“What’s the second?”
“The second made him really nervous, I had to pry it out of him. He remembers Denny Rapfogel being tense when he posed. Which was different from Denny’s usual demeanor, Tomashev had always seen him as a friendly, maybe too-friendly guy. I asked him to pick out a few images to illustrate. He’s got a point, Alex. Check out two fifty-nine and six eighty-three.”
Both were family shots: bride, groom, two sets of parents. In the first, taken in the church, Denny Rapfogel hovered behind his wife, slit-eyed and wearing a smile forced beyond any hope of mirth. In the second image, at the reception, his face had gone blank and he’d put space between himself and Corinne.
I said, “Distant and preoccupied.”
“If he just choked a girl out, he’d have good reason. I’d love to be getting that feeling, Alex—everything jelling. But I’m not there yet. With his marriage and his business falling apart, there’d be all kinds of reasons not to smile.”
“Time for surveillance.”
“You read my mind,” he said. “Then again, they sent you to school for that. I’m gonna do it myself, wanna take a look at where and how these people live. Any other ideas?”
“Still wary of the Valkyrie?”
“Depends on what’s at stake.”
“You could show her Denny’s photo and ask if he was a customer. Or take advantage of her flu and show it to the bartender. Same for other strip joints if you’ve got the personnel.”
“Good idea. The baby D’s don’t have time, I’ll do that myself, too.”
CHAPTER
15
Surveillance is a mind-numbing, often fruitless process that can go on for days. I didn’t expect to hear from Milo for a while.
He knocked on my door at eight a.m. the following day.
“You’re an early riser, right?” he said, stooping to pet Blanche and marching to the kitchen.
“Good morning.”
He stopped just short of the fridge. “These are your breakfast options: I take you out for a hearty repast or I whip us up something here, your provisions, my labor.”
His face was grizzled, his hair greasy. Sagging, food-specked sweats screamed all-night ordeal.
But his eyes, though bloodshot, were active and his expression was toys-under-the-Christmas-tree.
I said, “How about I cook and you show-and-tell.”
He plopped down at the kitchen table. “Eggs, por favor, I’ll take four. Throw stuff in, max protein would be welcome. Also, toast, doesn’t matter what kind but pile it up. That coffee fresh?”
I poured him a cup, brought it over with heavy cream.
“You’re pretty good at this,” he said. “You sure you never wanted to be an actor?”
“What’s the happy occasion?”
“New info on Denny Rapfogel. Remember how I told you NCIC and the department had nothing on him? I decided to give it another try, found out his Social and got all his previous addresses. California boy all the way, he’s originally from Fresno, moved to Clovis when he was a teenager. Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, he was known to local law enforcement. DUIs, drunk and disorderly, couple of burglaries from commercial establishments, receiving stolen property. Looks like no punishment beyond a bit of local jail time, then probation, which he served without violation.”
I said, “Wild oats eluding the Feds.”
“You know how it is, cities don’t always report. Anyway, Mr. R was a certified bad boy.”
“Nothing since then?”
“Unfortunately not. Maybe he changed his ways, maybe he just got careful. To me the bottom line is he’s shown himself capable of antisocial behavior. It feels like a few more bricks in the foundation, no?”
Long-ago youthful crimes were a long way from calculated murder. It felt like a reach.
I nodded.
“There’s more,” he said. “I watched his and Corinne’s house from seven p.m. on. Nice two-story, south of the boulevard—what’re you putting in there?”
“Onions, tomatoes, spinach, Jack cheese, leftover steak.”
“Ahh, you’re a prince—no, you’re better, you’re one of those Venice guys who ruled city-states—a doge…I like my eggs easy, Lord Alessandro.”
He swigged coffee, ran a hand over his hair. Bent low and stage-whispered to Blanche, “When the doge isn’t looking I’ll slip you something.”
I said, “Surveillance paid off?”
“You be the judge. Both of them got home soon after I arrived. Same office but separate cars. Which tells us something about that thing you talk about—their psychodynamics. Around eight thirty, Corinne leaves wearing exercise clothes and a gym bag. A few minutes after that, Denny comes out in a black suit and T-shirt. He goes to his car while talking on the phone. Cheap-looking flipper, could be that burner we wondered about. Conversation over, he gives a big smile, gets in, and drives off.”
“None of that wedding grumpiness.”
“Just the opposite, little bounce in his step. He drives higher up in the hills, stops at a cute little cottagey house a quarter of a mile away. Hillside lot, one those aerobic driveways. Gated, but you can see through and there’s outdoor lighting. He punches in a code, the gate opens, he speeds up to the front of the house and parks. By the time he’s out of his car, a redhead in white short-shorts and tank top is outside greeting him.”
He laughed. “If you call a long, soulful kiss and a crotch tweak a greeting—those eggs aren’t getting too firm?”
I emptied the pan onto his plate.
He filled his mouth. Chewed like an industrial combine and swallowed. “Tastes like rib eye.”
“Good call.”
“That, Doge Mio, is the essence of friendship. Okay, so Denny and the redhead head to her house. She puts her hand on his ass. They’re both bouncing now, like a couple of bungee jumpers. He stays in there for an hour and a quarter, leaves by himself, cruises down to Ventura, drives to a bar in Studio City. I took a risk and peeked. He’s by himself with a beer. I go back to the car, he comes out twenty minutes later and goes home. Corinne’s car is back. I watched for a while to see if any sparks would fly but nothing.”
I said, “Maybe he drank to put booze on his breath as a cover. I’ve been downing shots by my lonesome, honey.”
“You’re a devious lad. Anyway, lights go out around eleven, I leave. But here’s the interesting part. While I’m sitting out there, I’m running a check on the girlfriend’s house and it’s owned by a woman named Sliva Cardell.”
“Relative of Leanza.”
“Close relative, Leanza’s mommy as verified by Leanza’s Facebook. Her and three brothers, no daddy of note. On Sliva’s page, there are old bikini shots that she posts as if they’re current. Googling her name pulls up real estate ads—she’s a broker.”
“Was she at the wedding?”
“Yup, her car shows up in the list from the parking lot and when I got home I found her in a few of the wedding photos. Including the one with Red Dress.”
He took another bite, wiped his hands, drew out his phone, and began typing.
I said, “Two girlfriends in one frame. Any eye contact between them?”
“Nope, my luck doesn’t extend that far. Sliva’s closer to the front, like she’s waiting to get to the bar and tank up. She’s putting on a little show for a bunch of younger guys surrounding her. Blue dress, super low-cut, bending and offering them a view of her maternal instincts.”
He pulled up an image on his phone, enlarged a section, and pointed. “This is Saucy Sliva.”
Still too small for me to catch subtle details. But nothing subtle about bright-orange hair cut in a short glossy cap, an electric-blue off-the-shoulder, low-cut piece of satin, and cleavage that could hide a paperback book.
Strong-shouldered woman, thick arms
, white flash of smile. “Analysis?”
I said, “Obviously, Denny goes for the mousy type.”
Milo’s eyebrows shot up as he barked laughter. Chewing frantically, he pounded his chest, swallowed with a gulp, coughed, drank coffee. “Don’t do that while I’m eating.”
I thought: That limits me.
I said: “The doge obeys rules?”
“Everyone obeys rules. I can’t see any obvious link between shtupping a bridesmaid’s mom and Red Dress. Except what it confirms about Denny. This is a guy ruled by his gonads who’s been known to break the law. Like I said, brick by brick.”
He finished the omelet, examined the toast. “Whole wheat, fine, why not?”
I poured myself my fourth cup of coffee and sat down across from him. “I still think the method exhibits rage or sadism. Using dope to be able to look into her eyes. But there’d be another advantage to knocking her out first. Physical strength wouldn’t be a factor.”
“A woman.”
“There seem to be a few of them in Mr. Rapfogel’s life.”
“Hell hath no fury,” he said, pushing away the toast.
I said, “The obvious angry woman is Corinne but she’d be the last person to trash her daughter’s wedding and she’d be too conspicuous to slip away. Sliva, on the other hand, wouldn’t be missed. Does she look as sturdy in real life as in the pictures?”
“She’s no bikini model but she ain’t flabby, so sure, sturdy enough. Especially with a fentanyl backup.”
He pulled up Sliva Cardell’s image again. “Not much fabric to damage, here. And yeah, those arms are pretty substantial, no?”
He logged onto a Facebook page. Sliva in her thirties wearing a flesh-colored thong bikini that created a first impression of nudity. Voluptuous and hard-bodied, topped by shagged yellow hair that approached the crack of her buttocks. “Definitely not a wimp. So what, getting rid of the competition?”
I said, “The motivation seems lacking. We’re talking cold brutality in order to win a broke guy never known to be faithful. Unless she’s got some serious pathology going on.”
“Last night, she looked pretty enthusiastic about ol’ Denny. Maybe a younger, hotter rival tipped the scales. As far as kinks in her psyche, no past criminal record and I can’t exactly show up and ask to interview her.”
“Can you put a separate watch on her?”
“Depends if any of the baby D’s are available and that’s looking weak because all of a sudden, there’s flak from above.” He cleared his throat. “Apparently, I’ve been co-opting staff for non-essential assignments.” Laughing. “Like I actually read the memo.”
He phoned Reed. Voicemail. Same for Binchy and Bogomil.
I said, “The kids leave, they don’t write, they don’t call.”
“Moses called last night. No one at any of the other strip clubs knows Red Dress. Same response to Denny Rapfogel’s DMV photo, including the barkeep at The Booty Shop. I emailed the shot to James Johnson and got the same answer.”
He laid his phone on the table. Two swallows of coffee later, it played Beethoven and began jumping. He glanced at the screen, said, “The crypt,” and switched to speaker.
“Lieutenant Sturgis, this is Basia Lopatinski.” Mellow voice, Slavic accent.
“Thanks for calling back, Doctor.”
“Of course, I initiated the correspondence. As I said, I think it’s good to speak with you about your Jane Doe but maybe not over the phone?”
“I’ll come over there when it’s good for you.”
“I have just completed a two-day seminar on splenic abnormalities in Santa Monica and am about to have lunch nearby. Could you come to the Ostrich Café on Wilshire Boulevard? The internet says slow service but good food. I’m hoping they don’t cook big birds.”
I found the address and showed it to him. Just west of Tenth Street.
“See you in twenty or so minutes, Doctor. I might be bringing our consulting psychologist.”
“Very good, Lieutenant,” said Basia Lopatinski. “I may be how you say—spinning wheels—but I think it will be interesting.”
“Something not in the autopsy report?”
“I tell you when I see you.”
CHAPTER
16
Le Ostrich Café shared a block with a vegan restaurant, a high-end butcher shop, and a fish market. Nothing about the place stood out. A general practitioner among specialists.
Cramped, crowded interior with a take-out counter and a coffee bar. The fare on the chalkboard was pastries and salads. As Milo and I looked around, a woman in an oversized gray sweater and black jeggings stood up and waved.
Forties, leggy, model-thin, but half a foot short of model height. Short, wispy ash-blond hair topped a triangular face marked by a strong nose and an unusually broad, full-lipped mouth. One of those mouths that enjoys smiling and was having a grand time proving it.
Milo made the introductions, calling her “Doctor” and doing the same for me.
She said, “Basia,” and smiled even wider. Her barely touched meal was sourdough bread, cold string beans topped by sesame seeds, and a discouraged green salad.
She said, “I made an unfortunate choice. The only protein they have is chicken breast and that’s like blank white paper.”
Milo said, “We can go over to the butcher shop and get you some charcuterie.”
“It is tempting, Lieutenant. Please sit. Unless you want something here. Then you have to go there for order and pickup.”
Milo pointed to a jar on the counter. “And they expect tips.”
“Ha,” said Basia Lopatinski. “It’s better than Soviet Poland but not as good as America should be. Do you want something?”
“No, thanks, Doctor. We’re intrigued by your call.”
“I am intrigued as well, by your strangled Jane Doe. I requested to meet you away from the crypt and didn’t put what I’m going to tell you in the report, because recently we have instructions to adhere to observed facts and avoid theory. I, especially, need to behave myself because I am not full-time staff.”
“Freelancing?”
“That’s one way to put it, but really probation,” she said. “In Warsaw, I was a professor of forensic pathology. Here, I’m considered barely out of training. I just took my California and national boards.” She crossed her fingers. “Meanwhile, I am supervised and my current supervisor is the guy who wrote the no-theorizing rule.”
“Who’s that?”
“I’d rather not say, Lieutenant. Not that what I have to tell you is controversial. It’s merely outside the scope of my job description.”
“Got it.”
“Okay, then.” Another generous smile. “Initially, there were three things about your Jane Doe that stood out to me. First of all, the use of what was most probably a wire garrote in such an unusual manner. As you know, ligature strangulation is a comparatively rare cause of death. Even then, most ligatures are cloth—rope, shoelaces, clothing. A garrote fits more with a gangster execution—I saw a few when I did some training in Italy. In those cases, a strong, thin, band of metal was used and the wound was far deeper, generally close to complete decapitation. What we have here is basically a subcutaneous wound that only grazes underlying muscle. Yet enough pressure was exerted to bring about asphyxiation.”
I said, “Someone taking their time.”
“Someone exercising precise control,” said Basia Lopatinski. “If this was a musical matter, we might say a virtuoso performance in lento tempo.”
“That’s interesting. Maybe we’re dealing with a musician.” I told her about the guitar string gauges.
“Yes, I thought of that as well. But as I said, theory is not encouraged.”
She buttered a slice of bread, nibbled a corner. “The second initial point of interest is consistent with
the first. As I’m sure you know, fentanyl is fatal in extremely small doses. I know you policemen wear gloves because even a subcutaneous dose can be dangerous. And when combined with heroin, the danger of a lethal overdose is significant. And yet we don’t have that. Not close. We have a cocktail with just enough to incapacitate, perhaps to the point of unconsciousness, perhaps only to the point of semiconsciousness.”
Milo said, “A sadist prolonging the process.”
Lopatinski took three more bites. “Yes, sadism makes sense. The third factor isn’t supposition, it’s correlation. Whether or not it’s a causal correlation—I’m being too abstract, sorry.”
She took a sip of tea. “The third factor is another homicide. A case I handled in Warsaw.”
Milo sat forward. “Unsolved?”
“No, solved. That’s what makes it even more interesting. I’ll summarize. Eight years ago I was a professor of pathology and deputy chief medical examiner at the Warsaw morgue. A victim came in, a prostitute dumped in a public latrine in a bad part of town. The murderer was caught—a career criminal who also played folk music on the street for gullible tourists. Ignacy Skiwski. I will spell that for you.”
Milo copied. “A latrine.”
Basia Lopatinski said, “Exactly, the first similarity. The others involved modus. Pre-injection—with heroin alone, fentanyl was not widely available then. Initially, the injection was believed to be in the antecubital fossa where an addict would inject.”
She patted the inner crook of her arm. “This victim was an addict, no one thought anything of it. But then we shaved her head and found the wound in the neck and I realized the arm puncture had already begun to scab so it was older. I informed my superior and he told me to concentrate on the strangulation because it was the true cause of death. I did, but what stood out to me was exactly the same as your case. No deep wound, just enough pressure with a metal garrote to cut off oxygen fatally.”
I said, “Folk music. A guitar string.”
She nodded. “The police recovered a cheap instrument from Skiwski’s room that was missing a string—I don’t remember which one. I termed the gauge consistent with the wound. As I wrote in your report, skin is not static, it moves around, so one can never be sure.”
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