Victims (4 page)

She said, “Sit anywhere you like, guys.”

Her badge chirped
Hedy!
Milo’s badge ruined her smile. The old man put his paper aside and eavesdropped.

Hedy said, “Let me get the owner.”

Milo said, “Do you know Vita Berlin?”

“She eats here.”

“Regularly?”

“Kind of,” she said. “Like two times a week?”

The old man said, “What’d
that
one do, now?”

Milo faced him. “She died.”

Hedy said, “Omigod!”

The old man, unperturbed, said, “How?”

“Unnaturally.”

“What does that mean? Suicide? Accident?” A bushy white eyebrow compressed to the shape of a croquet wicket. “Worse? Yeah, probably worse if the constabulary’s bothering to show up.”

Hedy said, “Oh, Sam.”

The old man regarded her with pity.

Milo turned to him. “You knew Vita.”

“Knew enough not to like her. What happened to her—she mouthed off to the wrong guy and he hauled off and bopped her one?”

Hedy said, “Omigod, Sam, this is terrible. Can I go get Ralph, Officers? He’s in back.”

Milo said, “Ralph’s the owner?”

The old man said, “Of this gourmet establishment.”

“Sure.”

Hedy rushed toward the
Exit
sign.

The old man said, “They’ve got a thing going. Her and Ralph.”

Milo said, “Sam?”

“Samuel Lipschitz, certified actuary,” said the old man. “Blessedly retired.” He wore a burnt-orange cardigan over a white shirt buttoned to the neck, gray hopsack slacks, argyle socks, cordovan lace-ups.

“What was it about Vita you didn’t like, Mr. Lipschitz?”

“So you’re verifying she was murdered.”

Raising his voice on the last word caused the young mothers to look over. The driver and the puzzle-solver didn’t react.

Milo said, “That wouldn’t surprise you.”

“Yes and no,” said Lipschitz. “Yes, because murder’s a low-frequency event. No, because, as I said, she had a provocative personality.”

“Who’d she provoke?”

“Anyone she felt like. She was an equal-opportunity harridan.”

“She was disruptive here?”

“She’d come swaggering in like a man, plop down in a booth, and start glaring, like she was just waiting for someone to do something that would give her the excuse to pull a snit. Everyone was wise to her so we ignored her. She’d sulk, order her food, eat, sulk some more, pay and leave.”

Lipschitz chuckled.

“So she really pushed someone too far, ay? How’d they do it? Where’d they do it?”

“I can’t get into that, sir.”

“Just tell me one thing: Was it around here? I don’t live in the neighborhood anymore, moved to Alhambra when I retired. But I come back to this place because I like the pastries, they get ’em from a Danish baker all the way out in Covina. So if there’s something I should worry about personal-security-wise, I’d appreciate your telling me. I’m seventy-four, would like to squeeze in a few more years.”

“From what we’ve seen, sir, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“That’s ambiguous to the point of being meaningless,” said Lipschitz.

“It wasn’t a street crime. It doesn’t appear connected to gangs or a robbery.”

“When did it happen?”

“Sometime last night.”

“I come here during the day I should be fine?”

“Mr. Lipschitz, is there anything else you can tell us about Vita?”

“Other than her being abrasive and antisocial? I did hear about something but I didn’t witness it firsthand. A confrontation, right here. Four, five days ago, I was in Palm Springs visiting my son. Missed my pastry and all the excitement.”

“Who told you about it?”

“Ralph—here he is, let him tell you himself.”

Ralph Veronese was no older than thirty, tall and borderline-emaciated with long, thick dark hair, a rock star’s cheekbones and slouchy stance. He wore a black bowling shirt, low-slung skinny jeans, work boots, a diamond stud in his left lobe. One arm was brocaded in blue ink.

His hands were rough, his voice soft. He asked if we could speak outside and when Milo assented, voiced his thanks profusely and guided us through the café to a rear alley. A red van occupied the single parking slot.

“Hedy just told me about Vita. I can’t believe it.”

“You don’t see anyone wanting to hurt her?”

“No, it’s not that. I mean I’m not saying someone would hurt her, it’s just … someone you know. She was here a couple of days ago.”

“She was a regular?”

“Two, three times a week.”

“Big fan of the food.”

Veronese didn’t answer.

Milo said, “Something must’ve drawn her here.”

“She could walk from her house. That’s what she told me once. ‘It’s not like you’re a great chef, I don’t have to waste gas.’ I said, ‘And hopefully we won’t give you any.’ She didn’t laugh. She never laughed.”

“Cranky lady.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Mr. Lipschitz said she’d had some kind of confrontation here a few days ago.”

Veronese rotated his earring. “I’m sure that had nothing to do with what happened to her.”

“Why’s that, Mr. Veronese?”

“Mr. Veronese was my grandfather, Ralph’s fine … yeah, Vita had a tough personality but I just can’t see anything that happened here being relevant.”

“Tell us about the confrontation, Ralph.”

He sighed. “There was no excuse for her behavior but I don’t even know the people’s names, it was the first time they were here!”

“What happened?”

“These people came in with their kid. Vita was already here, reading the
Times
that she always borrows from us and eating away.”

“How many people?”

“Mom, dad, the kid was little—four, five, I’m not good with ages.” Veronese tugged at a forelock, positioned it over his left eyebrow. “Bald. The kid. Skinny, these humongous eyes. Like you see on those ads for starving kids?” He tapped the crook of one arm. “Big bandage here. Like she got stuck with a shot, it was a she, a little girl.”

I said, “Sounds like a sick little girl.”

“Exactly, I figured cancer or something,” said Veronese. He sighed. “See something like that, makes you want to cry.”

I said, “Vita didn’t cry.”

“Oh, man.” His voice tightened. “I knew she was a pain in the ass but no way I figured something like that would happen. If I had, I’da seated them far from her. I seated them right next to her, make it easy for Hedy, you know?”

“Vita wasn’t happy about that?”

“At first she didn’t seem to notice them, she’s reading and eating, everything’s copacetic. Then the kid starts making noises. Not being annoying, like a moan, you know? Like she’s hurting, like something hurts. The parents are leaning over, whispering. Trying to comfort her, I guess. It goes on for a while. The moaning. Then the kid quiets down. Then she moans again and Vita puts down her paper, gives her the eye, you know?”

“Angry.”

“Angry with sharp eyes,” said Veronese. “What do they call it, dagger eyes? Like you can stab someone with them? My grandmother used to say that, ‘Don’t be shooting me those dagger eyes, you gonna draw my blood.’ Vita’s doing that, the dagger eyes. Right at the kid. The parents aren’t noticing, they’re concentrating on the kid. Finally,
she quiets down again, Hedy takes their order, offers the kid a donut but the parents say the kid’s stomach can’t take it. Vita mutters something, the father looks over, Vita glares at him, goes back behind her paper. Then the kid starts moaning again, a little louder. The father walks to the counter and asks me for some ice cream. Like he’s figuring that might calm the kid down. I say you bet and fix a double scoop, he goes back, tries to feed the kid the ice cream, she tastes it but then she’s not having it. Starts crying
again
. All of a sudden, Vita’s out of her booth, like this.” He clamped a hand on each hip. “Looking down at them, like they’re evil. Then she says something, then the kid’s father is up on his feet, too, and they’re going at each other.”

“Going how?”

“Arguing, I couldn’t hear what, ’cause I had gone back to the kitchen, same for Hedy, so all we heard was some kind of commotion. I thought something had happened to the kid, a medical emergency. So I rush back and the father and Vita are in each other’s faces and he looks ready to—he’s really pissed off but his wife grabs his arm, holds him back. Vita says something that makes him pull his arm free, he raises a fist. Just holds it there. Shaking. All of him is shaking. Then he calms down, swoops up the kid, and they head for the door. Funny thing is, now the kid’s calm. Like nothing ever happened.”

Another earring-tug. “I rush out, ask if there’s something I can do. I felt like shit, a sick kid, you know? It wasn’t her fault she didn’t feel good. Father looks at me, shakes his head, they drive off. I go back inside, Vita’s back in her booth, smiling. Says, ‘Some people have no class, I told them why would you people think the rest of the world wants to see your sick little brat, ruin their appetite? Sick people belong in hospitals, not restaurants.’ ”

Milo said, “Describe these people.”

“Thirty-five, forty,” said Veronese. “Nicely dressed.” Looking away.

I said, “Something else?”

“Black.”

“That ‘you people’ part probably didn’t go over well.”

“Yeah,” said Veronese, “that was evil.”

“Did Vita show other signs of racism?”

“Nah, she hated everyone.” He frowned. “Would’ve loved to toss her but she sues people, it’s all I can do to keep this place afloat, last thing I need is to be sued.”

“Who’d she sue?”

“The place she used to work, some kind of discrimination, they paid her off, that’s how she lives.”

“Who told you?”

“She did. Bragging.”

Milo said, “The people she had a to-do with. Thirty-five to forty, well dressed, and black. What else?”

“They drove a Mercedes. Not a big one, small station wagon.” Veronese scratched at his hairline. “Silver. I think. I’m sure they had nothing to do with it.”

“Why’s that?”

“How would they know who she was, where to find her?”

“Maybe they knew her before.”

“Didn’t seem that way,” said Veronese. “I mean they didn’t use names or anything.”

“Who else has Vita had words with?”

“Everyone leaves her alone.”

“Big tipper, huh?”

“You kidding?—oh, yeah, you are. Her top rate’s ten percent and for each thing that pisses her off, she drops a percent. And tells you. Hedy laughs about it, only reason she’s here is to do me a favor, her main thing’s singing, she sings in a band. I play bass behind her.” Smiling. “I like looking at the back of her.”

CHAPTER
5

W
e drove back to the crime scene. The coroner’s van had taken the body. Sakura and Flores were still busy at work, scraping, diluting, bagging, tagging.

“Lots of prints,” said Sakura, “where you’d expect them to be. Nothing on the doorknob, that’s wiped clean. We got a few hairs off the towels, gray, consistent with hers. We did find more blood on the towels—tiny little specks tucked into the nap. Same for the carpet, we’ll cut out squares. If he nicked himself operating on her, you could get lucky.”

Milo said, “From your mouth to the Evidence God’s ears.”

Flores said, “The sink drain’s kind of tricky, we are going to call in the plumber. Could take a couple of days.”

“Whatever it takes, guys. Anything else?”

“I don’t want to tell you your business, Lieutenant, but it was me, I’d put in for a tox screen super-stat.”

“You think she was doped?”

“This little resistance, maybe the offender used something on
her—like an anesthetic. Something that didn’t need to be injected, like chloroform or ether, because we didn’t find any needle marks. But maybe she medicated herself and that made his job easy. We found booze bottles under her bathroom sink when we were checking out the plumbing. Stashed at the back behind rolls of toilet paper.”

Reaching into an evidence bag, he drew out two 177ml Jack Daniel’s bottles, one sealed, the other down a third.

I said, “No booze anywhere else?”

“Nowhere.”

Sakura said, “Big bottles, she bought in bulk.”

I said, “She lived alone but hid her habit.”

“Living alone doesn’t mean she drank alone,” said Milo.

“Then why hide the booze?”

He had no answer for that and it made him frown.

I said, “If she did have a drinking pal, it was someone who wouldn’t pry in the bathroom.”

“Meaning?”

“No intimacy.”

“Behind toilet paper’s not the first place anyone would look. And if she was a solitary drinker, why bother to conceal?”

“Hiding a habit from herself,” I said. “Someone who needed to think of herself as totally in control. And righteous.”

That didn’t impress anyone.

Flores said, “What’s your take on the broken neck, Lieutenant, some sort of karate move?”

“I should be checking out dojos? Asking if they have anyone likes also to cut people up and play with their guts.” He turned to the pizza box. “You guys ready to open it up?”

“Sure,” said Sakura. “We already dusted, no prints or anything else. Didn’t feel like there was any pizza in there. Or anything else.”