Finally, I said, “You marked the pizza box. It bothers you.”
“Everything about this bothers me.”
“No brand name on the box. Any indies around here deliver?”
He drew out his cell phone, clicked, and produced a page. Phone numbers he’d already downloaded filled the screen and when he scrolled, the listings kept coming.
“Twenty-eight indies in a ten-mile radius and I also checked Domino’s and Papa John’s and Two Guys. No one dispatched anyone to this address last night and nobody uses that particular box.”
“If she didn’t actually call out, why would she let him in?”
“Good question.”
“Who discovered her?”
“Landlord, responding to a complaint she made a few days ago. Hissing toilet, they had an appointment. When she didn’t answer, he got annoyed, started to leave. Then he thought better of it because she liked things fixed, used his key.”
“Where is he now?”
He pointed across the street. “Recuperating with some firewater down in that little Tudor-ish place.”
I found the house. Greenest lawn on the block, beds of flowers. Topiary bushes.
“Anything about him bother you?”
“Not so far. Why?”
“His landscaping says he’s a perfectionist.”
“That’s a negative?”
“This case, maybe.”
“Well,” he said, “so far he’s just the landlord. Want to know about her?”
“Sure.”
“Her name’s Vita Berlin, she’s fifty-six, single, lives on some kind of disability.”
“Vita,” I said. “The towel was hers.”
“The towel? This bastard used every damn towel she had in her linen closet.”
“Vita means ‘life’ in Latin and Italian. I thought it might be a sick joke.”
“Cute. Anyway, I’m waiting for Mr. Belleveaux—the landlord—to calm down so I can question him and find out more about her. What I’ve learned from prelim snooping in her bedroom and bathroom is if she’s got kids she doesn’t keep their pictures around and if she had a computer, it was ripped off. Same for a cell phone. My guess is she had neither, the place has a static feel to it. Like she moved in years ago, didn’t add any newfangled stuff.”
“I didn’t see her purse.”
“On her nightstand.”
“You taped off the bedroom, didn’t want me in there?”
“I sure do, but that’ll wait until the techies are through. Can’t afford to jeopardize any aspect of this.”
“The front room was okay?”
“I knew you’d be careful.”
His logic seemed strained. Insufficient sleep and a bad surprise can do that.
I said, “Any indication she was heading to the bedroom before he jumped her?”
“No, it’s pristine. Why?”
I gave him the delivery tip scenario.
“Going for her purse,” he said. “Well, I don’t know how you’d prove that, Alex. Main thing is he confined himself to the front, didn’t move her into the bedroom for anything sexual.”
I said, “Those towels make me think of a stage. Or a picture frame.”
“Meaning?”
“Showing off his work.”
“Okay ... what else to tell you ... her wardrobe’s mostly sweats and sneakers, lots of books in her bedroom. Romances and the kinds of mysteries where people talk like Noël Coward twits and the cops are bumbling cretins.”
I wondered out loud about a killer with martial arts skills and when he didn’t respond, went on to describe the kill-scene still bouncing around my brain.
He said, “Sure, why not.”
Agreeable but distracted. Neither of us focusing on the big question.
Why would anyone do something like this to another human being?
Gloria exited the apartment, looking older and paler.
Milo said, “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “No, I’m lying, that was horrible.” Her forehead was moist. She dabbed it with a tissue. “My God, it’s grotesque.”
“Any off-the-cuff impressions?”
“Nothing you probably haven’t figured out yourself. Broken neck’s my bet for COD, the cutting looks postmortem. The incisions look clean so maybe some training in meat-cutting or a paramedical field but I wouldn’t put much stock in that, all kinds of folk can learn to slice. That pizza box mean something to you?”
“Don’t know,” said Milo. “No one admits delivering here.”
“A scam to get himself in?” she said. “Why would she open the door for a fake pizza guy?”
“Good question, Gloria.”
She shook her head. “I called for transport. Want me to ask for a priority autopsy?”
“Thanks.”
“You might actually get it because Dr. J seems to like you. Also with something this weird, she’s bound to be curious.”
A year ago, Milo had solved the murder of a coroner’s investigator. Since then Dr. Clarice Jernigan, a senior pathologist, had reciprocated with personalized attention when Milo asked for it.
He said, “Must be my charm and good looks.”
Gloria grinned and patted his shoulder again. “Anything else, guys? I’m on half-shift due to budgetary constraints, figure to finish my paperwork by one then go cleanse my head with a couple of martinis. Give or take.”
Milo said, “Make it a double for me.”
I said, “Was significant blood pooled inside the body cavity?”
Her look said I was being a spoilsport. “A lot of it was coagulated but yes, that’s where most of it was. You figured that because the scene was so clean?”
I nodded. “It was either that or he found out a way to take it with him.”
Milo said, “Buckets of blood, lovely.” To Gloria: “One more question: You recall anything remotely like this in your case files?”
“Nope,” she said. “But we just cover the county and they say it’s a globalized world, right? You could be looking at a traveler.”
Milo glared and trudged down the stairs.
Gloria said, “Whoa, someone’s in a mood.”
I said, “It’s likely to stay that way for a while.”
CHAPTER
3
Stanleigh Belleveaux’s house was as meticulous inside as out.
Cozy, plush-carpeted place set up with doily-protected too-small furniture. The dollhouse feel was heightened by a brass étagère filled with bisque figurines. Another case bore photos of two handsome young men in uniform and an American flag paperweight.
“My wife’s thing,” said Belleveaux, wringing his hands. “The dolls, they’re from Germany. She’s in Memphis, visiting my mother-in-law.”
He was black, fiftyish, thickset, dressed in a navy polo shirt, pressed khakis, and tan loafers. A fleece of white blanketed his scalp and the bottom half of his face. His nose had been broken a few times. His knuckles were scarred.
“Her mom,” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“You called her your mother-in-law rather than her mom.”
“Because that’s how I think of her. Mother-in-law. Worst person I know. Like the Ernie K-Doe song, but you probably don’t remember that.”
Milo hummed a few bars.
Belleveaux smiled weakly. Turned grim and wrung his hands some more. “I still can’t believe what happened to Ms. Berlin. Still can’t believe I had to see it.” He closed his eyes, opened them. No booze on the table before him, just a can of Diet Coke.
Milo said, “Change your mind about the Dewar’s, huh?”
“It’s tempting,” said Belleveaux. “But a little early in the day, what if I get a call and have to drive?”
“Call from who?”
“A tenant. That’s my life, sir.”
“How many tenants do you have?”
“The Feldmans down below Ms. Berlin, the Soos and the Kims and the Parks and the other Parks in a triplex I
own over near Korea Town. Then I’ve got a real problem rental down in Willowbrook, inherited from my dad, a nice family, the Rodriguezes, are there now but it’s been tough because of the gangster situation.” He rubbed his eyes. “This is my best neighborhood, I chose to live here, last place I thought I’d have ... a problem. Still can’t believe what I saw, it’s like a movie, a bad one, a real horror movie. I want to switch to another channel but what I saw won’t budge out of here.” Placing a thumb-tip on his forehead.
“It’ll fade,” said Milo. “Takes time.”
“Guess you’d know about that,” said Belleveaux. “How much time?”
“Hard to say.”
“It’s probably easier for you, this being your job. My job, the worst thing I see is a bat in a garage, sewage leak, mice eating wires.” Frowning. “Gangsters in the Willowbrook place, but I keep my distance. This was way up close, too close.”
“How long have you owned the property across the street?”
“Seven years eight months.”
“That’s pretty precise, Mr. Belleveaux.”
“I’m a detail-man, Lieutenant. Learned precision in the army, they taught me mechanics, a little mechanical engineering, I didn’t need a college degree to accumulate adequate knowledge. Later when I was out and repairing washing machines and dryers for Sears, what the army inculcated in me came in handy: Only one way to do a job: right. Machine needs three screws, you don’t put in two.”
I said, “The same goes for boxing.”
“Pardon?”
“Your hands. I used to do karate, you pick up the signs someone else is into martial arts.”
“Martial arts?” said Belleveaux. “Nah, none of that for me, I just did a little sparring in the army, then a little more when I got out, light welterweight, used to be skinny. Busted my septum three times and my wife, she was my girlfriend back then, said Stan, you keep scarring yourself to the point where you’re ugly, I’m going to go find myself a pretty boy. She was kidding. Maybe. I wanted out anyway, what kind of life is that, getting knocked around, feeling dizzy for days? The money was terrible.”
He drank some Coke. Licked his lips.
Milo said, “So what can you tell us about Vita Berlin?”
“What can I tell you,” Belleveaux echoed. “That’s a complicated question.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“She wasn’t the easiest ... okay, look, I don’t want to be speaking bad of the dead. ’Specially someone who—what happened to her. No one deserves that. No one, no matter what.”
I said, “She had a difficult personality.”
“So you know what I’m talking about.”
I didn’t deny it. “Being her landlord could get complicated,” I prompted.
Belleveaux picked up the soda can. “Does what I tell you go in some kind of record?”
Milo said, “There’s a problem with that?”
“I don’t want to get sued.”
“By who?”
“Someone in her family.”
“They’re difficult as well?”
“Don’t know,” said Belleveaux. “Never met them. I just believe in being prepared, ounce of prevention and all that.”
“No particular reason you’re worried about being sued.”
“No, but those kinds of things,” said Belleveaux. “Traits. Orneriness. Runs in families, right? Like Emmaline. My mother-in-law. Her sisters are all like her, scrappy, always ready to tussle. It’s like stepping into a cage of badgers.”
“Vita Berlin threatened to sue you?”
“About a million times.”
“What for?”
“Anything that bothered her,” said Belleveaux. “Leaky roof, she doesn’t get a call-back in an hour, I’ll sue you. Torn carpet, I’m at risk of tripping and breaking my neck, fix it fast or I’ll sue you. That’s why I got irked when she demanded I show up for the toilet and wasn’t there when she said she’d be. That’s why I decided to use my key and go in there and fix it. Even though I knew she’d call me up and bitch about entering the premises without her permission. Which the landlord association says I can do at my discretion for just cause. Which includes reasonable repairs requested by the tenant. Turns out the toilet was fine.”
Milo said, “You went into the bathroom?”
“I listened while I was looking at her. I know it’s crazy but I couldn’t move for a few seconds, just stood there trying not to hurl my breakfast. And it was quiet, toilet’s out of whack you hear it. So I thought about that: It wasn’t even broken.”
I said, “Vita enjoyed giving you a hard time.”
“Don’t know if she enjoyed it, but she sure did it.”
“Did you try to evict her?”
Belleveaux laughed. “No grounds, that’s the way the law works. To get evicted, a tenant’s just about got to ...” He stopped short. “I was going to say they’ve got to kill someone. Oh, man, this is terrible.”
I said, “Seven years, eight months.”
“I bought the building four years five months ago, she came with it. I thought that meant good, long-term stable tenant. Then I learned different. Basically, she thought she owned it and I was her janitor.”
“Entitled,” I said.
“That’s a nice word for it,” he said.
“Cranky lady.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll come out and say it: She was a miserable specimen, didn’t have a good word for anyone. It’s like she had bile in her veins instead of blood. My guess is you’re not going to have too many people crying. Disgusted, yes, scared, yes. But not crying.”
“Disgusted by ...”
“What happened to her.” Belleveaux’s eyes clamped shut again. The lids twitched. “Man, no one deserves that.”
“But no one’s going to mourn.”
“Maybe she’s got some family who’ll mourn,” he said. “But no one who had anything to do with her is going to say they miss her. I’m not stating that for a fact, I’m just guessing, but I’d put money on my guess. You want to see what I mean, go over to Bijou, it’s a coffee shop on Robertson. She ate there from time to time, made their lives miserable. Same for the Feldmans, the downstairs tenants. Nice young couple, they’ve been here a year, are ready to move ’cause of her.”
“Neighbors’ dispute.”
“No dispute, she harassed them. They’re on the bottom floor, she’s on top but she’s the one complaining about footsteps. Actually made me come up to her place to listen a bunch of times, all I heard was her bitching, she’s saying, ‘See, hear that, Stan? They’re clomping around like barbarians.’ Then she lies down puts her ear to the carpet, makes me do it. That position, maybe I pick up a little sound but nothing serious. But I lie, tell her I’ll talk to them. Just to keep her out of my hair, you know? I did nothing about it, she dropped it. The next time, it’s something else—they fill the trash bins too high, they park their cars wrong, she thinks they snuck in a cat and it’s a no-pet building. What happened was there was a stray cat came to the back door, looked like it was starving, they gave it some milk. Which is the human thing to do, right? Now the Feldmans are going to leave for sure and I’ll have both units vacant. Should’ve put my pension money in gold bars or something.”
Milo said, “Sounds like Vita was a little paranoid.”
“That’s a word for it,” said Belleveaux. “But it was more like she wanted attention and being mean was a way to get it.”
“She have any friends?”
“None I ever saw.”
“And you live across the street.”
“Part of the problem. She knew where to find me. Here I was thinking the building would be perfect, convenient, no need to drive. Next time I buy, it’s in another state. Not that there’ll be a next time. Market was up, I’d sell everything.”
“What can you tell us about her daily routine?”
“From what I saw she kept to herself, didn’t go out much.”
“Except for meals.”
Milo said, “Vita eat anywhere else besides Bijou?”
“Mostly what I saw was takeout,” said Belleveaux. “From the boxes she’d throw out in the garbage. I know because she’d miss, I’d have to pick them up. The automated trucks they use nowadays, it’s not in the can, it stays there and I don’t want rats.”
“What kind of takeout?”
“What I saw was pizza boxes. So I guess she liked pizza.”
“From where?”
“Where? I don’t know—I think Domino’s, they’re the ones in the blue hats, right? Maybe other places, I don’t know. It’s not like I was checking out her eating habits through the drapes. The less I had to do with her, the better.”
“Did she get pizza delivered last night?”
“Wouldn’t know,” said Belleveaux. “I was at Staples, watching the Lakers take one from Utah. Went with my boys, they’re both master sergeants in the army, had leave the same week, we did a basketball thing and later we went to Philippe’s for some grub.” He touched his belt buckle. “Overdid it with the French dip, but how many times do you get to go out with your kids, do guy stuff, everyone’s being a grown-up? Got home late, slept late till seven, got her message on the machine, why didn’t I come yesterday after the first call, the toilet’s busted, it’s her right to have a functional toilet, all the fixtures are old and cheap and lousy, if I’m not going to replace them the least I can do is repair them in a timely manner, I’d best be there no later than eight a.m. or she’s filing a complaint.”
Milo said, “What time did she call you?”
“I didn’t check.”
“Message still on the machine?”
“Nah, I erased it.”
“Can you narrow it down?”
“Hmm,” said Belleveaux. “Well, I left for the game around four, stopped by at the Soos’ apartment to look at an electrical outlet, so it had to be after that.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Close to midnight. Drove Anthony and Dmitri to where they parked their rental car in the Union Station lot, Anthony drove Dmitri to the airport then he drove himself to Fort Irwin.”
Victims Page 2