Victims (16 page)

Milo walked away from her again. Her face tensed with anger but
before she could speak, he circled back. “Okay, here’s something to tell him: If this
was
a confirmed sexually motivated psychopath, some rapist who escalated to murder, I’d have been talking to Public Affairs as soon as the second one surfaced, hoping an earlier, live victim would come forth. The same goes for a serial asshole targeting a specific victim population—hookers, convenience clerks, whatever. In that case there’d be a moral as well as a practical benefit: letting high-risk targets know so they can protect themselves. But what do we go public on, here, Maria? A bogeyman stalking and butchering random citizens? That risks setting off a panic with very little upside.”

“What’s your alternative?” she said. “A nice collection of murder books?”

“I haven’t even started working these two victims. Maybe I’ll learn something that will change everything. If you let me do the damn job.”

“
I’m
holding you back?”

“Wasting time explaining myself is holding me back.”

“Oh, so you’re different from anyone else?” Back to me: “What’s with the question mark on these two, Doctor?”

I said, “The same thing was left with the first two victims.”

She blinked. “Yes, of course. So what does it mean?”

“Could be a taunt,” I said.

Milo smiled. “Or our bad boy’s expressing his curiosity.”

“About what?” said Thomas. “The mysteries of the human body.”

“That’s grotesque. You know what
I
thought when I saw it? Some weird mystical symbolism, like the Zodiac used to send. You look into any witchcraft angles?”

“I’m open to anything, Maria.”

“Meaning you haven’t. And you’re opposed to going public. How many bodies will it take to get you flexible?”

“If nothing on these two—”

“Good,” she said. “You’re open-minded when forced to be. He’ll be happy to hear it. He respects you, you know.”

“I’m touched.”

“You really should be. Get back to me if you learn something. Sooner rather than later.”

“You’re the glove,” said Milo.

“Pardon.”

“He doesn’t want to dirty his hands so he gloves up.”

Maria Thomas examined her spotless, manicured digits. “You have a way with words. Sure, view me as a glove. And bear in mind that finger-poking can be painful.”

CHAPTER
20

T
homas left the scene scolding her phone. Drove off in a sparkling blue city sedan.

Milo said, “Before she stuck her nose in, I was thinking about going public at some point. But right now I don’t see what it’ll accomplish and the panic thing’s an issue.”

I said, “If you release any data, I’d choose the question marks. They’re unique to our bad guy, might jog someone’s memory.”

He shuffled over to the Parnells’ cars, looked inside. “I don’t make some kind of progress soon, the decision won’t be mine. You got the point of Thomas showing up.”

“Behave or else.”

“More than that. The chief smells a big-time loser in these cases so he’s keeping his distance.” He flipped his pad open. “Where’s that lawyer who threatened Barron Parnell … here we go, ‘William Leventhal, Esquire, representing the Cameron Family Trust.’ Sounds like a big money deal, let’s see if this legal eagle earned his cut.”

William B. Leventhal ran a one-man practice on Olympic near Sepulveda.

On the way over, Milo said, “Booze and surprise for Vita, sucker punch for Marlon. Now he does two young healthy ones.”

I said, “Same basic technique: surprise supplemented this time by darkness. Barron was the serious threat so he was drawn outside, blitzed, and stabbed to death. But no surgery, not even later when our bad guy had a chance. That says Glenda was the primary target and with Barron unlocking the door, she was easy prey. Also, her glasses were off because the two of them were planning a romantic evening and the room was dim, leading to a loss of focus. Before she had time to figure out what was going on, he was in charge. We know he stalked his first two victims, so he probably did the same with her.”

“You don’t see it as a two-fer? Doubling his pleasure?”

“Upping the body count was a bonus, but I think Barron was a hurdle to jump so he could get to Glenda.”

“So I’m wasting my time with Leventhal.”

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

The lawyer’s front office staff was a woman in her seventies at a hundred-year-old desk. A brass nameplate said
Miss Dorothy Band, Exec. Secy. to Mr. Wm. B. Leventhal
. An IBM Selectric took up half her desk. Near the machine sat a precisely cornered stack of elegant beige stationery, a shorter pile of carbon paper, and a Bakelite intercom box that predated the Truman administration.

Unflustered by our drop-in, Miss Dorothy Band pressed a button on the box. “Mr. L, police to see you.”

The machine barked back: “I paid those tickets.”

“They say it’s about the Cameron case.”

“What about it?”

“They say they need to talk to you directly.”

“That’s a civil case, none of their business.”

“Sir …”

“Fine. See-
yend
them in.”

The trek to Leventhal’s inner sanctum took us past a vast law library. A man was there to greet us, a good ten years older than Dorothy Band. Short, thick, and broad-shouldered, William Leventhal had bright, burnt-chocolate eyes, white hair still tinged rusty in spots. An uncannily deep voice said, “Police. Heh. C’mon in.”

Leventhal’s office was vast, wood-paneled, shag-carpeted in the precise green of pimiento olives, redolent of dill pickles and old paper and musky aftershave. Heat streamed from a floor vent, creating a tropical ambience. William B. Leventhal wore a three-piece English-cut herringbone suit of heavy tweed, a starched white shirt, and a bolo tie held in place by a mammoth nugget of amethyst.

Not a trace of sweat on his plump face. A tweedy leprechaun, he lowered himself into a tufted leather chair commodious enough to harbor a panda. “The girl informs me this is about Cameron.”

Milo started to explain.

Leventhal said, “Murder? You won’t find the solution here. Never met Parnell, never even deposed him. Heh.”

“You sent him a letter—”

“He was named along with everyone else in that firm. The case settled.
Finis
. Good-bye.”

“What firm is that, sir?”

“ ‘Sir,’ ” said Leventhal. “A kid with manners, I like that. If you must know, the miscreants in question are Lakewood, Parriser and DiBono, alleged money managers. Parnell worked there as a fixed-income specialist. In plain terms, boys, he bought bonds for rich people.”

“The Cameron Trust is—”

“An inspired creation that has allowed two generations of not-too-bright Camerons to avoid gainful employment.”

“Parnell’s investments didn’t do well?”

“They did fine,” said Leventhal. “Though a trained parakeet
could’ve handled the task. We’re talking triple-A conservative investments, you read a daily list and pick. Or peck, if you’re a parakeet. Heh.”

“Then why did you—”

“In order to proceed optimally against the
primary
scoundrels, I was required to name everyone through whose hands Cameron money had passed.” He rubbed chubby palms together. “I got to sue their office manager, their Human Resources person, their bookkeepers. The cleaning crew’s fortunate they weren’t named. Heh.”

“The scoundrels were—”

“Lakewood.” Leventhal ticked a finger. “DiBono. Parriser. Not necessarily in that order.”

“What I’m getting at,” said Milo, “is the nature of their scam—”

“No scam,” said Leventhal. “I never said scam, no, no, no, no-
ooow
. A clear case of deceit would’ve been easy to ferret out. No, these geniuses were subtle. Promising verbally to invest in secure products but engaging in all sorts of risky nonsense. Commodity futures, derivatives, inadequately secured real estate loans. The veneer of solidity but once you looked closely, a house of cards.” He winked. “I sued their outside accountant. Brought the lot of them to their knees.”

“So the Camerons never lost money.”

“Preventive medicine, boys. The rascals tried to claim that the original terms of the trust gave them lifetime control. I put the lie to that notion.”

The left side of Leventhal’s mouth rose. “And now the Camerons remain free to avoid honest labor.”

“Congratulations,” said Milo.

“Virtue is its own reward, young man. No, actually a fat contingency commission is far better recompense. So. Who murdered poor Mr. Parnell? Whom I’ve never met.”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Well, you won’t find out here. Was the wife involved?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because she was a battle-ax. I say that because when we served Parnell, she was abusive to the server. He described her with the B word but I’ll stick with ‘battle-ax’ because memories of my mother washing my mouth out with soap still linger.”

“The process server told you this?”

“He’s my great-grandson, of course he told me.”

“We’d like to speak with him.”

“Suit yourselves,” said Leventhal, rattling off an international number. “That’s England, Brian’s international cell phone. Brian Cohn, no
e
. Cambridge University, he’s on fellowship. International relations, whatever that is. Jesus College. Brian Cohn at Jesus College. Heh. Tell him he owes me ten hours of work. You’re thinking the wife was involved?”

“She was definitely involved,” said Milo. “She’s also dead.”

“I see … did her death occur within the same approximate time frame as Mr. Parnell’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Both bodies at the scene?”

“Sir—”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Leventhal. “Wouldn’t the obvious answer be murder-suicide?”

“Why would you think that, sir?”

“Because when a couple expires in a near-simultaneous manner, we always zeroed in on the murder-suicide angle and we were almost invariably correct. I’m referring to back in the day. When I did criminal prosecution at the Brooklyn D.A. Two bodies, weapon on the scene, first thing we’d look for was one party going berserk and victimizing the alleged loved one. You could put money on it. Sometimes we did. Office pools and such.”

“That didn’t happen here, Mr. Leventhal.”

“You’re certain.”

“We are.”

“Okay, hmm … did the wife have a boyfriend? Did
he
have a
girl
friend? Was money taken? Jewelry, other valuables? Do acquaintances imply loss of mental control for one of the parties—some sort of personality disintegration? How were the two of them dispatched? Gun? Knife? Blunt object? None of the above?”

Milo said, “Sorry, we can’t—”

“Of course you can’t,” said Leventhal. “Because if you could you might stumble upon someone with half a brain, sixty-two years of legal experience, one-third of that prosecutorial. But why make your life easier?”

He sprang up and waved us to the door. “Despite your reticence, I’ll reiterate some sage advice, boys: Check out the wife. Even without a murder-suicide angle, we always hurt the one we love. And someone as short-tempered as her was bound to evoke hostility. Take a close look to see if she’d engaged in any sort of emotional dustup recently. If you find out she had a boyfriend to boot, we’re talking emotional TNT.”

“Thanks for the tip, sir.”

“No problem,” said Leventhal. “I won’t even bill you.”

Milo called Cambridge from the car. Brian Cohn picked up, sounding hung-over. “Yuh?”

Milo explained.

Cohn said, “This is England, man, you know what time it is?” He coughed, cleared his throat. Phlegm-laden laughter. “Oh, man, there he goes again.”

“Who?”

“Wild Bill. Aka Greatest-Grandpa.
He
gets up at four a.m. so we all have to.”

“He’s quite a guy. Says you owe him—”

“Ten hours of work, yada yada yada. By his calculation. Which was probably done on an abacus.” Cohn laughed again. A female voice sounded in the background. “One sec, babe.” Yawn. “Okay, I’m quasi-awake, what do you need to know about that crazy shrew?”

“Tell us about your encounter.”

“Why?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. Even for someone like that.”

Milo said, “Like what?”

“Hostile. No one likes to be served but the worst you usually get is a sneer, some cursing. She came to the door wearing her white coat; I figured, good, a doctor, someone rational. Because plenty of times you’re dealing with Neanderthals. This was one of those deals where I didn’t need to hand it to Parnell personally, just ascertain his primary residence and verify that someone had accepted it. I used the flower ruse, bought some cheap ones at the supermarket. She came to the door, said, ‘Is this from Barry? Hold on, I’ll get you a tip.’ I said not necessary, handed her the papers, informed her she’d just accepted service, and split. She came after me, running into the street, screaming I’m a lowlife. Then she grabbed me by the shoulder, tried to force the paper back on me. First time anyone ever got physical other than one drunk guy and that time I was prepared, took a friend who played halfback at the U. From a woman, let alone a doctor, I wasn’t ready for it, I’m trying to peel her off me, her nails are digging in my arm, the papers are flying all over the place. Finally, I free myself and get the hell out of there. So what, she pissed someone off and they killed her?”