The guy had a refined way of enunciating, and his eyes were clear and intelligent. Milo could see him doing butler time at some country club, kissing up to rich folk using perfect grammar. Different skin color, and maybe he'd have been the one getting served.
"Milo Sturgis."
"And this is about, Mr. Sturgis?"
"Personal."
The old man regarded him with compassion. "One moment, Mr. Sturgis." He made his way slowly up the stairs and returned a few minutes later. "Reverend Glenda's waiting for you, Mr. Sturgis. Next floor up, second door to the right."
Sitting behind a small, oak desk in a small, nearly empty office fitted with an ancient radiator and masked by yellowed venetian blinds, Glenda Stephenson looked exactly as she had ten years ago. Fifty pounds overweight, way too much makeup, a teased-up meringue of brunette waves atop a broad, welcoming face. Same kind of clothes too: pink, dotted Swiss dress with a frothy collar. Every time Milo'd seen her she'd worn something frilly and inappropriate in that same soap-bar pink.
He didn't expect her to remember him but right away, she said, "Detective S! It's been so long! Why haven't you brought me anyone in so long?"
"Don't hang out much with the living these days, Rev," said Milo. "Been working Homicide for a long time."
"Oh, dear," said Glenda Stephenson. "Well, how have you been with that?"
"It has its moments."
"I'll just bet it does."
"How's the soul-saving business, Reverend?"
Glenda grinned. "There's never a lack of work."
"I'll bet."
"Sit down," said Glenda Stephenson. "Cup of coffee?"
Milo saw no urn or pot. Just an alms box on the desk, next to a neat stack of what looked to be government forms. Impulsively, he reached into his pocket, found a bill, dropped it in.
"Oh, that's not necessary," said Glenda.
"I'm Catholic," said Milo. "Put me in a religious environment, and I have an urge to donate."
Glenda giggled. Little girl's giggle. For some reason it wasn't as foolish coming out of that dinner-plate face as it should've been. "Well, then come by often. There's never a lack of need, either. So . . . Edgar said this is personal?"
"In a way," said Milo. "Work and personal— what I mean is it needs to be kept confidential."
Glenda sat forward, and her bosoms brushed the desk top. "Of course. What's the matter, dear?"
"It's not about me," said Milo. "Not directly. But I am involved in a case that's . . . ticklish. A name came up, and I traced a connection to the mission. Vance Coury."
Glenda sat back. Her chair creaked. "The son or the father?"
"The son."
"What has he done?"
"You don't sound surprised."
In repose, Glenda's customary face was unlined— nothing filled wrinkles as well as fat. But now worry lines appeared at the periphery— etching the corners of her mouth, her eyes, her brow.
"Oh, dear," she said. "Could this reflect in any way on the mission?"
"Not that I can see. I certainly wouldn't do anything to put you in a bad position, Reverend."
"Oh, I know that, Milo. You were always the kindest. Taking time from your patrol to deliver sad souls. The way you held their arm, the way you . . . ministered to them."
"I was trying to clean up the streets, and you were there. I'm afraid there's nothing pastoral in my makeup."
"Oh, I think you're wrong," said Glenda. "I think you would've made a wonderful priest."
Milo's face went hot. Blushing, for God's sake.
Glenda Stephenson said, "Coury, the son . . . when Fred and I accepted the building, we had our reservations. Because you know we're grizzled old veterans of this neighborhood, knew darn well what his father had been like— everyone on Skid Row knew about his father."
"Slumlord."
"Slumlord and a mean man— never gave us a dime, and Milo, we asked. That's why we were shocked when a few months after he died we received a letter from the son's lawyer letting us know he was donating the hotel to the mission. I'm afraid our immediate response was to harbor uncharitable thoughts."
"As in, what's the catch," said Milo.
"Exactly. The father . . . no, I won't speak ill of the dead, but suffice it to say that charity didn't appear to be his strong point. And then there were the people he employed. They'd always made the lives of our men difficult. And the son had kept them on."
"What people?"
"Angry young men from East L.A.," said Glenda.
"Which gang?" said Milo.
She shook her head. "You hear talk. Eighteenth Street, the Mexican Mafia, Nuestra Familia. I really don't know. But whoever they were, when they showed up on the street, they intimidated our men. Swaggering by, driving by. Sometimes they'd get out and demand money, become threatening."
"Physically?"
"Once in a while someone got punched or pushed. Mostly it was psychological intimidation— looks, threats, verbal bullying. I suppose they felt entitled— territorial. Mr. Coury— the father— had used them as rent collectors. When the son offered us the building, the first request we made on him was that he ask his crew to stay away from the men. Because we thought he was going to hold on to the other hotels, and we didn't want to be geographically close to that kind of environment. His lawyer said there'd be no problem, Coury was going to tear the buildings down and pave them for parking lots. It ended up being a very smooth transition. Our lawyer talked to his lawyer, papers were signed, and that was it. Fred and I kept waiting for some ulterior motive but the way our lawyer explained it, the son was in an inheritance tax bind and the Grand Royale could be appraised in a manner that would serve his best interests."
"Inflated appraisal?"
"No," said Glenda. "Fred and I wouldn't be party to that. In fact, we demanded to look at the most recent county assessments, and everything was in line. The Grand Royale was worth approximately twice what the other hotels were, so apparently it fit the son's tax needs. It wasn't the only thing he sold. Mr. Coury, the father, had owned many properties. But the three hotels had been acquired as a package through some sort of government housing deal, so by donating the Royale, everything worked out."
"Coury aiding the Lord's work," said Milo.
"Funny, isn't it? The father acquired filthy lucre by oppressing the poor and now at least some of those profits have served to elevate the poor."
"Happy ending, Reverend. Doesn't happen very often."
"Oh, it does, Milo. You just have to know where to look."
He talked to her a bit longer, stuffed more money in the alms box over her protests, and left.
Vance Coury had made good on his promise to keep the gang-bangers away from the Mission and now that the two other hotels had been torn down for parking lots, his need for rent collectors had disappeared.
But the gang thing intrigued Milo and when he drove by the lots and took a look at the attendants, he saw shaved heads and skulking posture. Tattoos conspicuous enough to be visible from the curb.
CHAPTER 31
What I'd seen of Vance Coury's demeanor synched with the profile of a domination rapist: surly, hypermacho, eager not to please. The supercharged ambience in which he operated fit, too: big engines, flashy paint, the photos of submissive fellatrices tacked to the walls of the garage. The mutilated Porsche.
A corrupt father completed the picture: Coury had been raised to take what he wanted. Throw in some like-minded buddies, and Janie Ingalls had been a rabbit in a dog pit.
Junior hadn't been interested in my patronage. Did he really regard the Seville as a hunk of junk? Or did those parking lots pay the bills and the auto-customizing business was recreational? Or a front . . . all those gang boys.
I headed for the city and thought about the bisected Porsche. Evisceration on display. The joy of destruction. Maybe I was interpreting too much, but the few minutes I'd spent with Coury had left me wary and creeped-out, and I kept checking the rearview mirror well pa
st Mulholland.
Back at home, I imagined the party scene twenty years ago: Janie's encounter with Coury, amid the noise and the dope, the flash of recognition— pleasure for Coury, horror for Janie.
He moves in and takes over. The King's Men join in.
Including a King's Man who seemed different than the others?
The images Nicholas Hansen's gallery had posted on its website were still-lifes. Lush, luminously tinted assemblages of fruit and flowers, rendered meticulously. Hansen's work seemed galaxies away from the ruined sculpture assembled on the Beaudry on-ramp— from any brutality. But art was no immunization against evil. Caravaggio had slain a man over a tennis game and Gauguin had slept with young Tahitian girls knowing he'd be infecting them with syphillis.
Still, Nick Hansen seemed to have taken a different path than the others, and deviance has always fascinated me.
It was nearly three, maybe past the New York gallery's closing time, but I phoned anyway, and got a young, female voice on the other end. The first time I'd contacted the gallery, I'd talked to an older woman and hadn't left my name, so here was a chance for some new dissembling.
I shifted into art-speak and presented myself as a collector of old masters drawings who'd run out of the sunlight-free space such treasures demanded and was considering switching to oils.
"Old masters oils?" said the young woman.
"A bit beyond my budget," I said. "But I have been impressed by some of the contemporary realism that's managed to assert itself among all the performance pieces. Nicholas Hansen, for example."
"Oh, Nicholas's wonderful."
"He's certainly not daunted by tradition," I said. "Could you tell me more about his background— is it rigidly academic?"
"Well," she said, "he did go to Yale. But we've always felt Nicholas transcends academic painting. There's something about his sensibilities. And the way he uses light."
"Yes. Quite. I like his sense of composition."
"That, too. He's simply first-rate. Unfortunately, we have no paintings by him in stock, at this time. If you could give me your name—"
"I always research an artist before I take the plunge. Would you happen to have some biographical information on Hansen that you could fax me?"
"Yes, of course," she said. "I'll get that right out to you. And about the academic aspect . . . Nicholas is well schooled, but please don't hold that against him. Despite his meticulousness and his way with paint as matter, there's a certain primal energy to his consciousness. You'd need to see the pictures in person to really appreciate that."
"No doubt," I said. "There's nothing like in person."
Five minutes later, my fax machine buzzed, disgorging Nicholas Hansen's curriculum vitae. Education, awards, group and individual exhibitions, corporate collections, museum shows.
The man had accomplished plenty in two decades, and unlike his old pal Garvey Cossack he hadn't recounted any of it in a pumped-up biography. No mention of high school at all; Nicholas Hansen's account of his education began with college: Columbia University, where he'd received a B.A. in anthropology, summers filled with painting fellowships, a Masters of Fine Arts at Yale, and two years of postgraduate work at an atelier in Florence, Italy, learning classical painting technique. Among his museum shows were group spots at the Art Institute of Chicago and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Prominent names figured among those who collected his work.
An accomplished man. A polished man. Hard to fit that with Vance Coury's garage or the Cossacks' vulgar lifestyle. A gang-rape murder.
I went over the dates on Hansen's résumé. Saw something else that didn't fit.
Milo still wasn't answering any of his phones, so I tried to dispel my restlessness with a beer, then another. I carried the bottle down to the pond, thought about kicking back, decided to net leaves instead. For the next hour or so I pruned, raked, busied myself with mindless chores. I was just about to allow myself a moment of repose when the phone rang up in the house.
Robin? I ran up the stairs, grabbed the kitchen extension, heard Dr. Bert Harris's voice. "Alex?"
"Bert. What's up?"
"It was nice to see you," he said. "After all this time. Just checking to see how you're doing."
"Did I look that bad?"
"Oh, no, not bad, Alex. Perhaps a bit preoccupied. So . . ."
"Everything's rolling along."
"Rolling along."
"No, that's a lie, Bert. I screwed up with Robin."
Silence.
I said, "I should've followed your advice. Instead, I brought up the past."
More dead air. "I see . . ."
"She reacted just as you'd imagine. Maybe I wanted her to."
"You're saying . . ."
"I really don't know what I'm saying, Bert. Listen, I appreciate your calling, but things are kind of . . . I don't feel like talking about it."
"Forgive me," he said.
Apologizing again.
"Nothing to forgive," I said. "You gave me good advice, I screwed up."
"You made a mistake, son. Mistakes can be remedied."
"Some."
"Robin's a flexible woman."
He'd met Robin twice. I said, "Is that your natural optimism speaking?"
"No, it's an old man's intuition. Alex, I've made my share of mistakes, but after a few years one does get a sense for people. I'd hate to see you misled."
"About Robin?"
"About anything," he said. "Another reason I'm calling is that I'm planning to travel. Perhaps for a while. Cambodia, Vietnam, some places I've been to, others I haven't."
"Sounds great, Bert."
"I didn't want you to try to reach me and not find me here."
"I appreciate that." Had I come across that needy?
"That sounds presumptuous, doesn't it?" he said. "To think you'd call. But . . . just in case."
"I appreciate your telling me, Bert."
"Yes . . . well, then, good luck."
"When are you leaving?" I said.
"Soon. As soon as final arrangements are complete."
"Bon voyage," I said. "When you get back, give a call. I'd love to hear about the trip."
"Yes . . . may I offer one bit of advice, son?"
Please don't. "Sure."
"Try to season each day with a new perspective."
"Okay," I said.
"Bye, now, Alex."
I placed the receiver back in its cradle. What had that been about? The more I thought about the conversation, the more it sounded like good-bye.
Bert going somewhere . . . he'd sounded sad. Those comments he'd made about senility. All the apologies.
Bert was a first-rate therapist, wise enough to know I hadn't wanted advice. But he offered a parting shot, anyway.
Try to season each day with a fresh perspective. Last words from an old friend facing deterioration? Taking a trip . . . a final journey?
There I was again, off on some worst-case tangent.
Keep it simple: The old man had always traveled, loved to travel. No reason to think his destination was anywhere but Southeast Asia . . .
The phone rang again. I switched it to speaker and Milo's voice, distant and flecked with static, filled the kitchen. "Any new insights?"
"How about an actual fact?" I said. "Nicholas Hansen couldn't have been involved in Janie's murder. Early in June he was finishing up his last year at Columbia. After he graduated, he went to Amsterdam and spent the summer at a life-drawing course at the Rijksmuseum."
"That assumes he didn't come home for the weekend."
"New York to L.A. for the weekend?"
"These were rich kids," he said.
"Anything's possible, but I just don't see it. Hansen's different from the other King's Men. His life took a whole different turn, and unless you can uncover some present-day dealings with Coury and the Cossacks and Brad Larner, my bet is he distanced himself from the group and maintained that distance."
"So he's no use to us."
"We just drop in and say we want to chat about his old pals the sex-killers?"
"Any other promising leads at the moment?" I said.
He didn't answer.
I said, "So what'd you do today?"
The Murder Book Page 35