“A woman named Patricia Bigelow.”
Silence.
“Sir?”
“What’d she do?” Clogged voice. Slurred enunciation.
“Why would you think she did anything?”
“You’re not here…because you…like my cooking.”
“You cook, huh?”
The man chomped the candy bar. The interior of his mouth was more gap than tooth.
Warm day but dressed for chill. Snarfing sugar, rotten dentition. No need to roll up his sleeves; I knew we wouldn’t be invited inside.
Milo said, “So you remember Patty Bigelow.”
No answer.
“Do you?
“Yeah?”
“She’s dead.”
The brown eyes blinked. “That’s too bad.”
“What can you tell us about her, sir?”
Ten-second delay, then a long, slow, laborious head shake as the old addict nudged the door with his knee. Milo placed a big hand on the knob.
“Hey.”
“How well did you know Ms. Bigelow?”
Something changed in the brown eyes. New wariness. “I didn’t.”
“You were living here at the same time she was.”
“So were other people.”
“Any of them still around?”
“Doubt it.”
“People come and go.”
Silence.
“How long have you been living here, sir?”
“Twenty years.” Glance down at his knee. “Gotta take a leak.” He made another halfhearted try at closing the door. Milo held fast and the guy started to fidget and blink. “C’mo-on, I need to—”
“Friend, I’m a murder guy, don’t care what magic potion gets you through the day.”
The man’s eyes closed. He swayed. Nodding off. Milo tapped his shoulder. “Trust me, pal, I’m not on speaking terms with any narcs.”
The eyes opened and shot us a who-me? “I’m clean.”
“And I’m Condoleezza Rice. Just tell us what you remember about Patty Bigelow and we’ll be out of your life.”
“Don’t remember anything.” We waited.
“She had a kid…okay?”
“What do you remember about the kid?”
“She…had one.”
“Who’d Patty hang with?”
“Dunno.”
“She have any friends?”
“Dunno.”
“Nice lady?”
Shrug.
“You and she didn’t hang out together?”
“Never.”
“Never?”
“Not my type.”
“Meaning?”
Another look at his knee. “Not my type.”
“When she lived here did anything of a criminal nature go down near the building?”
“What?”
“Murder, rape, robbery, et cetera,” said Milo. “Any of that happen here while Patty Bigelow lived here?”
“Nope.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
Hesitation. “Jordan.”
“That a first or a last?”
“Les Jordan.”
“Leslie?”
“Lester.”
“Got a middle name?”
“Marlon.”
“As in Brando.”
Les Jordan shifted his weight. “Gotta piss.”
From the stain spreading at his crotch, truth in advertising.
He stared at it. No embarrassment, just resignation. His eyelids fluttered. “Told you.”
Milo said, “Have a nice day,” and turned heel.
The door slammed shut.
Most of the other tenants were out. The few we found were too young to be relevant.
Back in the car, Milo phoned Detective Sean Binchy and asked him to run a criminal check on Lester Marlon Jordan.
While we waited, I said, “Sean’s back on Homicide?”
“Nah, still wasting his time on armed robberies and other trivial matters. But the lad’s grateful for my tutelage so he avails himself—yeah, Sean, hold on, lemme get a pen.”
When he hung up, he said, “The charming Mr. Jordan has accumulated multiple arrests. Possession of heroin—big shock—and disorderlies. Five dismissals, three convictions, all bargained down to short stretches at County.”
“Choosing the right lawyer,” I said.
“Or he’s too penny-ante to waste prison space on. Mister Rogers might love all his neighbors but you’d think Patty woulda been more discriminating.”
“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”
“Such as?”
I took a deep breath, unloaded my dope suspicions.
“Respectable nurse dealing hospital junk on the side?” he said. “Rick considers her next to saintly and my impression was you concurred.”
“I do. Just thought I should mention it.”
“Dealing,” he said. “Jordan did get a little edgy when I pushed him about knowing her…know what I find interesting? Here’s Patty, an alleged solid citizen living in a dive, and once she moves from there, she’s hopping around every coupla years. But a scuzzy junkie like Lester Jordan manages to stay at the same address twenty years.”
“Maybe his family owns the building.”
“Or he got a source of steady income that’s managed to elude the justice system.”
“Simple possession raps, but he deals,” I said.
“He’s made it this far without dying, Alex. Having some control over the product would help. Nice respectable hospital nurse moves in, you can see his digging that.”
“For Tanya’s sake I hope that stays a theory.”
“Tanya’s the one did the Pandora bit.”
“Doesn’t mean she’s ready for what flies out of the box.”
The two of us sat there for a while.
He said, “Why Patty would tell her anything is still beyond me. On the other hand, maybe she was pure and this is just us cogitating out of control. We’ve been known to spin some pretty good theories in our spare time.”
I said, “Some of them have turned out to be real.”
“Listen to you,” he said. “I thought the key was to think positive. Whatever the hell that means.”
I kept quiet.
“Any further wisdom at this juncture?” he said.
“Nope.”
“Onward to Fourth Street.”
Dappled shade from mature trees prettied the block. The same Mini Cooper was parked on the concrete pad. PLOTGRL.
Tanya had said Asians had lived above her so we headed for the duplex’s ground floor. The door was answered by a slim, ponytailed brunette in her late twenties. A pencil was wedged behind one ear. A fuzzy pink sweater hung over black tights. Freckled nose, amber eyes, sharp chin. Soft curves molded the sweater.
Milo’s badge made her giggle. “Cops? That is so weird. I’m right in the middle of a cop-show teleplay. Want to be my technical advisors?”
“What show?”
“A pilot,” she said. “The main hook is a girl detective who’s deaf because of a gunshot accident. She can’t hear the bad guys coming so she has to develop her other senses to their utmost. Overcompensation, you know? She’s an ace at sign language and that ends up being crucial in catching a serial killer.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Milo.
“Right now, it sounds sucko because what I’m really good at is comedy. But my agent says no one’s buying. Hopefully when I finish Hear No Evil it’ll suck less but not be too intelligent for the networks.”
She stuck out a hand, shook energetically. “Lisa Bergman. What brings you guys around on a weekend?”
Milo smiled at her. “Background check. You’re too young to help.”
“I’m older than I look, but you made my day. Can you at least tell me what’s going on—no names, just the basic story line? I can always use material.”
“The story line,” he said, “is we’re inquiring about a woman who lived here nine, ten years ago.�
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“Nine, ten years ago,” said Lisa Bergman, “I was a junior at Reed.”
“There you go.”
“You’re saying something happened here?”
“A person of interest lived here. Who are your upstairs neighbors?”
“Four law students younger than me. What did this person of interest do?”
“She’s deceased,” said Milo.
“Deceased as in murdered?”
“Natural death, but we need to clear up some details about her life.”
“How come?”
“Financial issues. Nothing juicy enough for TV.”
“You’re sure?”
“Do debentures and tax-free municipal bonds sound like a hook?”
“Ugh,” said Lisa Bergman. Sliding the pencil from behind her ear, she touched the point to her lip, creating a tiny little temporary dimple. “You should go over and talk to Mary Whitbread. She’s the landlady.”
“Where can we find her?”
Stepping onto her porch, she pointed. “Five buildings down, the green one, first floor. She’ll probably be there.”
“Homebody?”
“No, she shops but mostly she’s around.” Nose-wrinkling frown.
“Nosy?”
“Between you and me, she drops by more than she has to,” said Bergman. “Supposedly to make sure the property’s being maintained but really just to schmooze. Once, I made the mistake of inviting her in for coffee. An hour later, she was still here and all my ideas for that day’s writing had floated away.”
She grinned. “Maybe that was good.”
Milo thanked her and wished her luck with her script.
She said, “From your mouth to God’s ears. If this gig doesn’t work out, I’ll have to go back to being an event planner.”
Mary Whitbread’s duplex was painted mint green with teal trim, fronted by impeccable grass, shaded by a gorgeously contorted sycamore.
Freshly swept tile porch, pretty flowers in pretty vases. A cheerful, “One second!” preceded the opening of a black lacquer door.
From Lisa Bergman’s description, I was expecting a mousy type in a housecoat. Mary Whitbread was fiftyish, tan, trim, and blond-coiffed, with huge blue eyes under eyebrows plucked to commas. Her white silk blouse was patterned with gold links and bugles and red orchids—Versace or trying to be—and tucked tight into tailored navy crepe slacks. Tiny waist, hard hips, sharp bosoms. Red spike-heeled sandals revealed nacreous toenail polish. Her fingernails were painted the crimson of the shoes.
“Hel-lo,” she proclaimed. “If you’re here about the vacancy, sorry, it’s been rented, the service forgot to de-list.”
Milo said, “Aw, shucks,” and flashed the badge.
“Police? My goodness.” Peering at us. “Now that I’m looking it’s obvious you’re not…in the market.”
“Is it.”
Mary Whitbread stepped out onto the porch and smiled. “What I meant was when I see two men looking for a place to rent together I assume—you know. Which isn’t to say that bothers me. Actually, they’re my favorite tenants. So meticulous, that great eye for proportion.”
She patted her hair. Flashed teeth. “So how can I help the police?”
“We’re inquiring about a former tenant.”
“One of my people got in trouble? Who?”
“No one’s in trouble, Ms. Whitbread—”
“Just call me Mary.” She took another step forward, moved right into Milo’s personal space.
“No one’s in trouble, Mary. One of your former tenants is deceased and there are some corollary investigations going on into financial matters.”
“Financial? White-collar crime?” she said. “Like Enron? World-com?”
“Nothing quite so monumental,” said Milo. “I’m sorry but I can’t discuss the details.”
Mary Whitbread pouted. “Meanie. Now you’ve got me all curious.”
Leaning forward, close enough to kiss. Milo retreated two steps. Mary Whitbread quickly claimed the space he’d vacated. “All right, Detective, I’ll bite. Who’s this mystery person?”
“Patricia Bigelow.”
False lashes fluttered. “Patty? She died? How sad. How in the world did it happen?”
“Cancer.”
“Cancer,” she repeated. “That’s terribly sad. She didn’t smoke.”
“You remember her.”
“I’m a people person. My people stay for years, often we become friends.”
“Patty Bigelow didn’t stay long.”
“No…I suppose she didn’t…cancer? She couldn’t have been too old.” She frowned. “That little girl of hers…Tamara? Losing her mother…you’re saying Patty became involved in some sort of money- laundering thing or whatever?”
Milo ran a finger across his lips.
“Sorry, Detective, I just find people so endlessly fascinating. Used to work as a casting agent in the industry and boy, that was a lesson in applied psychology. But your job, glimpsing the dark side, it must be endlessly fascinating.”
“Endlessly. What can you tell us about Patty Bigelow?”
“Well,” she said, “she paid her rent on time, kept the place up just fine. I certainly had no problems with her.”
“Did anyone else?”
More lash calisthenics. “Not that I’d know. I’m just saying we got along dandy. Have you been over to the apartment she occupied?”
“The tenant sent us here.”
“Lisa,” said Mary Whitbread. “Pretty girl. Her father pays the rent. Beverly Hills divorce lawyer, he’s been financing Lisa’s adventures for years. This month it’s screenwriting.”
I said, “Who lived above Patty?”
“A young couple from…Indonesia. Or Malaysia? Somewhere over there. They had Dutch names even though they were Oriental…Henry—no Hendrik. Hendrik and Astrid Van Dreesen. He was studying for a Ph.D., some scientific thing, she was…some sort of salesperson…electronics was his thing, I believe. They weren’t as meticulous about upkeep as you’d think. Being Oriental. We always assume they’ll be neat, right? But overall, good tenants. They stayed four years, then moved back to wherever they came from.”
“During the time Ms. Bigelow lived here, did anything out of the ordinary occur in the neighborhood?”
“Out of the ordinary as in a swindle or a con job or laundering?”
“Anything you can think of,” said Milo.
“Out of the ordinary…well…we don’t have the kind of problems you’d see in a lower-income neighborhood. I do recall a purse-snatching, a poor old lady knocked to her feet by a Mexican—a busboy at a restaurant on Wilshire…but that was after Patty’s time…there were a few burglaries, but the police caught whoever was behind them.” She clucked her tongue. “Was it lung cancer? When she applied to rent she said she didn’t smoke. And I never saw evidence that she did.”
“She was here less than a year,” I said. “Why’d she move?”
“The rent was beyond her budget,” said Whitbread. “With a child in parochial school, it became a burden, though I don’t know why you’d want that.”
“Not a fan of parochial school?”
“Those priests? Every day a new headline. But that was Patty’s choice. When she told me she was having difficulties I sensed she wanted me to reduce the rent but, of course, that was out of the question.”
“Of course.”
“In the real estate business, Detective, if one wants quality tenants, one must be fair but firm. Patty’s unit was in terrific condition, tons of original features from the twenties. It didn’t stay vacant long. Two gay guys, as a matter of fact, and they lived there for five years and the only reason they left was they bought a house up in the hills.”
She frowned. “Where did Patty move? I was never contacted by anyone for a reference.”
“Culver City,” said Milo.
“Ouch,” said Whitbread. “That’s a bit of a comedown.” Her eyes shifted to a spot over his shoulder.
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A black Hummer had pulled up to the curb. Whitbread waved. Put her hand on my arm. “My son’s here—is there anything else, Detective?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well then, nice talking to you.” She nudged me, smiled at Milo. “If at some point you are allowed to give a civilian some juicy details, please remember me.”
“Will do,” he said. “Thanks for your time.”
Clicking past us on red heels, she hurried to the Hummer and knocked on the passenger window. The glass had been tinted black. So had the grille and the rims.
As we pulled away, the driver’s door opened and a huge young black man in copper-colored sweats and matching athletic shoes got out. Midtwenties, shaved head, razor-trimmed mustache and goatee.
“That’s her kid?” said Milo. “I love this city.”
“Always surprises,” I said.
“Take a nap and your zip code’s changed.”
Mary Whitbread waved at us.
The giant did the same, but his heart wasn’t in it.
CHAPTER
11
This is different,” said Milo.
We were standing near the dead fountain that centered the bungalow court on Culver Boulevard. The bowl was cracked, crusted with dead bugs, splotched with vaguely organic stains. A broken toy truck lay on its side. As we’d stepped onto the property, the children who’d been playing in the dirt had scattered like finches.
No bells on any of the units’ warped doors. Milo’s knocks had produced baffled stares, murmured denials in Spanish. What we could see of the units’ interiors was dim and threadbare. A stale, morose uniformity shouted transience.
“I can try to find out who owned the property back then but it’s not going to lead anywhere.” His shoe nudged the fountain. “Patty didn’t ask Chatty Mary for references because she didn’t need any for this dump.”
I said, “That could’ve been the point.”
“What do you mean?”
“She moved to keep a low profile.”
“Money wasn’t the motive? Scared of something brought on by illicit commerce? I don’t know, Alex. If she was running why stay in town and keep the same job?”
“I was thinking guilt, not fear,” I said. “Running from herself.”
“The alleged ‘terrible thing’?”
“A step down the residential ladder might’ve seemed a bit of atonement.”
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