'December, right before Christmas. I remember Mrs Nemerov talking about it. How they were Russian Orthodox, celebrated in January, there'd be nothing to celebrate.'
'Caroline was at Achievement House in August,' I said. 'Four months later, she could've been out of there. Willie could've broken her out. Perhaps they were planning to cut town all along, and that's why Burns was trying to sell dope in Venice.'
'My, my, so many possibilities,' he said. 'Ah.'
He had me drive in the direction of the station, then turn onto Purdue and park in front of an old redbrick building just south of Santa Monica Boulevard.
The entrance to Kwik 'n' Ready Bail Bonds was a glass-fronted storefront heralded by neon above the door and gold leaf on the glass. Unlike Achievement House, this placed welcomed attention.
I pointed to the No Stopping, Tow Away warning.
Milo said, 'I'll watch out for the parking Nazis. Failing that, I'll go your bail.'
The front office was a stuffy sliver of fluorescence with a high counter and walls paneled in something mustard-colored that bore no biological link to trees. A knobless door was cut into the rear paneling. A single Maxfield Parrish print - purple mountains' majesty - hung to the left of the doorway. Behind the counter, a round-faced man in his late thirties sat on an old oak swivel chair and ate a big wet sandwich wrapped in wax paper. A coffeemaker and a computer sat to his left. Cabbage and slabs of meat and something red protruded from the sandwich. The man's short-sleeved white shirt was clean but his chin was moist, and as the door closed behind us he swiped at himself with a paper napkin and aimed cautious gray eyes at us. Then he grinned.
'Detective Sturgis.' He hauled a thick body out of the chair and a pink forearm shot across the counter. An anchor tattoo blued the smooth flesh. His brown hair was cropped to the skull and his face was a potpie that had been nibbled at the edges.
'Georgie,' said Milo. 'How's everything?'
'People are very bad, so everything's very good,' said Georgie. He glanced at me. 'He doesn't look like a business opportunity for me.'
'No business today,' said Milo. 'This is Dr Delaware. He consults for the department. Doctor, George Nemerov.'
'A doctor for the cops,' said Georgie, pumping my hand. 'What do you specialize in, sexually transmitted diseases or insanity?'
'Good guess, Georgie. He's a shrink.'
Nemerov chuckled. 'People are nuts, so everything's good for you, Doctor. If you knew more about this business, you'd try to lock me up, too.' Heavy eyelids drooped, and the gray eyes narrowed. But the rest of the soft, doughy face remained placid. 'So what's up, Detective Milo?'
'This and that, Georgie. Eating your spinach?'
'Hate that stuff,' said Nemerov, patting his anchor tattoo. To me: 'When I was a kid, I was a big cartoon fan, Popeye the Sailor. One night, when I was a high school punk, me and some friends were over at the Pike in Long Beach and I got this shit put on me. My mother almost skinned me alive.' 'How is your mom?' said Milo.
'Good as can be expected,' said Nemerov. 'Next month she's seventy-three.'
'Give her my best.'
'Will do, Milo. She always liked you. So... why you here?' Nemerov's smile was angelic.
'I've been looking into some old files, and your dad's case came up.'
'Oh, yeah?' said Nemerov. 'Came up how?'
'Willie Burns's name surfaced with regard to another 187.'
'That so?' Nemerov shifted his weight. His smile had died. 'Well,
that wouldn't surprise me. The guy was lowlife scum. You telling
me he's been spotted around?'
'No,' said Milo. 'The other case is also old and cold. Actually
went down before your dad.'
'And this never came to light when you guys were looking for that murderous fuck?'
'No, Georgie. Burns isn't officially a suspect on the other one. His name just came up, that's all.'
'I see,' Georgie said. 'Actually, I don't.' He rolled a wrist, and
muscles bulged in his forearm. 'What, things are so relaxed around the corner that they've got you chasing ghosts?'
'Sorry to bring up old crap, Georgie.'
'Whatever, Milo, we all got our jobs. Back then I was a kid, first-year college, Cal State Northridge, I was going to become a lawyer. Instead, I got this.' Pudgy hands spread.
Milo said, 'I just wanted to verify that you guys never caught any wind of Burns.'
Nemerov's eyes were ash-colored slits. 'You don't think I'd tell
you if we did?'
'I'm sure you would, but-'
'We go by the law, Milo. Making our living depends on it.'
'I know you do, Georgie. Sorry-'
Georgie picked up his sandwich. 'So who else did Burns off?'
Milo shook his head. 'Too early to let that out. When you guys were looking for him did you uncover any known associates?'
'Nah,' said Nemerov. 'Guy was a fucking loner. A dope-head and a bum and a scumbag. Today, those Legal Aid assholes would call him a poor, poor pitiful homeless citizen and try to get you and me to pay his rent.' His mouth twisted. 'A bum. My dad always treated him with respect and that's how the fuck repaid him.'
'It stinks,' said Milo.
'It stinks bad. Even after all this time.'
'Your dad was a good guy, Georgie.'
Nemerov's gray slits aimed at me. 'My dad could read people like a book, Doctor. Better than a shrink.'
I nodded, thinking: Boris Nemerov had misread Willie Burns in the worst possible way.
Georgie rested one beefy arm on the countertop and favored me with a warm gust of garlic and brine and mustard.
'He could read 'em, my dad could, but he was too damn good, too damn soft. My mom tortured herself for not stopping him from going to meet the fuck that night. I told her she couldn'ta done nothing - Dad got an idea in his head, you couldn't stop him. That's what kept him alive with the communists. Heart of gold, head like a rock. Burns, the fuck, was a loser and a liar but he'd always made his court dates before so why wouldn't my dad see the best in him?'
'Absolutely,' said Milo.
'Ah,' said Nemerov.
The door in the rear panel was pushed open and seven hundred pounds of humanity emerged and filled the office. Two men, each close to six-six, wearing black turtlenecks, black cargo pants, black revolvers in black nylon holsters. The larger one - a fine distinction - was Samoan, with long hair tied up in a sumo knot and a wispy mustache-goatee combo. His companion wore a red crew cut and had a fine-featured, baby-smooth face.
Georgie Nemerov said, 'Hey.'
Both monsters studied us.
'Hey,' said Sumo.
Red grunted.
'Boys, this is Detective Milo Sturgis, an old friend from around the corner. He investigated the scumfuck who murdered my dad. And this is a shrink the department uses because we all know cops are crazy, right?'
Slow nods from the behemoths.
Georgie said, 'These are two of my prime finders, Milo. This here's Stevie, but we call him Yokuzuna, 'cause he used to wrestle in Japan. And the little guy's Red Yaakov, from the Holy Land. So what's new, boys?'
'We got something for you,' said Stevie. 'Out back, in the van.'
'The 459?'
Stevie the Samoan smiled. 'The 459 and guess what? A bonus. We're leaving the 459's crib - idiot's right there in bed, like he doesn't believe anyone's gonna come looking for him and in two sees we've got him braceleted, are taking him out to the car and a window shade in the next-door house moves and some other guy's staring out at us. And Yaakov says, waitaminute, ain't that the 460 we been looking for since the Democratic convention?'
Yaakov said, 'Det stoopid guy Garcia, broke dose windows and reeped off all dot stereo.'
'Raul Garcia?' said Georgie. He broke into a grin. 'No kidding.'
'Yeah, him,' said Stevie. 'So we go in and get him, too. Both of them are out there in back, squirming in the van. Turns out they played craps together - neighborly spi
rit and all that. They actually
asked us to loosen the bracelets so they could play in the van.'
Georgie high-fived both giants. 'Two for one, beautiful. Okay, let me process the papers, then you can take both geniuses over to the jail. I'm proud of you boys. Come back at five and pick up your
checks.'
Stevie and Yaakov saluted and left the way they'd come in.
'Thank God,' said Georgie, 'that criminals are retarded.' He returned to his chair and picked up his sandwich.
Milo said, 'Thanks for your time.'
The sandwich arced toward Nemerov's mouth, then paused inches from its destination. 'You actually going to be looking for Burns again?'
'Should I?' said Milo. 'I figure if he was findable, you guys woulda brought him in a long time ago.'
'You got that,' said Georgie.
Knots formed along Milo's jawline as he sauntered closer to the counter. 'You think he's dead, Georgie?'
Nemerov's eyes shifted to the left. 'That would be nice, but why would I think that?'
'Because you never found him.'
'Could be, Milo. 'Cause we're good at what we do. Maybe when it first happened we weren't. Like I said, I was a college kid, what did I know? And Mom was all torn up, you remember how the insurance companies were jerking us around - one day we're doing the funeral, the next day we're fighting to stay out of bankruptcy. So maybe Burns didn't get looked for like he should. But later I sent guys out for him, we've still got him on our list - look, I'll show you.'
He got up, pushed the paneled door hard, was gone for a few moments, came back with a piece of paper that he dropped on the counter.
Wilbert Lorenzo Burns's wanted sheet. Mug shot in full face and profile, the usual necklace of numbers. Medium-dark face, well-formed features that were soft and boyish - what would have been a pleasant face but for the hype eyes. Burns's long hair protruded in wooly tufts, as if it had been yanked. His statistics put him at six-two, one-sixty, with knife-scars on both forearms and the back of the neck, no tattoos. Wanted for PCs 11375, 836.6., 187.
Possession with intent to sell, escape after remand or arrest, homicide.
'I think of him from time to time,' said Georgie, between bites of wet sandwich. 'Probably he is dead. He was a hype, what's those fuckheads' life expectancies, anyway? But you learn different, call me.'
As we left the bail bond office, a meter reader's go-cart pulled up behind the Seville. Milo said, 'Let's get going,' and we ran for the car. The reader got out with his little computerized instrument of evil, but I peeled away before he could punch buttons.
'Close call,' said Milo.
'Thought you had clout,' I said.
'Clout's an ephemeral thing.'
I turned the corner, headed back to the station.
He said, 'So what do you think?'
'About what?'
'Georgie's demeanor.'
'I don't know Georgie.'
'Even so.'
'He seemed to get edgy when you brought up Burns.'
'He did, at that. Normally, he's even-tempered, you never hear him swear. This time he was tossing out the f-word.'
'Maybe recalling his father's murder got him worked up.'
'Maybe.'
'You're wondering if he did take care of Burns. But you're unlikely to ever know.'
'Thought you were supposed to make people feel better.'
'Purification through insight,' I said, pulling up near the Westside staff parking lot and letting the Seville idle. Milo remained in place, long legs drawn up high, hands flat on the seat.
'Screw Schwinn,' he finally said.
'That would be easy,' I said. 'If it was really about Schwinn.'
He glared at me. 'More purification?'
'What are friends for?'
A few minutes later: 'Why the murder book? If he really wanted to help, all he had to do was call and give me the facts.' 'Maybe there's more to the book than just Janie's photo.' 'Such as?'
'I don't know, but it's worth a second look.'
He didn't answer. Made no effort to leave the car.
'So,' I said.
'So... I was thinking of a visit to Achievement House, maybe pick up on the latest trends in special education.' 'You're still on it.' 'I don't know what I am.'
I took Pico east to Motor, sped past Rancho Park and into Cheviot Hills. In the daylight, Achievement House didn't look any more impressive. The light stucco I'd seen last night was baby blue. A few more cars occupied the lot, and a dozen or so adolescents hung in loose groups. When we pulled up to the curb, they paid scant notice. The kids were a varied bunch ranging from black-lipped Goths to preppy chirpers who could've been extras on the Ozzie and Harriet set.
Milo rang the bell on the gate, and we were buzzed in without inquiry. Another buzz got us through the door. The lobby smelled of room freshener and corn chips. A reception desk to the right and an office door marked ADMINISTRATION were separated by a hallway that emptied to a softly lit waiting room where no one waited. Cream walls hung with chrome-framed floral prints, plum-colored carpeting, neatly arranged magazines on teak tables, off-white, overstuffed chairs. Glass panes in the rear double doors provided a view of more corridor and bursts of gawky adolescent movement.
The receptionist was a young Indian woman in a peach sari, surprised, but untroubled, by Milo's badge.
'And this is about?' she said, pleasantly.
'An inquiry,' said Milo, with downright good cheer. During the ride he'd been tense and silent, but all that was gone now. He'd combed his hair, tightened his tie, was coming across like a man with something to look forward to.
'An inquiry?' she said.
'A look at some student records, ma'am.'
'I'll get you Ms Baldassar. She's our director.'
She left, returned, said, 'This way,' and showed us to the door across the hall. We entered a front office and a secretary ushered us through a door to a tidy space where an ash blonde woman in her forties sat behind a desk and stubbed out a cigarette.
Milo offered the badge, and the blonde said, 'Marlene Baldassar.' Thin, tan, and intensely freckled, she had hollow cheeks, golden brown eyes, and a knife-point chin. Her navy blue A-line dress was piped with white and bagged on her bony frame. The ash hair was blunt-cut to mid-neck, bangs feathered to fringe. She wore a gold wedding band and an oversize black plastic diver's watch. Tortoise-framed glasses hung on a chain. The big glass ashtray on her desk was half-filled with lipstick-tipped butts. The rim read Mirage Hotel, Las Vegas. The rest of the desk was taken up with books, papers, framed photos. And a shiny silver harmonica.
She saw me looking at the instrument, picked it up with two fingers, tooted twice, put it down, smiling. 'Tension reliever. I'm trying to quit smoking. And obviously not doing very well.'
'Old habits,' I said.
'Very old. And yes, I have tried the patch. All of them. My DNA's probably saturated with nicotine.' She ran a finger along the edge of the harmonica. 'So, what's this Shoba tells me about a police inquiry? Has one of our alumni gotten into trouble?'
'You don't seem surprised by that possibility,' said Milo.
'I've worked with kids for going on twenty years. Very little surprises me.'
'Twenty years here, ma'am?'
'Three here, seventeen with the county - Juvenile Hall, community mental health centers, gang-violence prevention programs.'
'Welcome change?' I said.
'For the most part,' she said. 'But county work could even be fun. Lots of futility, but when you do come across a gem in the trash pile, it's exciting. Working here's extremely predictable. By and large, the kids are a decent bunch. Spoiled but decent. We specialize in serious learning disabilities - chronic school failure, severe dyslexia, kids who just can't get it together educationally. Our goal's specific: try to get them to a point so that when they get hold of their trust funds they can read the small print. So if your inquiry is
about one of my current charges, I'd
be surprised. We steer away from high-risk antisocials, too much maintenance.'
Milo said, 'Are the kids confined twenty-four hours a day?'
'Heavens no,' she said. 'This isn't prison. They go home on weekends, earn passes. So what do you need to know and about whom?'
'Actually,' said Milo, 'this is more of a historical venture. Someone who was here twenty years ago.'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 16 - The Murder Book Page 18