“That’s it,” said Baranelli. “That’s what happen when you exploit kids.”
“What do you mean?”
“Religious nuts, always pressuring. So what do the kids do? They rebel, right? Those two got off the bus from Iowa, a few weeks later they had fake tits and tongue-pierces and were ready to go.”
“Who paid for the surgery?”
“Listen to me carefully: They were of age and it’s no crime helping someone improve their self-esteem. That’s all I’m going to say. Good night, I’m turning off the phone, don’t bother me again.”
CHAPTER
37
Next day: division of labor.
Raul Biro continued to watch Mary Whitbread’s duplex. She shopped in the morning, lunched alone at Il Pastaio in Beverly Hills, seemed to know the waiters quite well. Arriving home at three, she stayed in. No sign of her son or Robert Fisk.
Petra’s fourth application for a subpoena of Mary’s phone records went through and she began the paperwork. Several tips had come in on the alerts for Blaise De Paine and Robert Fisk but each dead-ended. By seven p.m., she was ready for a sit-down with Captain Stu Bishop.
Milo drove to Tarzana and did a face-to-face with Benjamin Baranelli. The retired pornographer was a cranky eighty-year-old with poor hygiene who walked with two canes and refused to cooperate. Milo did a lot of listening and eventually Baranelli turned over a box of photo stills of Brandee Vixen and Rocksi Roll. By six, Milo was at his recalcitrant computer at the West L.A. station logging onto missing person databases and researching religious cults in Iowa and Idaho.
Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau’s search for Moses Grant’s kin bore fruit when a trace on Grant’s disability checks led to a Long Beach address. There the Central detectives found a great-aunt of Grant’s who’d been saving her nephew’s money. She collapsed when told of his demise.
I walked Blanche and fed the fish and bothered Robin at her shop a couple of times and thought about Patty Bigelow watching a man die. I phoned Tanya at noon, then at five. She assured me everything was fine and asked if I’d learned anything new.
I said no. The lie slid out of my mouth as easy as breath.
Petra called a nighttime sit-down at ten p.m. My attendance was optional. I exercised the option and drove to Hollywood.
Same conference room. Saunders and Bouleau wore gray suits, white shirts, and crisp ties undaunted by double shifts. Petra had on a black pantsuit and looked preoccupied. Milo wore a mud-colored mock turtle over navy poly slacks and desert boots. Fire in his green eyes but it was hard to figure out what that meant.
I was the last to arrive and this time, they’d started without me.
Petra said, “Welcome to show-and-tell. Dave and Kevin were just showing us what master sleuths they are.”
Bouleau said, “Just back from Grant’s great-aunt.” Pronouncing it “awnt.” “Maybelle Lemoyne. She didn’t take the news well, we actually called the paramedics but she’s okay.”
“Salt of the earth,” said Saunders. “Widow, raised seven kids of her own, churchgoing, the whole deal. Moses was her oldest sister’s son, both she and Moses’ father died a few years ago. The family has roots in Louisiana—Baton Rouge and Nawlins. Moses played football in high school, was thinking about Tulane, then the diabetes killed that.”
“Hence,” said Bouleau, “the disability checks.”
“The family house went down in Katrina,” said Saunders. “Moses’ brother and sister went to live in Texas but he came out here to make it as a deejay. He was living with his aunt part-time, got some party gigs with that broker, rented a dump single in the Valley, and drove back and forth in an old Toyota. Car’s still at the aunt’s, dead battery, hasn’t been started for months.”
Bouleau said, “Not since Moses quit the broker and started hanging with some people he told Aunt Maybelle were ‘big-time.’ He gave her check-cashing authority on the disability money, told her to keep it, he was going to make it big in the music biz. She cashed the checks, started a bank account in his name.”
“Salt of the earth,” Saunders repeated. “She says Moses was always a nice boy, went to church, obeyed his mama when she was alive. His appearance would scare people, then they’d talk to him, see he was soft.”
I recalled Grant exiting the Hummer, standing near Mary Whitbread as she waved to us. Hesitating, then lifting his own huge hand.
Bouleau said, “Maybelle’s never seen or heard of Blaise De Paine but she did I.D. Robert Fisk. He came by with Moses a couple of months ago, stayed in the car when Moses went in and got some clothes. Auntie thought that was unfriendly, especially after she waved to come in. Fisk just sat there, pretended not to notice. Auntie asked Moses why he was associating with impolite people. Moses said Robert—he used the name—was okay, just a little quiet. In terms of motive, Auntie says Moses was a law-abider who definitely would’ve freaked out after witnessing or getting involved in a murder.”
Saunders said, “Everyone thinks their kin is angelic. I’ve heard Crips’ mommies insisting no way Latif could’ve shot those five people, meanwhile we’ve got Latif at the scene with the Uzi in his hand. But this lady I believe. We got some phone numbers in New Orleans from her—Moses’ pastor, an ex-girlfriend, a teacher. Everyone says the guy looked like trouble but was a lamb chop.”
“Also,” said Bouleau, “no genius. De Paine spins him some yarn about making it big in music, he would’ve bought it.” Sitting back. “And that’s the whole deal, folks.”
Petra said, “Thanks, guys,” told them about the missing girls and Roger Bandini’s death.
Bouleau said, “So if anyone did this Bandini it was Patty. Right after De Paine and Roger did the girls.”
“That’s the working theory, assuming anyone did anyone. We don’t even have names for the girls.”
Milo said, “Ahem,” opened his attaché case, and spread three photos in the center of the table.
The largest was an eight-by-ten still from Busty Babes Vol. XI, copyright Vivacious Videos. A pair of blondes reclining poolside, naked, splayed, flaunting inflated chests. Matching gigantic hairdos and tans suggested a twin fantasy. Brandee Vixen and Rocksi Roll grinned, fondled, and tongue-dueled.
The other two pictures were color faxes of what looked to be school photos.
A brown-haired girl around sixteen, wearing a white blouse with a starched Peter Pan collar, and a strawberry blonde in long braids, dressed identically. Braces and spots of acne on the brunette. Soft blue eyes and pretty features yearned to get past all that. The other girl was freckled and pug-nosed and brown-eyed, with pixie ears, a wide-open smile, and perfect dentition.
In the white space at the bottom of both photos, a cross of thorny vines was wreathed by a gold ribbon imprinted Faith Triumphant Academy, Curney, North Dakota.
Under each picture, Milo’s handwriting:
Brenda Hochlbeier.
Renée Mittle.
He said, “Best friends according to their parents. Their classmates knew it was more than that. They came from seriously fundamentalist families, not a cult, but close. The school was all girls, skirts down to the ankles. These two started rebelling in their junior year of high school. A month before graduation, they ran away. Brenda was seventeen and a half, Renée barely seventeen. They confided in some pals that they were going to New York to be Rockettes. The pals spilled and the search concentrated on the East Coast, poor parents tramping all over, hiring P.I.’s, including a couple of “apostolic investigators” who ripped them off gloriously. Whether or not the girls did go east is unclear. So is what they did between the time they split and when they started making movies out here a year later.”
I said, “Byron Stark thought they were older but they were eighteen…they look older.”
“Hair and makeup and surgery can do that.”
“So can attitude,” said Petra, eyeing the film still. “Here they look like hardened pros. From high school to that in a year. Whoa.”
; Dave Saunders said, “You got all this from their parents, Milo?”
“No, from the sheriff in Curney, guy named Doug Brenner. Second-generation lawman, his dad was in charge when the girls ran away. Doug was one year ahead of the girls in the church boys’ school, says all the kids knew it was a runaway because Brenda and Renée couldn’t be themselves in that environment.”
“You or he going to notify the families?”
“I told him to hold off until we learn more.”
Kevin Bouleau said, “The good news is your daughters were lesbian porn stars. The bad news is we don’t have a clue where they are.”
“I’d say they were in garbage bags, ten years ago,” said Saunders, flicking a corner of Brenda Hochlbeier’s photo. “Man, that is gross…you’re a little scumbag animal-parts-loving dope-dealer psycho killer like De Paine, Peter Pan, whatever you want to call him, where do you dump the body parts?”
Looking at me.
I said, “A lot of those guys want to revisit.”
Milo said, “We know he liked to revisit Mommy’s film escapades.”
Petra said, “So somewhere relatively close to home…Stark’s dad didn’t see the van being loaded until eight days after the girls were gone. Petey probably kept the bodies in the garage, along with his other toys.”
Saunders said, “Probably cut them up there.”
Petra didn’t blink. “That, too. But he couldn’t leave them there forever. Or bury them in the yard, too risky. So he and Bandini trucked them off. But where?”
Milo said, “If that’s how it happened, it tells us about Mary. Her son hiding some animal parts, I can see, maybe she rarely used the fridge. But two human bodies?”
“Mama love,” she said. “Good God.”
I said, “What if the bags were taken to another property she owned?”
“Her name doesn’t cross-reference to DBAs in the business files.”
“That’s her stage name,” I said. “What about the one she was given at birth?”
“She changed it legally. Why would she continue to do real estate deals as Maria Baker?”
“She could’ve done them before the name change. Myron Bedard told us she owned a home in Carthay Circle. Which is a ten-minute ride to Fourth Street, tops.”
Milo said, “The way Carthay’s designed, no access from main avenues. Be a nice hidey-hole.”
Petra waited for additional comment. When none came, she said, “Worth a try,” and left the room.
Five minutes later she strode in fast, waving a scrap of papers, eyes ablaze. “Two Maria Baker properties for the price of one. Commodore Sloat and Del Valle, and she still owns them both.”
She headed for the door.
“Another nice neighborhood,” said Milo, following.
Saunders and Bouleau were the last to rise. Saunders said, “All this premium real estate, Kev and I are starting to feel Westside.”
CHAPTER
38
Carthay Circle is a few square blocks of residential charm combined with denial of urban reality. Bordered by the high-rises on Wilshire to the north and the din of Olympic to the south, the enclave is a mix of beautifully kept Spanish, English, Mediterranean, and Cape Cod houses. Toward the center of the district, just off San Vicente, is an office complex where the Carthay Circle Theater once stood. Gone with the Wind premiered at the Carthay. The glamour and drama have given way to the ambient chatter of lawyers and such.
At night, the streets of Carthay are dark and still; a motorcade of detectives would stand out like objective reporting. Petra signed a Crown Victoria out of the Hollywood Division lot and the five of us piled in. She drove and Milo rode shotgun. Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau sat in back with me sandwiched between.
The car smelled of wet metal and old vinyl. Bouleau shifted his shoulders and tried to get comfortable. “Hope everyone’s on friendly terms with their deodorant.”
Milo said, “Let’s see after the trip.”
Mary Whitbread’s rental property on Del Valle was a cream stucco, neatly kept Spanish with a tiny, faux-bell-tower over the entry and a small courtyard that hosted a trickling fountain. Low-watt lighting turned the fountain spray to amber mist. A kiddie play-set stood near the basin. Mazda RX7 in the driveway in front of a RAV4. On the SUV’s bumper: My child’s an honor student at Carthay Circle Magnet School.
Bouleau said, “And my little psychopath kicks his ass—looks like the porn lady got herself some nice, wholesome tenants.”
Milo said, “Wonder how they’d feel about a cadaver dog sniffing around.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun,” said Petra, “but we’re a long way off. For all we know, the dump site’s in Coachella.”
No longer entertaining the possibility that there was no dump. As the facts had settled in, everyone was assuming two dead girls.
Petra drove to Commodore Sloat Drive. Another Spanish, whitewashed, slightly larger than the first. No courtyard, different window style, stained-glass insets. In this driveway sat a pair of BMWs, a gray Z3 and a black 325i. Lights flickered in a side window. Petra parked two houses up, got out, tiptoed around toward the light, lingered a bit, got back in the driver’s seat.
“Filmy drapes in the bedroom, cute couple in their thirties. The TV’s on, she’s doing a crossword puzzle, he’s plugged into an iPod.”
Dave Saunders said, “Happy family for A, yuppies for B. Conspicuous absence of psycho killers.” He yawned. “I need to get home.”
As the Central detectives drove their cars out of the division lot, Petra said, “Well, that was a whole lot of nothing…Alex, would you do me a favor and try Stark’s dad tomorrow morning? I left three messages, no answer. No doubt he detests the department, can’t say I blame him. Seeing as he’s got a counseling degree maybe he’d relate better to you.”
“I’ll do my best rendition of professional courtesy.”
“Thanks, you’re a peach.” Stifling her own yawn. “Why is that contagious, Doctor?”
“I have no idea.”
“The mysteries of science,” she said. “Guess I should do a little domestic duty. Eric just finished a monthlong job. Defense contractor in Arizona, industrial spy thing that turned out to be paranoia. He’s been shuttling back and forth, we haven’t seen each other much. If this thing ever cooks up, it’ll be more of the same.”
“Go for it, kid,” said Milo. “Eric have an iPod?”
“Ha. Eric only listens to music when I switch it on. The man can sit and do nothing like I’ve never seen.” She smiled but didn’t budge. “So…eventually these bastards are going to have to show themselves, right?” Putting her palms together prayerfully. “I’m hoping to get Mary’s phone records sometime tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll catch Raul up on everything. He’s doing great…I should tell him so.”
Lowering her volume with each sentence so that by the end she was muttering.
Her shoulders rounded and her head dipped an inch. She looked older and tired, but just for the seconds it took to draw herself up and shake her hair loose. “Well, let’s hope they get stupid—one more thing, guys, confidential. James Rahab—the sergeant who wrote up Roger Bandini’s death—comes up on a list of Fortuno’s possible sources in the department.”
“How’d you find that out?” said Milo.
“Stu found out from his fed buddy. Who also informed him we will have no more access to Marvelous Mario.”
I said, “Bandini wasn’t looked into because Fortuno fixed the investigation for Mary?”
“If she thought a serious investigation into Bandini would’ve put Petey in danger, she’d have a motive to call in a favor. On the other hand, it may simply be coincidence. Rahab was righteously on patrol that night—training a rookie. And on the surface, Bandini’s death did present as an overdose. The whole deal’s moot anyway because Rahab died of a heart attack three years ago.”
“Where’s the rookie he was training?” said Milo.
“I don’t even have a name. Only reason the
Feebie told Stu was as a consolation prize—as in, This is the last thing you’re getting.”
“Or because he’s getting us to work for him. We uncover something, he can add to the indictment against Fortuno.”
Petra thought about that. “Could be…anyway, no reason to do the History Channel when I can’t get anything done on a current homicide. Nighty-night, fellas.”
At ten the following morning, I phoned Herbert Stark.
A woman singsonged, “You’ve reached Myra and Herb. We could be fishing, hiking, or just plain loafing. Leave a message and if it’s interesting, we might get back to you.”
“Mr. Stark, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, I’ll do my best to make this fascinating. Years ago you did your civic duty only to run up against some incredible police incompetence. If you can find it in yourself to reopen your mind—”
A deep male voice broke in: “So that my brains fall out? Fascinating? Not quite. Minimally thought-provoking? Possibly.”
“Thanks for—”
“Byron said you seemed quote unquote thoughtful. That’s high praise from my son. I almost became a psychologist. No money and too many family obligations got in the way. So the cops have finally decided to take a look at that little sociopath. What’d he do, now?”
“Killed several people,” I said.
“Oh, what a shock,” said Herbert Stark. “It’s always that way, isn’t it? I just finished reading a book about serial killers—not pulpy crap, a professional textbook by a former investigator who got drummed out because he spoke his mind. His thesis is that ninety-five percent of the time the guilty party is interviewed early on in the investigation and the police have a name right there in front of them. You believe that?”
“Could be.”
“I believe it. Byron said you don’t put much stock in profiling.”
“Not much.”
“They give you grief for that in the department?”
“Not at all.”
Stark grunted. “What do you think I can tell you that I already didn’t try to tell those Einsteins in blue?”
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