The Murder Book

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "An inquiry?" she said.

  "A look at some student records, ma'am."

  "I'll get you Ms. Baldassar. She's our director."

  She left, returned, said, "This way," and showed us to the door across the hall. We entered a front office and a secretary ushered us through a door to a tidy space where an ash blond woman in her forties sat behind a desk and stubbed out a cigarette.

  Milo offered the badge, and the blonde said, "Marlene Baldassar." Thin, tan, and intensely freckled, she had hollow cheeks, golden brown eyes, and a knife-point chin. Her navy blue A-line dress was piped with white and bagged on her bony frame. The ash hair was blunt-cut to midneck, bangs feathered to fringe. She wore a gold wedding band and an oversize black plastic diver's watch. Tortoise-framed glasses hung on a chain. The big glass ashtray on her desk was half-filled with lipstick-tipped butts. The rim read Mirage Hotel, Las Vegas. The rest of the desk was taken up with books, papers, framed photos. And a shiny silver harmonica.

  She saw me looking at the instrument, picked it up with two fingers, tooted twice, put it down, smiling. "Tension reliever, I'm trying to quit smoking. And obviously not doing very well."

  "Old habits," I said.

  "Very old. And yes, I have tried the patch. All of them. My DNA's probably saturated with nicotine." She ran a finger along the edge of the harmonica. "So, what's this Shoba tells me about a police inquiry? Has one of our alumni gotten into trouble?"

  "You don't seem surprised by that possibility," said Milo.

  "I've worked with kids for going on twenty years. Very little surprises me."

  "Twenty years here, ma'am?"

  "Three, here, seventeen with the county— Juvenile Hall, community mental health centers, gang-violence prevention programs."

  "Welcome change?" I said.

  "For the most part," she said. "But county work could even be fun. Lots of futility, but when you do come across a gem in the trash pile, it's exciting. Working here's extremely predictable. By and large, the kids are a decent bunch. Spoiled but decent. We specialize in serious learning disabilities— chronic school failure, severe dyslexia, kids who just can't get it together educationally. Our goal's specific: try to get them to a point so that when they get hold of their trust funds they can read the small print. So if your inquiry is about one of my current charges, I'd be surprised. We steer away from high-risk antisocials, too much maintenance."

  Milo said, "Are the kids confined twenty-four hours a day?"

  "Heavens no," she said. "This isn't prison. They go home on weekends, earn passes. So what do you need to know and about whom?"

  "Actually," said Milo, "this is more of a historical venture. Someone who was here twenty years ago."

  Marlene Baldassar sat back, fooled with her eyeglasses. "Sorry, I'm not free to talk about alumni. An emergent situation with a current student would be something else— someone in the here and now posing a danger to themselves and/or others. The law would require me to work with you on that."

  "Schools have no confidentiality, ma'am."

  "But psychotherapists do, Detective, and many of our files contain psychotherapeutic records. I'd love to help, but—"

  "What about personnel records?" said Milo. "We're also looking into someone who worked here. There'd be no protection of any sort, there."

  Baldassar fiddled with her glasses. "I suppose that's true, but . . . twenty years ago? I'm not sure we even have records going back that far."

  "One way to find out, ma'am."

  "What's this person's name?"

  "Wilbert Lorenzo Burns."

  No recognition on the freckled face. Baldassar got on the phone, asked a few questions, said, "Wait right here," and returned a few moments later with a scrap of pink paper.

  "Burns, Wilburt L.," she said, handing it to Milo. "This is all we've got. Mr. Burns's notice of termination. He lasted three weeks. August third through the twenty-fourth. Was terminated for absenteeism. See for yourself."

  Milo read the scrap and handed it back.

  "What did Mr. Burns do?"

  "There's a fugitive warrant out on him. Mostly he was a narcotics violator. Kind of alarming that when he worked here he was on probation for a drug conviction. About to face trial for selling heroin."

  Baldassar frowned. "Wonderful. Well, that wouldn't happen today."

  "You vet your employees carefully?"

  "A pusher wouldn't get by me."

  "Guess the former director wasn't that picky," said Milo. "Do you know him— Michael Larner?"

  "The only one I know is my immediate predecessor. Dr. Evelyn Luria. Lovely woman. She retired and moved to Italy— she's at least eighty. I was told that she was brought in to beef up clinical services. I was brought in to organize things." She poked the harmonica. "You're not implying this Burns was dealing to the kids, here."

  "Do the kids, here, have drug problems?"

  "Detective, please," said Baldassar. "They're teenagers with poor self-esteem and plenty of disposable income. You don't need a Ph.D. to figure it out. But believe me, I don't allow any species of felon to pass through our gates. As far as what happened twenty years ago . . ."

  She picked up the harmonica, put it down. "If that's all . . ."

  "Actually," said Milo, "the investigation's not just about Willie Burns. It's about a student Burns was friendly with. A girl named Caroline Cossack."

  Baldassar stared. Then she snorted— I suppose it was laughter, but she looked anything but happy. She said, "Let's go outside. I want to smoke, but I don't want to poison anyone else."

  She took us through the glass-paned double doors, past ten rooms, some of which had been left open. We walked by carelessly made beds, piles of stuffed animals, movie and rock star posters, boom boxes, guitars, books stacked in little wooden desks. A few teens were stretched across beds listening to music through earphones, one boy did push-ups, a girl read a magazine— brow knitted, lips moving laboriously.

  We followed Marlene Baldassar under a rear staircase, where she pushed a door marked EXIT and let us pass through to an alley behind the building. Two Dumpsters were pushed against a cinder-block wall. Nearby stood a chesty girl with her elbows to the block, hips thrust at a tall, buzz-cut boy wearing low pants that puddled around his unlaced sneakers. He looked like a scarecrow about to come apart. Moved in for a kiss but stopped as the girl said something, turned and frowned.

  Baldassar said, "Hi, guys." Expressionless, the couple ambled off and disappeared around a corner.

  "Somethingus interruptus," said Baldassar. "I almost feel guilty."

  Power lines were strung ten feet above the wall, and I could hear them buzzing. A pigeon soared overhead. Baldassar lit up, dragged hungrily, smoked down a half inch of her cigarette.

  "Is there any chance we can talk confidentially?" she said.

  "I'd like to promise you that," said Milo. "But if you've got knowledge of a crime—"

  "No, it's nothing like that. And I never met the Cossack girl, though I do know that she was once a resident. But in terms of her family . . . let's just say they're not very popular around here."

  "Why's that, ma'am?"

  Baldassar smoked and shook her head. "I suppose if you dug around enough, you'd find out, anyway."

  "Where should I be digging?"

  "What, I should do your job for you?"

  "I'll take anything I can get, ma'am," said Milo.

  She smiled. "County records. I'll tell you what I know, but I can't have any of it traced back to me, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "I'm trusting you, Detective."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  "And no more ma'ams please," she said. "I'm starting to feel like I'm in some old Dragnet script."

  "Fair enough, Ms—"

  Baldassar cut him off with a wave of her cigarette. "To make a long story exquisitely short, several years ago— seventeen or eighteen years ago, Achievement House ran into some severe financial problems due to bad investments. The boar
d was comprised of stuffy old farts who were conservative with their personal fortunes but turned out to be a good deal more adventurous with Achievement House's endowment. Remember all that junk-bond foolishness? The board hired a money manager who traded Achievement House's blue chips for a whole slew of what ended up as worthless paper. At the time, the interest rates were enticing, and the income allowed the school to run at such a high paper profit that the board was starting to think Achievement House would pay for itself. Then everything crashed. And to make matters worse, the manager had taken out a second mortgage and bought additional bonds on margin. When everything hit the fan, Achievement House was way in the hole and facing foreclosure on the property."

  "The rich old farts would've let that happen?"

  "The rich old farts served on the board in order to feel noble and to get their names in the social pages during gala season. To make matters worse, there'd been a bit of unpleasantness with the director— your Mr. Larner. I know all this from Evelyn Luria. She briefed me before she left for Europe, but wouldn't give me details. But she did hint that it had been something of a sexual nature. Something that might've gotten the board members the worst type of publicity."

  "So the school was in danger of closing down, and the board wouldn't go to bat."

  "God, I hope this doesn't blow up, after all those years. I was looking at this job as a way to relax."

  "Nothing will get traced to you, Ms. Baldassar. Now tell me why the Cossacks aren't popular."

  "Because they came to the rescue— white knights— and then turned into something quite different."

  "Caroline's father?"

  "Caroline's father and brothers. The three of them had some kind of real estate business and they stepped in and renegotiated with the bank and got a better rate for the mortgage, then had Achievement House's deed signed over to them. For a while, they made payments, no questions asked. Then a couple of years later, they announced they were evicting the school because the land was too valuable for a nonprofit, they'd been buying up lots, had plans to develop the entire block."

  She dropped her cigarette, ground it out with the toe of her pump.

  "Achievement House is still here," said Milo. "What happened?"

  "Threats, accusations, lawyers. The board and the Cossacks finally reached an agreement, but it meant dipping into some deep pockets in order to pay the Cossacks off. From what I was told, the outrage was compounded by the fact that Caroline Cossack's stay here had been a favor to the family. She didn't qualify."

  "Why not?"

  "She was a psychiatric case— severe behavior problems, not learning disabilities."

  "Custodial care?" I said.

  "Yes, the rules were bent for her. Then, for her family to do that."

  Milo said, "Do you have any records on Caroline?"

  Baldassar hesitated. "Let me check— wait out here, please."

  She reentered the building. I said, "I wonder if Michael Larner had something to do with the Cossacks trying to evict the school. After the board fired him, he wouldn't have been fond of the institution."

  Milo kicked one of the Dumpsters. Another pigeon flew overhead. Then three more. "Airborne rats," he muttered. Barely audible, but the vibrations must have reached the birds, and they scattered.

  Marlene Baldassar returned, another cigarette in one hand, a pink index card in another.

  "No chart, all I found was this, listing the dates of her stay."

  Milo took the card. "Admitted August 9, discharged December 22. But it doesn't say where she went."

  "No it doesn't," said Baldassar.

  "You don't hold on to old charts?"

  "We do. It should be here." She studied Milo's face. "You're not shocked."

  "Like you, I'm pretty much beyond being shockable, Ms. Baldassar. And I'm going to ask you to return the favor: Keep this visit confidential. For everyone's sake."

  "No problem with that," said Baldassar. She took a deep drag, blew a smoke ring. "Here I thought it was going to be a lazy day, and it turned out to be heavy-duty déjà vu. Gentlemen, you brought back memories of my days with the county."

  "How so?" I said.

  "Problems that can't be solved with phonics and a credit card."

  CHAPTER 19

  "Interesting time line," I said, as we headed for the car under the now-watchful eyes of the kids in the parking lot. "Janie Ingalls is murdered in early June. Two months later, Caroline gets checked into Achievement House and Willie shows up and works there for three weeks. Willie's fired, then he's busted for dope, gets Boris Nemerov to bail him out. When was Nemerov ambushed?"

  "December 23," said Milo.

  "The day after Caroline leaves Achievement House— voluntarily or otherwise. Maybe Willie took his girlfriend out, then took care of her. Or, Cossack family money found both of them a nice safe place to hide out. And one more thing: Georgie could've gotten nervous when you brought up Burns not because his men finished off his dad's killer but because they didn't. Were paid off not to."

  "He accepted money to let his dad's murderer off the hook? Uh-uh, not Georgie."

  "He and his mother were in severe financial straits. Maybe it took more than twenty-hour days and clever negotiating to keep the business going."

  "No, I can't see it," he said. "Georgie's always been a straight-ahead guy."

  "You'd know."

  "Yeah, I'm a font of knowledge. C'mon, let's go over to my place, have another look at that damn book."

  Rick and Milo lived in a small, well-kept bungalow in West Hollywood, on a quiet, elm-darkened street further shadowed by Design Center's alarming blue bulk. Rick's white Porsche was gone and the blinds were drawn. A few years ago, L.A. suffered through a drought and Rick had the lawn dug up and replaced with pea gravel and gray-leafed desert plants. This year, L.A. had plenty of water but the xeriscape remained in place, bursts of tiny yellow blossoms punctuating the pallid vegetation.

  I said, "The cactus are thriving."

  Milo said, "Great. Especially when I come home in the dark and snag my pants."

  "Nothing like seeing the bright side."

  "That's my core philosophy," he said. "The glass is either half-empty or broken."

  He unlocked the front door, disarmed the alarm, picked up the mail that had fallen through the slot and tossed it on a table without breaking stride. The kitchen often lures him in his own digs, too, but this time he walked through it into the service porch nook that serves as his office: a cramped, dim space, sandwiched between the washer-dryer and the freezer and smelling of detergent. He'd set it up with a hideous metal desk painted school-bus yellow, a folding chair, and a painted wooden shark-face lamp from Bali. The blue book sat in an oversize Ziploc bag, on the top shelf of a miniature bookcase bolted above the desk.

  He gloved up, unbagged the book, flipped to Janie Ingalls's photo, and studied the death shot. "Any sudden insights?"

  "Let's see what follows."

  Only three more pages after Janie. A trio of crime-scene photos, all of the victims, young men. One black youth, two Hispanics, each sprawled on blood-splotched pavement. White lights on the corpses and dark periphery said nighttime death. A shiny revolver lay near the right hand of the final victim.

  The first photo was labeled "Gang drive-by, Brooks St., Venice. One dead, two wounded."

  Next: "Gang drive-by, Commonwealth and Fifth, Rampart."

  Finally: "Gang drive-by, Central Ave."

  "Three of a kind," I said. "That's kind of interesting."

  "Why?"

  "Until now there was variety."

  Milo said, "Gang stuff . . . business as usual. Maybe Schwinn ran out of interesting pictures— if these took place after Janie, when he was already out of the department, he coulda had trouble getting hold of crime-scene shots. God only knows how he managed to get these." He closed the book. "You see any way drive-bys could be connected to Janie? I sure don't."

  "Mind if I take another look?"

  "Take as
many looks as you want." He produced another pair of gloves from a desk drawer, and I slipped them on. As I turned to the first photo, he stepped around the washer-dryer and into the kitchen. I heard the fridge door creak open.

  "Want something to drink?"

  "No, thanks."

  Heavy footsteps. A cabinet opened. Glass touched tile. "I'm gonna go check the mail."

  I took my time with the crime-scene shots. Thinking about Schwinn, addicted to speed and divesting himself of worldly goods even as he held on to his purloined photos. Moving on to a life of serenity but assembling this leather-bound monstrosity in secrecy. As I turned pages— now-familiar pages— and images began to blur, I tore myself away from speculation and tried to focus on each brutal death.