“What’s the problem?”
“He always pays his rent but does it chronically late,” said Reed. “Like he’s trying to irritate them by squeezing out every bit of delay. They say getting rid of a tenant is a hassle even when you’re faced with a total deadbeat and Scoppio makes sure not to give them grounds. Top of that, he’s a lawyer, they don’t want the aggravation.”
“What are his physical stats?”
“Five nine, one seventy-eight, brown and green. The picture makes him a guy you’d never notice. You anywhere near a fax?”
“Nope, but the stats are consistent with Hood-boy. Where does Scoppio practice law?”
“Haven’t checked yet, but I will.”
“Don’t bother, I can do it. Thanks, Moses, you can climb back up Olympus, now.”
I said, “Monte Carlo?”
Milo said, “Smells right but ol’ George really is ol’ George. More like ancient. Scoppio gives him attitude, Kaplan builds up resentment, a few days later he sees a drawing on TV, convinces himself he just got dissed by a murderer.”
“Ol’ George seemed pretty lucid to me. More important, you’ve got nothing else and who knows if that rib joint is still in business.”
“Desperation time ... always been a favorite season of mine.”
A search for the working address of M. Carlo Scoppio, attorney at law, pulled up nothing. Same for an inquiry at the bar association.
Milo said, “He lied, excellent start.”
I said, “Lawyers can work in other capacities.”
“Hush your mouth, whippersnapper. Let’s go back to the office, return close to five. If the timing’s right, I’ll have a little chat with this charmer.”
Googling m. carlo scoppio pulled up the website of Baird, Garroway and Habib, an East L.A. law firm specializing in personal injury civil suits. Scoppio’s name appeared near the bottom of the staff roster. Paralegal.
“He didn’t just lie, he puffed himself up,” said Milo. “We’re a little closer to sociopath.” He scanned. “Hablo Español... and five other languages. Could be one of those slip-and-fall deals, poor stooges get the whiplash, lawyers get the dough. Maybe paralegal means Scoppio ropes them in.”
Probing for articles on the law firm produced several news pieces about an investigation by the city attorney. All three partners were suspected of setting up phony traffic accidents, working in concert with corrupt physicians, physical therapists, and chiropractors. No indictments had been brought.
No mention of Carlo Scoppio.
Milo tried a contact at the city attorney’s office. The woman had no personal knowledge of the case but looked up the current status. “Appears to be pending, Lieutenant.”
“Meaning?”
“My guess would be insufficient evidence to file. Looks like they used illegals as their stooges, try finding witnesses willing to testify.”
“Does the name M. Carlo Scoppio appear anywhere?”
“Scoppio ... no, doesn’t look like—oh, here it is, he’s a para ... suspected of being a recruiter. He killed someone? We might be able to use that.”
By four forty-eight we were back on Scoppio’s block, cruising past the bungalow.
Still no sign of the black pickup George Kaplan had described but a gray Honda sat on the concrete pad.
Milo said, “Girlfriend’s here, maybe boyfriend will show up soon.”
Too few cars on the street made getting close risky. I parked four houses up, switched off the engine. Milo positioned a pair of binoculars in his lap, chewed a panatela, paused from time to time to spit shreds of tobacco out the passenger window.
“We could be here for a while, you want to put on music, it’s fine with me.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
“Anything that doesn’t make my ears bleed—well, looky here.”
A black Ford half-ton approached from the south and pulled up next to the Honda.
Milo snatched up the binocs, was focused on the driver’s door as a man exited the truck.
“That’s him—guess what he’s wearing? Gray hoodie.”
Carlo Scoppio walked around to the truck’s passenger side, retrieved something.
Plastic bags. Five of them. Scoppio laid them on the concrete.
Milo said, “Albertsons, ol’ Monte C. does the shopping, how touchingly domestic.”
Scoppio returned to the driver’s side, reached in, honked the horn.
The bungalow’s front door opened and a woman stepped out. Tallish, dressed in a white top and jeans.
Scoppio pointed to the bags. The woman walked toward them.
Milo’s shoulders tightened. “You are not going to believe this. Here, take a look.”
“At what?”
“Her.”
CHAPTER 38
Dual lenses highlighted a pleasant face framed by long rust-brown hair. Late twenties to early thirties, rosy-cheeked, clear blue eyes.
Milo said, “Our rookie C.I., Lara whatshername.”
I said, “Helpful Ms. Rieffen.”
Carlo Scoppio lifted three bags, left Lara Rieffen to carry two. No pleasantries exchanged between the two. No talk, at all.
They entered the house. The door closed.
Milo said, “This changes everything.”
During the drive back to the station, he reached Dave McClellan, the head coroner’s investigator, asked if Lara Rieffen’s assignment to the turret murders had been scheduled routine.
McClellan said, “She screwed up?”
“No, I just need to know, Dave.”
“Don’t have the schedule in front of me, I’m at City Hall trying to impress city council members. Why do you need to know?”
“Who do I talk to about the schedule, Dave?”
“Now you’re scaring me—tell me the truth, did Rieffen screw up in some major way?”
“Is she a screwup?”
“She’s new, tends to be a little lazy.”
“She gave the opposite impression at Borodi, Dave. Made herself out to be Eager Annie.”
“Maybe she likes you.”
“The burden of charm, story of my life. Where can I get hold of the schedule?”
“You’re not going to tell me why? All of a sudden, my gut’s churning.”
“It could be nothing, Dave.”
“Now my bowels are loosening,” said McClellan. “Call Irma, my administrative aide. She knows everything. Wish I did, too.”
Irma Melendez took thirty seconds to come up with the answer: A C.I. named Daniel Paillard had been next up for the Borodi call.
“He didn’t take it, Lieutenant Sturgis? My record says he did.”
“Lara Rieffen did.”
“Her?” said Melendez. “How come?”
“I thought you might know.”
“I have no idea, Lieutenant. The two of them must’ve worked something out—maybe Dan had an emergency. She doesn’t volunteer for anything.”
“Not a workaholic?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Where can I find Paillard?”
“He’s off today.”
“Give me his cell and his home landline, please.”
“Dan did something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“Good,” said Melendez. “Him, I like.”
Daniel Paillard was at Universal Studios with his girlfriend.
“This is a big deal?”
“Probably not,” said Milo, “but tell me about it.”
“Nothing to tell,” said Paillard. “She came to me the day before, said she needed time off next week, was I willing to swap. I said sure, why not.”
“What day did she need time off?”
“She never said.”
“She never collected on the trade?”
Silence.
“Dan?”
“I guess she didn’t,” said Paillard. “I guess I forgot—looking a gift horse, you know? Am I in trouble? I mean it was between the two of us.”<
br />
“You’re not in trouble.”
“I mean, I’d been working my ass off for weeks, all those gang shootings,” said Paillard. “When she came to me, I didn’t see any problem long as the job got done—did she screw up?”
“Is she a screwup?”
“She’s green,” said Paillard.
“Do me a favor, Dan. Don’t tell her about this conversation.”
“She’s in some other kind of trouble?”
“Not yet,” said Milo. “Be discreet, Dan, and I will be, too.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” said Paillard. “She’s green, maybe a little lazy, that’s really all I can say about her.”
Milo swung his desk chair around, faced me. “Lazy rookie but she makes herself out as gung-ho. A faker like Scoppio. She processed the bodies, made comments about Doreen’s clothes being cheap. That takes on a whole new flavor now.”
I said, “Rieffen trading shifts the day before the murder says she knew Backer and Doreen would be up in that turret. Doreen lived with her and Scoppio, so that’s no mystery. If Scoppio’s our Port Angeles hoodie, we’ve got fifty grand of motive. But the scene’s always reeked of personal to me, so it could’ve gone beyond the money. Kaplan said the three of them looked grim when they were together. Maybe the gloss was off the relationship.”
“Threesome gone bad.”
“Possibly because threesome had turned to twosome.”
“Doreen threw her roommies over for Backer,” he said. “Old flame reignited. So to speak.”
“Backer and Doreen were paid by Helga to blow up Teddy’s palace, scoped the scene and found the turret a fun place. Ned Holman saw them use it two months before the murders, they could very well have turned it into their private party spot, could’ve even taken Rieffen and Monte up there. Either way they’d be easy to track. The scene’s always pointed to two killers. Now we’ve got a new pair.”
“Rieffen’s involved in the murder, makes sure she’s assigned to the scene. Cute. The obvious reason is monkeying with evidence, as in concealing any record of her presence and Scoppio’s. She was up there before I arrived, Lord knows what she did during that time.”
I said, “One thing she didn’t conceal was the semen stain on Doreen’s leg. On the contrary, she called it to your attention and that makes me wonder if she was playing head games. Backer always used condoms, we’ve assumed he made an exception for Doreen. What if he didn’t and the semen came from someone else?”
“Monte chokes out Doreen then abuses her corpse? Why would Rieffen point out the stain? And why not wipe it off right at the murder?”
“Maybe Monte didn’t want her to. Proud of himself, playing his own head game. On her own, Rieffen might’ve been more cautious. Or she thought it was fun, too. In either case, she knew the stain would be gone by the time the body got to Jernigan. That’s exactly the kind of high-risk adrenaline rush psychopaths crave. Rieffen takes control of the evidence, making herself look sharp-eyed in the process. Then she finds a quiet moment at the crypt and destroys the evidence, making the rest of the coroner’s staff look incompetent.”
“It’s not enough that I succeed,” he said. “You have to fail.”
“Antisocial, self-aggrandizing puffery at its finest, Big Guy.”
“One speck of DNA could’ve screwed the deal—if anyone would bother to analyze the stain. But she’s a goddamn C.I., would know how to do it right.”
“No reason to analyze DNA,” I said. “The way the bodies were posed, the obvious donor was Backer.”
“Speaking of Backer, maybe we’re talking foursome down to twosome. They all knew each other. One shot to the head, Desi’s out of the picture, they get the storage key. Leaving Doreen to deal with two armed baddies, piece of cake subduing her. Rieffen trains the little gun on her while Monte jams the big one. Then he strangles her, delivering an incredibly demeaning coup de grâce. Then they reposition the bodies.”
“They left Backer’s I.D. in place, but took Doreen’s because she’d lived with them, could be traced to them.”
“Rieffen and Monte living with a pyro, and Monte’s copping the fifty G’s says they knew about the plot. What if the foursome was a business arrangement, Alex?”
“They were all involved in the fire,” I said.
“Eliminate Backer and Doreen and the share doubles.”
“Foursome,” I said. “Two other kids were suspects in the Bellevue fire. Kathy Something, I forget the boy’s name.”
He snatched up his pad. “Kathy Vanderveldt, Dwayne Parris. Lindstrom said they turned out fine, she went to med school, he went to law school.”
“Lindstrom never actually met them, she’s relying on the previous agent’s notes. What if Kathy and Dwayne planned careers in medicine and law, but fell short? A C.I. deals with the human body but works under a physician’s supervision. A paralegal—who tells people he’s a lawyer—has to answer to an attorney.”
“Wannabes, they change their names ... the Feds being their usual thorough selves miss it.” He faced his computer. “Okay, let’s see what we locals can come up with.”
He called up a series of high school reunion sites, found one that offered yearbook photos for a fee, zeroed in on Seattle. Plugging in kathy vanderveldt struck gold at Center High. After confirming that Dwayne Parris had been a member of the same class, he used his own credit card to pay for the shots and printed.
Black-and-white shots, but clear enough.
Younger versions of the two faces we’d just seen carrying groceries.
Kathy Lara Vanderveldt had smiled warmly for the camera. Member of the science club, the nature club, Future Physicians of America.
Dwayne Charles Parris had maintained a narrow-mouthed stoicism. An average-looking kid, in every way, with bushy dark hair worn low over his forehead. Varsity hockey, Model U.N., accounting club.
I said, “She’s using her middle name as her first, he’s Carlo as in Italian for Charles. Wonder where he got Scoppio.”
“Maybe it means something in Italian.”
It did.
Explosion.
Milo said, “Monte go boom.”
He kept searching, starting with kathy vanderveldt. No criminal record on file, same for Dwayne Parris, but a five-year-old account of the Vanderveldt-Rieffen family reunion was featured in The Seattle Times. Serious human interest, because a hundred fifty-three people had participated. Page-wide group photo, Kathy nowhere to be seen but a small child with the same name sat in the front row, beaming.
Milo said, “Little cousin makes it to the party but Big Kathy doesn’t, because she’s using an aka. She’s running from something bad, but no record?”
I said, “It’s possible that whatever she’s running from never made the files. As in her own lost years.”
“Another teen eco-terrorist who kept it going?”
“And whose career somehow got derailed. Doreen conned the FBI, but Lindstrom did say she’d tossed them a few bones. Minor stuff, but everything’s relative, to the Bureau minor could mean big buildings aren’t blowing up. What if Doreen’s info implicated Kathy and Dwayne seriously enough to screw up their educational goals and force them underground? Kathy and Dwayne figured out who’d betrayed them, but Doreen and Backer didn’t realize that. Years later, the four of them reconnect in L.A., agree to collaborate on a torch job. Shades of the Bellevue fire that killed Van Burghout, but now they’re getting paid serious money. Kathy and Dwayne go along with it until they figure out how to get hold of the money. After that, Backer and Doreen are history.”
“Reunion of the nature-hiking eco-pyros,” he said. “Okay, it’s time to have a go at Gayle’s ego.”
CHAPTER 39
Special Agent Gayle Lindstrom met us at a pizza joint in Westwood Village, not far from the Federal Building. College student clientele meant oceans of cheap beer on tap, not much in the way of décor.
Milo talked, Lindstrom listened, growing steadily more tense with each revelation. When h
e finished, she said, “Those two. Oh, crap.”
“Kathy and Carlo are your buddies.”
“They’re names in a file.”
“You made it like they turned out sterling. She’s a doctor, he’s a lawyer, all that’s missing is an Indian chief.”
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