made a call and told me my dad wasn’t there, he’d shipped out to Turkey three days before. I just broke down and I guess the sentry felt sorry for me because he gave me all the money in his pocket — thirty-three dollars and forty-nine cents.” She smiled. “That I remember precisely.”

Reaching under her glasses, she fingered the inside corners of her eyes. “Finally, someone was being nice to me. I never thanked him, never knew his name. Walked back to PCH, stuck out my thumb, caught a ride with some Mexicans heading over to Ventura to pick cabbage, just kept thumbing my way up the coast. My first stop was Santa Cruz, and I stayed there a while because it was beautiful and there was this retrohippie thing going on, plenty of free food and parks to sleep in. Eventually, I moved on to San Francisco, Crescent City, Oregon, Seattle, back down to Sacramento. The next ten years are kind of a blur. Finally, I got it together — you don’t want to know the boring details.”