“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
Thomas 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.”<
br />
“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 girlfriend? 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?”
“Don’t know, yet.”
“Well,” said Brian Cohn. “I’d sure look into that possibility.”
As we drove away from Leventhal’s building, Milo said, “Another tough personality, shades of Vita. Without Quigg stuck between the two of them I’d say we had ourselves a nice little pattern: women with short fuses.”
“Be interesting to see if Glenda’s co-workers saw her that way.”
“Interesting would be okay,” he said. “Intriguing would be better.”
CHAPTER
21
North Hollywood Day Hospital was an off-white sugar cube on a marginal block of Lankershim Boulevard. Windows were barred. A bearish uniformed guard lurked near the front door, smoking.
Bordering the building were storefront offices catering to personal injury lawyers, physicians and chiropractors specializing in “Industrial Rehabilitation,” and medical equipment suppliers. The largest concern, double-wide and neon-lit, advertised walk-in occupational and physical therapy.
Welcome to Slip-and-Fall Heaven.
Milo said, “Lordy, my sacroiliac is a-throbbin’,” as he pulled into a loading zone and left a long-expired crime scene parking card on the dash.
The guard studied our approach above a smog-burst of tobacco. When we got close, he stepped in front of the door and folded his arms across his chest.
Milo said, “You’re kidding.”
“Huh?”
“A pro like you can’t sniff out a big clue?”
“Wuh clue?”
“We ain’t selling catheters, Marshal Dillon.” Out came the badge. The guard shifted just wide enough to clear the entry.
“Fast learner,” said Milo and we strode past him.
The waiting area was bright, stuffy, standing room only. Despair vied with boredom for the dominant emotion. Wheelchairs, walkers, oxygen tanks abounded. Anyone who seemed physically okay looked psychologically stricken. All the joy of death row.
The queue at the reception window was a dozen deep. Milo pushed past and rapped his knuckles on the glass. The woman on the other side kept clicking computer keys.
He rapped again.
Her eyes remained on her keyboard.
Third time’s the charm. She snapped, “Just hold on!” A speaker box transformed her voice into something metallic and unwelcoming. Or maybe that was just her.
Milo banged hard enough to vibrate the glass and the receptionist wheeled, teeth bared, ready to confront. The badge silenced her and she took it out on a button under her desktop, stabbing viciously. A door on the far side of the waiting room gave off a loud click.
Someone said, “How come he gets to jump?”
Milo said, “Because I’m handsome.”
Another large but soft guard waited on the other side. Behind him was a beige corridor lined with doors the same color. Identical hue, also, for the vinyl flooring and the plastic signs directing the infirm toward Exam 1, Exam 2 ... Ecru faces on the patients, as well. Welcome to Planet Bread Dough.
“Police, what for?” said the guard.
“I need to talk to Dr. Glenda Usfel-Parnell’s boss.”
The guard’s lips moved as he tried to get his mouth around the hyphenation.
Milo said, “Get me the head of nuclear medicine.”
The guard reached into his pocket and drew out a wilted piece of paper. “Um ... that’s ... Usfel, G.”
“Not anymore. Who’s her boss?”
“I dunno.”
“How long you been working here?”
“Three weeks tomorrow.”
“You know Dr. Usfel?”
“You don’t hardly see the doctors, they go in and out through there.” Pointing to a door at the end of the hallway.
“Who’s the big boss?”
“That would be Mr. Ostrovine.”
“That would be who you go find.”
The man who burst through the rear door wore a too-snug gray suit of ambiguous cloth, a blue shirt with a high, stiff
collar, and a pink paisley tie that had never gone near a silkworm. With better fabrics, the result would’ve been foppish. This screamed Trying Too Hard.
The same went for fruity aftershave, a scary tan, and a toupee that landed well short of possible. “Mick Ostrovine. How can I help you?”
“We’re here about Dr. Usfel.”
“What about her?”
“She’s deceased.”
Ostrovine’s spray tan drained to the ambient beige. “Glenda? She worked a double shift yesterday, she was fine, what happened?”
“Someone broke into her home and killed her.”
“Oh my God, that’s insane. Her home? Some kind of home invasion?”
“We’re sorting things out, Mr. Ostrovine.”
A nearby door opened, silent as the gill-slit on a shark. A heavy woman in scrubs pushed a wheelchair toward us. Her passenger was an ancient man wrapped in a blanket, hairless, blue-veined, slumped, barely conscious.
“Hey, Mr. O,” she said. “Got all them tests run, taking him to the physical therapy for that exercise.”
“Sure, sure,” said Ostrovine.
His abruptness made her blink. As the chair rolled past, another exam room disgorged a burly man brandishing a crutch. The implement was tucked under one arm. He took a couple of unaided steps, saw us, placed his weight on the device, and assumed an exaggerated limp.
“Mr. O,” he said. “Gonna get myself some hydrotherapy.”
“Good, good,” said Ostrovine.
When a third door opened and a twenty-year-old girl came skipping out waving a shiny chromium cane like a cheerleader’s baton, Milo said, “Could we go somewhere to talk?” Nudging me. You know hospitals, handle this.
Ostrovine’s office was a beige rectangle that faced the parking lot. The rest of the hospital’s rear section housed orthopedics, nuclear medicine, physical medicine, anesthesiology, radiology.
Not a bed in sight.
I said, “You do outpatient care.”
“We’re adjunctive,” said Ostrovine, settling behind a desk, bare but for a laptop. The room looked unused.
Victims Page 13