“When you got home were Vita Berlin’s lights on?”
“Let’s see ... can’t rightly say. She paid her own electric, what she did with her lights was her own business.”
“Where can we find the Feldmans?”
“They’re good kids, still don’t know about this.”
“Why’s that?”
“Probably at work, they’re doctors—resident doctors. He’s at Cedars, she’s somewhere else, maybe the U., I’m not sure.”
“First names?”
“David and Sondra with an o. Trust me, they had nothing to do with this.”
“Doctors,” said Milo. Thinking: surgical cut.
Stanleigh Belleveaux said, “Exactly. Respectable.”
CHAPTER
4
By the time we left Belleveaux’s house a crime lab van was parked outside the tape. Two techs, both young men, were inside the apartment. Their kits rested out on the landing. The body remained in place.
Milo said, “Lance, Kenny.”
“Lieutenant,” said the taller man. L. Sakura on his tag. “This sure is disgusting.”
K. Flores didn’t react.
Milo said, “Keeps life interesting. Don’t let me stop you.”
Flores said, “How far do you want us to take this?”
“As far as you need to.”
“What I mean, Lieutenant, is there’s no sign of disruption in the room, it all seems centered on the body. Obviously we’ll print and look for fibers but do you see any reason to luminol?”
Sakura said, “Looks way too clean even for someone doing a mop-up. No bleach smell, either. We’ll check the drains, call in a forensic plumber if the fixtures give us a problem, but we don’t see much chance for significant blood evidence.”
“Other than her blood,” said Flores. “Which is probably the small spots on the towel. Even there, whoever did this was super-careful. Probably dabbed as he went and took whatever he used with him.”
“This is a freak,” said Sakura.
Milo said, “C.I. said most of the blood is pooled inside the body. Let’s see what you pull up print- and fiber-wise then we’ll talk about spraying.”
Flores said, “We pulled up one thing so far, probably no big deal.”
“What?”
“A note in the bedroom. We left it there.”
After donning new gloves and foot coverings, we followed Flores in while Sakura began fiddling with his kit.
Vita Berlin’s sleeping chamber was close, dim, spare, with walls also painted apartment-beige and linens of the same characterless hue. Double bed, no headboard or footboard, no personal touches. The books Milo had described were piled high on a white fiberboard nightstand. The surface of a three-door dresser was bare. Two more beehive lamps.
She hadn’t indulged others or herself.
Flores pointed to the foot of the bed where a rumpled scrap of white paper rested. “It was underneath, I took a photo of it there, then slid it out.”
We kneeled, read. In neat script someone had written:
Dr. B. Shacker
Below that, a 310 number. A diagonal line slashed the name. At the bottom of the page, a single word in larger, darker caps:
QUACK!!!
Flores said, “There’s dust and maybe crumbs down there but nothing weird.”
Milo copied down the information. “Thanks, Kenny, bag it.”
Back on the landing, he said, “Might as well talk to this doctor.” Half smiling. “Maybe he’s a surgeon.”
He 411’d, got a listing.
“Bernhard Shacker, Ph.D. North Bedford Drive, Beverly Hills. A colleague, Alex: That makes it a bit more interesting, no? Vita obviously had what you guys call issues, maybe she decided to get some help, tried out therapy, changed her mind. What’s that phrase you use about screwed-up folk resisting the most?”
“Baloney afraid of the slicer.”
“But she got sliced anyway. Maybe Shacker can educate us on her personality. Know him?”
I shook my head.
“Bedford Drive,” he said. “That’s high-ticket Couch Row, seems a little froufrou for someone who lived like Vita did.” Phoning Shacker’s number, he listened, frowned, clicked off.
“Recorded spiel,” he said. “I like your way better.”
I still use an answering service because talking to human beings is at the core of my job. “You didn’t leave a message.”
“Didn’t want to scare him off, in case he gets all pissy about confidentiality. Also I figured maybe talking to him is something you could do. One mind-prober to another.”
“While we’re at it, we can figure out transmigration of the soul.”
“Wouldn’t put it past you, amigo. So you’ll do it?”
I smiled.
He said, “Great, let’s check out that restaurant.”
He left his unmarked at the crime scene and we drove west to Robertson in my Seville. Bijou: A Dining Place was a brown-brick storefront set close enough to the 10 Freeway to harvest soot on its signage. The brick was grimy, too, but a picture window sparkled.
The morning special was blueberry pancakes. Posted hours said Breakfast and Lunch Only, Closed by Three p.m.
The restaurant’s interior said it was probably a venerable diner remodeled to look even older. From the freshness of the green vinyl seating and the laminate tabletops patterned to look like Formica, a recent upgrade. The kind of movie-star headshots you see in dry cleaners hung on the walls, along with black-and-white shots of pre-freeway L.A.
An old man reading The Wall Street Journal sat at the counter, nursing coffee and a sweet roll. Three of seven booths were occupied: Up in front, two young moms tried to chat while tending to bibbed, squirming toddlers in booster chairs. Behind them, a husky apple-faced man in his thirties ate steak and eggs while penciling a puzzle book. At the back, a brown-uniformed parcel driver small enough to be a jockey worked on a mountain of pancakes while grooving to his iPod. Both men looked up when we entered, returned to their recreation. The women were too busy with their kids to notice.
A waitress, young, blond, shapely, sleeve-tattooed, had the shift to herself. A short-order cook with an Incan face sweated behind the pass-through.
Milo waited until the waitress had refilled Wall Street’s coffee before approaching.
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
We 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.”
Victims Page 3