“Sometimes I work with them.”
“Like what?”
“Consultant. But it’s common sense, a woman dies, has a sister who hates her and splits. You’d think the same way.”
“It wasn’t a matter of hate … okay, it was, but Connie deserved it. And trust me, man, Ree’s like … a … cloud. One of those soft clouds, you know?”
“As opposed to Connie.”
“Even back in high school Connie was … she was a lot older than us. When we were still in junior high, she was in college, doing her fancy college thing. But even before that she had that … that superior thing. I’m better than you, go screw yourself.”
“Arrogant.”
“Everyone couldn’t stand her.” His eyes got big. “Oh, man. I should probably not diss her too heavy, give you ideas about me.” He smiled. “Connie bit it last night? Last night I was with my sons. Cleaning up the place in Sun Valley, had some party idiots rent it for an engagement, they trashed everything. I had to list the damage for insurance, then we cleaned up. Took like till six in the morning.”
He stood. “Not that I need an alibi, right?”
“Right.”
“But maybe Ree does.”
“It would sure help, Chuck-o.”
“Yeah, well, Ree’ll be fine, don’t you worry, man.”
I said, “How can I get in contact with Winky and Boris?”
“Why?”
“Ree mentioned them.”
“She mentioned me, too?”
“Of course,” I lied. “She talked about all of you. What good friends you were.”
“So you want to talk to Zebe, too.”
“I want to talk to anyone who can help me find Ree.”
“I got your card. Something comes up, I’ll let you know.”
“Appreciate it.”
As I turned to leave, Lloyd said, “Another round, Dr. Claus?”
I smiled, put cash on the bar.
Chuck-o Blatt counted. “This is just enough for what they already had.”
Lloyd put his palms together prayerfully. “Another libation, good sir? For the sake of the righteous?”
Chuck-o said, “Don’t push it, he ain’t God.”
CHAPTER
22
Black in the car, check the phone. One message: Robin.
She said, “No spaghetti, the place closed down.”
“I’m out early, anyway, see you in thirty.”
“Does early mean no luck finding her?”
“Not much.”
“You going to tell Milo you looked for her?”
“He’ll find out anyway, so yes.”
“Things are getting complicated, darling.”
“Life’s little challenges.”
“Love your outlook,” she said. “Okay, I’ll cook spaghetti.”
Before I began the drive home, I sat parked near Virgo Virgo, working the iPhone and trying to locate William Melandrano and/or Bernard Chamberlain.
A W. Melandrano the right age lived nearby in North Hollywood, but no address or phone numbers were given and 411 had nothing to add. Four Bernard Chamberlains. A man living in Hollywood seemed the most likely. That address was close to Ree’s apartment.
A couple of button pushes could instantly tell Milo if either man had a criminal history. The best I could do was try a website that trafficked in mug shots, one of those mean-spirited celebrations of other people’s misfortunes, custom-tailored for an increasingly mean-spirited world.
My hopes rose when I learned that a Bernard Chamberlain had been arrested for disorderly conduct three years ago in Tampa, Florida. The next click revealed a shot of a seventeen-year-old boy.
Time to stop fooling around.
Milo answered his desk phone. “Your pal Effo has an unassailable alibi for the time frame of Connie’s demise: partying with homeboys and homegirls at a known gang house in Pacoima, thirty people to back him up. Not that I took any of their words for it. A neighbor across the street, old lady terrified of all the scary kids going in and out, takes tons of surreptitious pictures and she captured him coming and going. So congrats.”
I said, “Doesn’t mean much. You never figured he did it himself.”
“True, I’ve got Millie Rivera nosing around, see if she can pick up any rumors of a contract. But the neighbor’s camera cleared up one thing: Ramon Guzman was at the same party. Which might give you pause, Alex. Here’s a joker who tried to get you permanently erased and your buddy’s still whooping it up with him.”
“Efren was a patient, not my buddy.”
My voice had risen.
He said, “Onward to Cherie Sykes. I tried to organize a meeting with her through her lawyer but he’s at a convention in Palm Springs. Same for Connie’s mouthpiece. What do people like that consider continuing education? Learning how to dress a pit bull in designer duds? Anyway, I’m gonna drop in on Ms. Ree, see how she’s reacting to Sis’s death.”
“Speaking of which.” I told him what I’d learned.
He said, “You went to her place—”
“Clinical follow-up.”
“I see,” he said. “Actually, I don’t.”
“I wanted to check out my initial reaction. See if I’d been wrong about her. She’s rabbited so my being wrong is looking damn likely. Obviously, it’s time for me to get out of the way and let you do your thing.”
“Hey,” he said, “no sense beating yourself up. You’re the original victim in all this and I’m glad it’s someone else’s death I’m investigating. She took just the baby stuff, huh?”
“And the baby.”
“I’ll bring a techie over, see what turns up.”
“Landlady already started cleaning it.”
“Nothing ventured, but maybe they’ll find something.”
I said, “The timing doesn’t look good for her. And you were right: Even if she didn’t kill Connie herself, one of her pals could’ve. She’s tight with that band.” I recounted my visit to the bar, gave him Melandrano’s and Chamberlain’s names.
He said, “Ties that bind. If Connie was right about one of them being daddy, there’s motive to spare.”
“And Chuck-o Blatt confirmed Ree was definitely worried about Connie taking her back to court.”
“Hold on.”
A series of clicks. “Nothing on Melandrano but Mr. Bernard Chamberlain of Hollywood, Cal, was busted ten years ago for assault. In Arkansas … doesn’t look like he served any time … photo shows him as a hairy-biker type. Kind of mean eyes. Big guy, too—not that tall but two hundred and fifty el-bees. Yeah, we’re definitely gonna want to make his acquaintance. Melandrano’s, too.”
“We’re?”
“Plural intentional, Alex. The situation has now ventured into psych territory—actually, it always was a head-case. So who better than thou to weigh in?”
“Feeling charitable?”
“Yeah, right,” he said. “This is work, pal, no room for sentimentality. And guess what? Brother Connor finally had the time to visit Connie’s corpse. Flying in for a meet tomorrow. Connie told you he was a tech guy, right?”
“She did.”
He laughed. “Depends on what you mean by technical. He doesn’t develop chips, he’s a porn-meister, been doing it for a long time. Interesting family, no? Okay, let me firm up current addresses on our Lonesome Moaners, we’ll check ’em out tomorrow. Meanwhile, Connor Sykes, my place, eleven a.m. I’m assuming you’re RSVP’ing yes.”
“Black tie?”
“Business attire.”
CHAPTER
23
Connor Sykes didn’t look like a pornographer.
Then again, what does a smut-maven look like?
For the past twenty years he’d operated under several corporate headings, producing, packaging, marketing, and peddling adult videos and downloads. His advertised specialty was “natural, pillow-bodied women,” which seemed to mean buxom bodies untouched by surgeons or tattoo artists. Several of his serie
s trumpeted “the romantic approach.” That seemed to mean buxom bodies untouched by bindings, ball gags, and rough handling.
His business attire this morning was that of any successful Silicon Valley magnate: narrow-lapel navy suit, open-necked blue shirt, expensively unpretentious shoes, digital wristwatch. He had neatly trimmed graying hair, bland features, the kind of face that abounds in business-class lounges. If you squinted you could find traces of resemblance to his sisters: squarish head, slightly generous chin. Photographed as a trio, the Sykes sibs would come across more similar than when captured in pairs. As if Connor was the unifying genetic factor tying Connie to Ree.
If he was traumatized by his sister’s death, he wasn’t showing it, sitting motionless in the interview room as Milo handed him bad coffee. He tasted, put the cup down. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to text my wife. Our boys have a recital tonight and I’m not sure I’ll make it.”
“Of course, sir.”
Sykes produced his phone, tapped briefly, slipped it back in his pocket.
Milo said, “Music recital?”
“Jared plays the viola and Tyler plays the cello. I’m biased but everyone says they’re gifted.” Weak smile. “If they’ve got talent it’s not from me. Mariko—my wife—was a concert pianist in Japan.”
“Ah.”
“I try to be there for all their events.”
“Well,” said Milo, “we’ll do our best to get you out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Appreciate that, Lieutenant. But it occurred to me on the flight over that if I’m going to have to deal with Connie’s remains, it’ll take time.”
“No need to do that today, Mr. Sykes.”
“Oh? Is she still being … what’s the proper term, processed?”
“The coroner’s done but there’s always paperwork and that can be handled over the phone or online.”
“So I might be able to get back by five?”
“Sure.”
Sykes extricated his phone. “Would you mind if I contact the jet company to arrange my flight?”
“No prob, sir.”
Another text.
Connor Sykes said, “Appreciate it, Lieutenant. Now, why exactly am I here, if it’s not to handle … the process?”
“In a murder investigation, information’s our weapon. So anything you can do to arm us would be helpful.”
Sykes considered that, fingering a lapel and gazing at the ceiling before resuming eye contact. “That makes sense. Unfortunately, I have no idea who’d want to murder Connie.”
Even tone.
Milo was careful not to react. But I noticed the tightening around his eyes. Connor Sykes, eyes back on the ceiling, didn’t. “Mr. Sykes, are you surprised your sister was killed?”
Connor Sykes’s left eyebrow arced. Puzzlement, not resentment. “Of course I am.”
Milo kept silent.
Sykes’s face tightened. Working out a tough math problem. “You think I’m being strangely unemotional. I’m sure you’re right, it’s an issue I have. Expressing emotions. The problem is, I’m unaware of it. Internally, I feel totally dismayed at losing my sister. But showing it doesn’t come naturally. My wife’s convinced I’m somewhere on the Asperger continuum. Maybe she’s right, she knows me better than anyone. I don’t feel asocial. For the most part, I find people acceptable. So forgive my strange reaction.”
“There’s no correct reaction, Mr. Sykes. You just seemed unsurprised.”
“Well, I am surprised. I’m extremely surprised. But I don’t see how I can help you. Connie and I weren’t close. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“At least twenty years.”
“Twenty years.”
Connor Sykes said, “Not even a Christmas card. Sent or received. Our family’s never been much for formalities.”
“What about Cherie?”
“Cherie I saw more recently.”
“How recently?”
“Hmm … around … ten years ago. She showed up and asked for money.”
“Did you give it to her?”
Connor Sykes shrugged. “I had ample funds, she didn’t, she’s my sister.”
“What did she need money for?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“She just showed up.”
“At my house,” said Connor Sykes. “Eight in the morning, Mariko and the boys and I were having breakfast. We invited her in. She looked bedraggled. As if she’d been traveling hard.”
“Was she alone?”
“She was. She asked for a couple of thousand to tide her over. I gave her five. She hugged me and kissed me, said she’d be in touch. Of course, she didn’t follow through.”
I said, “Of course. You didn’t expect her to.”
Connor Sykes stared past me. “Ree isn’t known for her reliability.”
“She’s a free spirit.”
“Always has been.”
I said, “The three of you are quite different from one another.”
“That’s what Mariko says. She jokes that it’s almost as if our births were random events. I’d never thought about that but now that I’m a parent, I see what she means. My boys have traits in common—they’re individuals, of course, but there’s something that says these boys are brothers.”
“As opposed to you and your sibs,” I said.
“Yes. So what kind of family produced that?” He shrugged. “Can’t see how that could be relevant to what happened to Connie but I’m happy to tell you anything you’d like to know.”
“Tell us a bit about growing up with Connie and Ree.”
Connor blinked three times and shot me a helpless look. “That’s such an open-ended request, I don’t know where to begin.”
I said, “Start with your parents.”
He smiled. Comforted by structure. “Charles and Corinne Sykes met in high school, in Kansas City. That’s where we were born—Connie and I. I don’t remember it because we moved to California when I was young. Long Beach. That’s where Ree was born.”
“Why the move?”
“Mother suffered from asthma and chest colds, her doctors said a warm, dry climate might help. Unfortunately, it didn’t, she suffered constantly, died when she was sixty of pulmonary problems. I imagine her smoking and excessive drinking didn’t help.”
Connor Sykes cocked his head like an eager spaniel. “Odd, no? That she’d smoke when her respiratory system had never been strong?”
Placing his hands in his lap, he grew silent. “People are unpredictable … does that help? I really don’t know what you’re after.”
I said, “Tell us about your parents’ unique qualities.”
“Unique,” he said, flatly. “I suppose Father could be termed a ladies’ man. Do I mean extramarital affairs? Yes, I do. But he never mistreated Mother, nor any of us. Though I suppose the mere fact of infidelity could be thought of as … not appropriate.”
I said, “Did he drink, as well?”
“He did.”
“How did that affect him?”
“Affect? Well … he’d turn a bit grouchy. Sometimes he’d shout.”
“And your mother?”
“Mother …” As if the concept was baffling. “What can I say about Mother … she worked as a bookkeeper, got along fine with people but really didn’t like them. I know that because she always said so. People were generally stupid. So if I am Aspergian, she might very well be the source.”
“How did drinking affect her?”
“She fell asleep.”
“A loner.”
“Not in the sense of being shy or retiring,” said Sykes. “She was an assertive person. She simply preferred to be by herself. But I never felt neglected. In fact, I look back on my childhood as being rather pleasant.”
He faced me, hands on the table, shoulders relaxed. “Whether or not my sisters feel the same way, I can’t say.”
Three sibs, three stories. Not much communic
ation along the way.
I said, “You never discussed your childhood with your sisters.”
Connor Sykes said, “Our family was oriented toward doing, not talking.”
I said, “From what we’ve been told, Connie wasn’t the most social person.”
“Hmm. I suppose that’s true—you know, now that you mention it, there are certain parallels between Mother and Connie.” He tapped his lips with a fingertip. “Yes, definitely. If anyone was like Mother it was Connie. I never really thought about that.”
“And Ree?”
“Ree?” said Sykes. “Nothing at all similar between Ree and Mother.”
“She liked people?”
“Hmm—well, yes, Ree has always been a friendly person. Lots of friends. So in that sense I suppose there are parallels to our father. He could be quite gregarious when he chose.”
“How did your sisters get along?”
“They didn’t have much to do with one—” He stopped short. His right hand began to clench, thought better of it and splayed slowly. “These questions, you’re not seriously thinking Ree had anything to do … No, that’s impossible.” His eyes passed from Milo to me, back to Milo. “Isn’t it?”
Milo said, “We don’t suspect Ree of anything but due to the conflict she and Connie—”
“What conflict?”
“The court case.”
Connor Sykes blinked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lieutenant.”
Milo summed up. The man across the table seemed to deflate with each sentence. “Why would Connie do that?”
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
“Me? Of course I can’t. Connie actually sued Ree? For her child? How old of a child are we talking about?”
“Sixteen months.”
“Ree had a baby,” said Connor Sykes, wide-eyed. “I had no idea. How bizarre that must seem to you. But it’s what I’ve always been accustomed to.”
I said, “Everyone in the family doing their own thing.”
“Now that I’m a father I see that it can be different. My wife’s extremely close to her sister. My sons are friends as well as siblings. But to think Connie would sue Ree … to learn that Ree had a child. You’ve shocked me, Lieutenant. I’m reeling.”
Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 15