The woman spat. “Cursed by thy blood money.”
Milo said, “Actually, it’s holy money, I got it at church.”
“Liar!”
“Save it for yourself or buy Cody a present.”
“No! Remove the filthy pelf! You bring the leprosy of the crumbling wall upon the flesh of the anointed!”
Milo removed the money. The woman’s eyes dropped to his gun. Her forehead grew smooth. Big smile.
Keeping his distance, he waved me to the door, backed toward it, saying, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Just for good measure, the woman screamed louder.
CHAPTER
33
When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs, Milo said, “When you write your memoirs don’t put that in.”
Trying to make light. His hands clenched and opened, over and over. His mandible protruded. An assembly line of lumps rolled along his jawline.
We crossed the lobby of the King William, continued past DeWayne Smart’s booth. Smart called out, “Hey!”
Milo circled back to Smart’s window. “What?”
“So where is she?”
“Not our suspect.”
“That sucks,” said Smart. “For you, not her.” Laughing. His jowls were wine bladders.
“You’re a comic philosopher, DeWayne?”
“I—”
“When you look in the mirror, do you see Brad Pitt? That’s how accurate your I.D. was.”
“I—”
“Be sure to fill that prescription for bifocals. Toss in a white cane for good measure.”
“I—”
“Yeah, you.”
Back on L.A. Street, Milo distracted himself from failure by taking charge of small details. Clearing the scene with a series of clipped commands, checking if the APB on Ree Sykes had produced additional credible sightings, not surprised when the answer was no. Texting Moe Reed, he told the younger detective to rip up today’s arrest form, keep fingers crossed for a second opportunity. “And maybe pigs will indeed pilot fighter jets.”
When nothing else remained to be done, he stood watch as the cruisers and the BearCat drove away. As the last official vehicle departed, Skid Row residents began to materialize in the darkness. A glance from Milo sent several of them back inside but enough gawkers remained to set off a buzz. Then snickers.
Milo motioned me toward his unmarked and we left. Inside the car, he said, “Oletha Dreiser. Wheeling, West Virginia 26003.” Talking to himself, not me. Repeating the info, as if practicing a lesson, he began running her through the databases.
Nothing on Dreiser at NCIC, no wants or warrants locally or statewide, no missing persons reports filed.
“Not a criminal,” he said, with some regret. “Mama and child in that dump isn’t much better than wanderers in a manger, huh? We find Daddy Joe, we can build a crèche.”
I thought: Where are the wise men? but held my tongue.
“So,” he said, pulling out a dead cigar. “She’s psychotic, right?”
“Probably.”
“So time to call protective services.”
I said, “Not necessarily.”
“Why not?”
“Depends on what they can offer.”
“You think she’s fit to raise a kid?”
“Is it an optimal situation? No. But on a basic level, she’s doing an adequate job.”
“Because she feeds him?”
“Because he’s well nourished, outwardly healthy, appropriately developed, and clearly attached to her. Because ripping him away from her and stashing him in some shake-of-the-dice foster home will be traumatic for both of them and could do more harm than good.”
“Even if she is well past poco-loco.”
I said, “Even with that.”
“You’re a tolerant guy.”
“I know the system. It’s always a matter of least-terrible.”
“She’s also got a bit of a temper—”
“She had good reason to be angry.”
He frowned. “So I do nothing.”
I said, “Let’s be realistic: Even with a formal diagnosis of schizophrenia, unless there’s clear evidence that she poses an imminent danger to the baby, no court will take him away from her. Hell, even dangerous psychotics don’t get treated now that the Feds consider them another persecuted minority. What you can do is try to teach her about carbon monoxide poisoning and find her a small crib—anywhere that the baby can sleep safely other than right next to her. That will eliminate the risk of a rollover suffocation.”
“What carbon monoxide?”
I told him about the cooking stove. “Though she did have the sense to prop the window open.”
He said, “The bathroom. Didn’t look in there. Brilliant—okay, so who do I call for all this safety education if not the caseworkers?”
“There’s a juvey detective at Pacific I’ve worked with who’s smart and practical. She’ll know who to contact at Central. Want me to try her?”
“That would be nice.”
I reached D II Monica Gutierrez at her home in Palms. She promised to have her counterpart at Central, D II Kendra Washington, check out the situation first thing tomorrow, see what could be done on Oletha and Cody’s behalf.
“But you know, Alex, all we can do is advise her. Unless there’s a clear threat.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you take the baby.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Monica. “Because we’ve got far too many babies with no one to care for them.”
I hung up and summarized for Milo.
He said, “Yeah, yeah, I got the gist,” and gazed up at the seventh floor of the King William.
I said, “Sorry it didn’t pan out tonight,” and opened the passenger door.
He said, “Are you really?” Then: “Mea culpa, that was uncalled for.”
I said, “No sweat,” but his apology bypassed my brain and stuck in my gut and I felt myself bristling.
Wishing him luck, I headed for my car.
Driving home on streets emptied of rage and steel, I thought about the quandary posed by Oletha Dreiser and her baby.
Family unification at almost any cost was a long-standing doctrine at social services originally motivated by compassion but powered now by budgetary restrictions and the soulless grinding of a bureaucratic machinery that viewed kids as case numbers.
Short of obvious life-threatening danger, no court would sever Oletha’s attachment to Cody. I’d seen people far more impaired than her entrusted with parenthood.
The fact that too many kids died in foster care didn’t help, either. Last year, the toll had been three babies at three separate temporary homes. One was a neglected influenza, the second remained undetermined but was suspected to be a smothering. The last was a confirmed homicide committed by the foster mother’s gangbanger boyfriend.
A deputy D.A. had described that killing to me as a “big-time oops.”
Despite all that, Mommy as murderer would change the rules fast; Ree Sykes could forget about bureaucratic inertia as a shield.
Why had she taken the risk?
Once Milo caught up with her, what lay in store for Rambla?
I wondered how the two of them were coping with life on the run. Were they holed up in a sad little room like 709 at the Prince William, cooking with Sterno?
I wanted to believe Ree was too safety-conscious to put her child in jeopardy. That got tougher as I thought about the cold elimination of two human beings. Trying for an even three.
Winky Melandrano had served as Ree’s babysitter. Had she brought Rambla the night she ambushed and shot him?
Facts were piling up against her but I still had trouble reconciling that level of callousness with the woman I’d evaluated.
Devoted mother. Appropriate. Nurturing. I’d believed all that enough to put my endorsement in writing. But what if maternal devotion had degraded to a competitive blood sport?
The prize, twenty pounds of innocence.
Maybe … but even if I’d glossed Ree’s character, the motive Milo was ascribing to her seemed flimsy. If her goal was having Rambla to herself, why not simply disappear?
Because Connie was relentless and had the money to fund a long battle and needed to be taken care of first?
Fine, but that didn’t explain going after Melandrano and Chamberlain, men described as Ree’s lifelong friends.
Occasional lovers.
A wild night in the Malibu hills?
Complicated … if Ree wasn’t a killer, why had she vanished?
Maybe her disappearance hadn’t been voluntary. What if someone viewed her as an obstacle? The obvious candidate was Ree’s father. Brought into the game by Connie.
But if Connie had discovered his identity, why hadn’t she named him in her court papers?
And why focus on Winky and Boris?
Because naming them as possible fathers had nothing to do with the truth, it was just another ploy to cast Ree as a dissolute, sexually indiscriminate groupie.
If so, it was possible Connie had made a fatal error. Igniting a frightening man’s paternal urges, leading him to clear the deck of competition.
Connie out of the way, then Ree. Doing it quickly so that Ree’s disappearance would cast her as a suspect.
Easy enough to accomplish. So was leaving Ree’s car at the station, misdirecting the cops on a fruitless search.
A good planner. Meticulous.
But:
You left a speck of Connie’s blood on Ree’s carpet. An iota that flaked off shoes you thought you’d cleaned thoroughly.
You’re not quite as smart as you think you are. Dad.
The more I thought about it, the more I liked it intellectually. And hated it emotionally because of what it implied for Ree. And Rambla.
Child as Holy Grail. Property to be coveted, just like all the other crap cases I’d fielded in family court.
If I offered any of this to Milo, he’d point out that I had no evidence.
Neither do you, Big Guy.
No sense getting into it with him.
Also: I hadn’t a clue where to take it.
CHAPTER
34
Morning can bring clarity or confusion. By six a.m. the following day I was experiencing a strange mixture of both. I woke up thinking about Lonesome Moan, couldn’t shake the feeling that the band had occupied my dreams.
No nocturnal music video; Ree’s long-lived friendship with all four members was the issue.
Half the quartet had been marked for murder, the other half left out of the crosshairs.
Did that make Chuck-o Blatt a target? Along with the guitarist I hadn’t met—Spenser “Zebra” Younger?
Or was one of them Rambla’s dad?
I thought of Blatt’s protectiveness when we’d talked about Ree.
If you really are a psychologist and not spying for her fucking sister …
You know the kind of person she is. You hear me? You didn’t say nothing.
She’s a nice person.
Not just nice. Good.
Aggressive sort. Suspicious—he’d held back giving me anything of substance until I proved my identity. Had ended up supplying a rationale for Ree’s disappearance: Ree figured the bitch was going to keep harassing her.
Unlike his bandmates, Chuck-o was a hard-nosed businessman who’d managed to parlay gig money into ownership of three bars. Whom I’d watch handle an array of serious drinkers with effortless dominance.
Boris Chamberlain had his muscles and Blatt was built soft, but from what I’d seen Blatt was the likely alpha in the band. And alphas were all about protection, so who better to turn to when you were feeling threatened?
Especially if your relationship with the alpha had produced a child. Then there was the matter of Zebra Younger, a total question mark. If either man was in danger, warning them was the right thing to do. If one of them was Rambla’s murderous daddy, additional face-time would be interesting.
Either way, time for a return visit to Virgo Virgo.
At eleven a.m., I drove into the Valley. One parking spot was available across the street from the bar, situated ten yards west with a gently oblique view.
Papered over the Happy Hour!!! banner was a new announcement.
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
I remained in the Seville, playing my phone as I tried to find personal data on marvin blatt. Nothing. I tried charles, chuck, and chuck-o. The last led back to the Lonesome Moan website and I was figuring out my next step when a man approached the bar’s front door.
Seventyish, basset-faced, shiny blue suit well past salvation, white dress shirt, droopy tie.
The boozehound with a penchant for history—Lloyd. Maybe he was also into current events. As I got ready to sprint across the street, he pulled on the bar’s door handle. The door swung open and he stepped in, exited moments later toting a brown paper bag too small to conceal the bottle it held. Full fifth of something amber, glass neck reflecting sunlight.
He stood there, talking to someone inside Virgo Virgo. That person stepped closer. Chuck Blatt’s soft face caught sunlight.
I watched Lloyd reach into his pocket and draw out cash and try to pay Blatt. Blatt shook his head and patted the older man’s shoulder, then retreated and closed the door.
Lloyd waddled away, jaunty, bearing his treasure.
My turn.
Chuck-o stood behind the bar, boxing up liquor. The stage was empty. Blatt’s drums were gone. A solitary bulb lent the bar the ambience of a root cellar.
I said, “Donating the inventory?”
Blatt stopped working and studied my approach. Plucking a bottle of Crown Royal from the shelf behind him, he eased it into a carton atop the bar.
I said, “Just saw Lloyd—”
Blatt placed his hands flat on the bar. “Lloyd’s an untreatable alcoholic, drinking’s what he does, he considers it his profession. That’s why he doesn’t make heavy six figures selling insurance anymore. That’s why I’ve stopped trying to educate him. So if he comes in jonesing for Jackie-D, what do I care?” He looked around the room. “It’s all over, anyway.”
“Because of Winky.”
His teeth clacked together. “Well, shrink-friend, it’s kind of hard to rock anyone’s world when your singer gets murdered, don’t you think? You here to tell me something about that? Like who ruined the world by offing one of the coolest, most gentle human beings ever to set foot on this godforsaken planet?”
Reaching into the box, he yanked out the same whiskey he’d just carted and flung it across the room. The bottle hit the wall behind the empty bandstand, shattered, and skittered down the plaster. Shards landed on wood, tinkling like a harp glissando.
Chuck-o Blatt said, “Fuck this world and the assholes who live in it.” Turning away, he snatched a fifth of vodka from the shelf and boxed it.
I said, “Thank God Boris got away.”
He turned toward me, eyes blazing. “What?”
“You didn’t hear about it.”
“Hear what?” Suddenly he came around from behind the bar, arms bent and bunched, fists lofted at nipple level. “Don’t dick around, pal, this isn’t a game. You got something to tell me, tell it.”
I told him about the attempt on Chamberlain.
He sagged. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Wish I knew.”
“You think I can tell you? Only reason I found out about Winky is my check—the money I give him for the Monday gig—was still magneted to his fridge. The idiot was terrible with finances, I’d have to bug him to cash the damn things so my books would be straight. Cops took the checks, figured I was his employer so they came here to tell me—some big fat guy just lays it on me: Your pal’s been shot to death. I just about had a heart attack, I mean I really thought I was seizing up.”
Slapping his chest. “Then I realize he’s there because he either suspects me or he thinks I can answer his prayers. Winky’s murdered and I’m
supposed to know who?”
The door opened. A man stepped in and headed toward us. Bumping along laboriously using a pair of elbow-mounted metal crutches.
Middle-aged and thin, he had neatly parted white hair and heavy eyebrows to match, wore an oxford blue buttondown shirt, pressed jeans, white sneakers.
He maintained his dignity with a determined smile as he struggled. Glanced at me briefly but made prolonged eye contact with Blatt.
Another regular angling for free booze? Neat and clean preppy garb didn’t shout desperate alcoholic but I was well past the point of generalization.
As he got closer, I saw that his eyes were bloodshot and his bony face was pale—an unnatural pallor that left his skin almost translucent. As if he’d been drained.
Chuck-o exhaled and said, “Hey, man.” The new arrival hobbled to the nearest chair and sat down laboriously, took some time laying his crutches on the floor.
Once settled, he gave me another look.
Blatt said, “This is the shrink I told you about, man. Helped Ree in court but now he’s doing some kind of police thing, came here to pump me for information I don’t have.”
The neatly dressed man’s scrutiny continued. His eyes were brown and mild. “That so.”
Chuck-o said, “Doctor whatever-your-name-is, meet the best slide guitarist this side of Johnny Winter—Spenser Younger aka the Zebra Man. Reason for that is his ax of choice is a black-and-white-striped Strat. That’s a Fender guitar, should you not be educated in the way of strings.”
I held my hand out. “Alex Delaware.”
Spenser Younger offered me five limp fingers. “Anything new on Winky?”
Chuck-o Blatt said, “What’s new, Zebe, is someone tried to off Boris, too.”
Younger gripped the sides of the chair with both hands. His upper body trembled but the denim-clad sticks that claimed to be his legs remained inert. “Good God. You’ve got to be kidding.”
Blatt said, “Wish I was, man.”
“That’s crazy, Marv, that’s just too nuts.” To me: “Someone tried? Meaning Boris is okay?”
“Fortunately.”
“Jesus. What happened?”
Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 23