Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Fifteen years.”

  “What do you do for fun out there?”

  “Grow stuff.”

  “Like plants?”

  “Vegetables.”

  The hostess reappeared. “Is this the entire party?”

  “This is it,” said Milo.

  “Food, gentlemen?”

  “Bring the mixed appetizer thing.”

  When she was gone, McLaren said, “Gentlemen. She obviously doesn't know us.”

  Obligatory smiles all around.

  Hooks said, “Your call was the biggest surprise I've had since my ex-wife told me I wasn't handsome anymore.”

  “It surprised me, too, Willis,” said Milo.

  Alvarado took a pack of gum out of his jacket pocket and offered it around. No one accepted and he unwrapped a stick, and chewed. “DVLL. A common thread no one's ever heard of before.”

  “We checked with every gang-cop and banger and social worker and youth leader in our division,” said McLaren.

  “Same at West L.A.,” said Milo. “FBI has nothing in VICAP or any other files.”

  “I went back through my copy of the Ortiz file,” said Alvarado.

  “Your copy?”

  “The original was missing, just came back today, some sort of storage screw-up, fortunately I always Xerox. No DVLL message in the bathroom where my victim was probably taken and I copied down every bit of graffiti at the time. I'm still trying to locate the boy's shoes, but from what I remember there was no writing in them at all, just blood. So I can't say mine belongs with yours.”

  “And yours was a boy,” said Hooks.

  “And we never recovered the body, which is a big difference from both of yours.”

  “Not that pattern seems to mean a damn thing here,” said Hooks. “West L.A. diplomat's kid and a mid-city strawberry?”

  He shook his shaved head. “This is nutty. Twilight Zone stuff— right up your alley, huh, Doc? What do you think, does DVLL stand for some devil thing?”

  “Could be,” I said. “Despite the differences, Latvinia and Irit do have things in common: mildly retarded, non-Anglo teenage girls. The fact that the killer chose handicapped victims says he despises weakness in others, and maybe himself.”

  “A handicapped killer?”

  “Or someone preoccupied with strength and weakness. Domination. It could mean powerlessness in his life.”

  “A wimp who kills,” said McLaren. His hands were huge and they closed around a spoon handle.

  “Raymond Ortiz was retarded, too,” said Alvarado. “But being a boy . . . usually when they go for boys, they don't go for girls.”

  “Usually,” said Hooks, “when they go for inner-city street kids they don't go for rich kids on the West Side. Usually when they string one body up, they don't leave the other one stretched out on the ground. So if there is a pattern, it's eluding me.”

  He looked at me.

  “Maybe the pattern here is deliberate avoidance of pattern,” I said. “To outsmart you guys. Serial killers often read up on police procedure, collect true-crime magazines, for stimulation. This one could have used it for reference material. Learning the rules in order to break them. Varying his M.O., moving from district to district, other surface variables.”

  “What do you mean by surface?” said Alvarado.

  “The core of the crimes will be consistent,” I said. “The trademark. Because sex killers are psychologically rigid, crave structure. In this case, it's retarded teens and leaving behind the DVLL message. That could be a private message for him or a taunt, or both. So far, he's not advertising: he left it so subtly he can't have expected anyone to find it. One advantage for the good guys. He doesn't know anyone's made a connection.”

  “That paper in your victim's pocket, Milo,” said McLaren. “ “Inspected by number 11.' Was that preprinted or did he type that, too?”

  “That part looks preprinted,” said Milo, “but with computers and desktop printers, you can't tell. I sent it over to the lab, maybe they can clarify. Either way, he brought it with him, because the DVLL part was in a different font, the lab says probably a computer, and I don't see anyone with killing on his mind bringing along a PC.”

  “Hey, you never know,” said Hooks, “they make those laptop suckers pretty small nowadays. And the doctor, here, thinks maybe he took her picture. So if he had a camera, why not a laptop? Maybe he brought along a carful of stuff.”

  “A vanful,” said Alvarado. “Those guys love vans.”

  “Yeah,” said Hooks.

  “I always look for vans,” said Alvarado. “On Raymond's case, I spent weeks checking out every van in the neighborhood— parking tickets, everything. Never found the killer but I did find quite a few set up as mobile bedrooms and one turkey who actually had handcuffs and burglary tools.”

  “You bet,” said McLaren. “Vans and long-distance truckers, the well-equipped killer. There's probably a mail-order catalog out there somewhere.”

  “So,” said Milo, “DVLL's important to him but he's not ready to advertise.”

  I said, “Either he's still a beginner and building up his confidence, or he'll never advertise, too cowardly. The fact that he chose especially vulnerable victims points to cowardice.”

  A knock sounded on the door and Milo said, “Come in, Sally.”

  The hostess wheeled in a two-tiered cart full of platters. Fried wontons, fried chicken, fried shrimp, fried egg rolls, pigs in blankets, shish kebobs on wooden skewers, each piece of meat capped with fat. Miniature wedges of pepperoni pizza. Bowls of dip in various colors, nachos, pretzels, potato chips.

  “Mixed appetizers, gentlemen.”

  “Sure, why not,” said Hooks. “I walked fifteen feet today from the lunch truck to my car, musta burned up two calories.”

  Sally served us and refilled the drinks.

  “Thanks,” said Milo. “We're fine, now.”

  “No more interruptions,” she promised. “You want something, stick your head out and holler.”

  The men helped themselves to food and it didn't take long for half the serving plates to empty.

  “I love this,” said Hooks, lifting a chicken wing. “Feeling my arteries clog up as we speak.”

  “Your case,” Milo said to Alvarado. “You said the shoes are still missing.”

  “The log says they're in the evidence room but they're not in the bin in the evidence room where they're supposed to be. Which is no heart-stopper, Milo, it's a year-old case, we've always got storage problems, stuff gets moved. It'll turn up, I'll let you know.”

  Milo nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Latvinia,” said McLaren. “We found lots of street creeps who knew her, even a couple who admitted doing her, but no one she hung with habitually. The grandmother says she went out alone at night a lot, the closest we've got to a hangout is that freeway on-ramp she got busted at. She went there from time to time so anyone could have picked her up— a West Side commuter who did her in his car— or van— then brought her back to the school so we wouldn't figure out he was a West Side guy.

  “When the ramps are busy,” he said, “or when the freeway's metered, you get panhandlers, people selling flowers, bags of oranges. Traffic balls up, Latvinia's out there flashing skin, some joker picks her up. . . . Maybe someone noticed that, someone stalled in the gridlock. I was gonna see if some TV station would flash her pic, though we couldn't get much exposure, she's just a Southwest hooker got in trouble. Then you told me about the gag order.”

  “What gag order?” said Alvarado.

  “My victim's family,” said Milo. “The Israeli Consulate. They insist it stays out of the media for security reasons and they've got major pull with the brass. I checked again today with my loo and he says it's come down from the mayor's office, don't mess with it.”

  “So we're all gagged,” said Hooks.

  Alvarado said, “So does that apply to mine, too? I'm still not convinced it's connected.”

  “Why?” said Mil
o. “Were you thinking of going to the Spanish papers again?”

  “No. I just want to know the rules— what exactly are the security concerns?”

  Milo summed them up. “Now, with the tie-in to Latvinia, it doesn't sound like a terrorist. I explained that to my loo, but . . .” He covered his ears.

  “Course it's not a terrorist,” said McLaren. “This is a freak.”

  “Retarded kids,” said Hooks, shaking his head.

  “So what's the plan?” said Alvarado.

  “Keep looking for leads, keep in touch,” said Milo.

  Alvarado nodded. “The shoes. I'll find them.”

  “Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll make a mistake,” said Hooks.

  McLaren said, “Our best friend: good old human error.”

  “Assuming,” said Milo, “that he's human.”

  23

  The other detectives left and Sally brought Milo the bill. Typical cop tip; she looked ready to kiss him.

  He pocketed the credit slip but stayed seated and she left. “What do you think?”

  “Eight hands are better than two,” I said.

  He frowned.

  “What?”

  “I keep flashing to what you first said about Raymond Ortiz. The impulsiveness of a first murder. If that's true, we're right at the beginning of the killing curve . . . DVLL. What the hell does it mean?”

  “I'll go to the U tomorrow and play with the computers.”

  “Sure . . . thanks.”

  There was iced tea left in his glass and he drained it.

  I asked where the men's room was.

  He pointed across the room, to a door in the right-hand corner.

  I pushed it open and on the other side was a pay phone, the rear door marked EMERGENCY ONLY. The lav was small, white-tiled, spotless, sweet with disinfectant.

  Drafty, too. An oft-painted casement window had been left partially open and I heard engine noise from outside.

  Then I noticed dry paint flakes on the sill. Recently opened window.

  An alley ran behind the restaurant and a car was pulling into it.

  A van.

  Headlights off, but as it backed away it passed under the backdoor lamp.

  Gray or light blue Ford Econoline. Electrician's logo.

  I'd seen it or one just like it this afternoon, parked across the street from the Carmeli house.

  The alley was narrow and the van had to manipulate a three-point turn, exposing a side panel.

  I tried to force the window wider but it wouldn't budge. Straining, I made out the name of the company.

  HERMES ELECTRIC. SPEEDY SERVICE.

  Winged-messenger logo. An 818 number I couldn't catch.

  A van. These guys love vans.

  The Econoline straightened and the tires rotated. Dark windows, no view of the driver.

  As it sped away, I tried for the license plate, managed to get all seven digits, kept reciting them out loud as I fumbled for a pen and a paper towel from the dispenser.

  Milo got up so hard the table shook. “Stalking us, the Carmelis? He's that arrogant?”

  He hurried back to the bathroom area and shoved the emergency door open.

  Outside, the air was warm and the alley smelled of rotted vegetables. I could hear sirens, probably from the station. I handed him the paper towel.

  “Hermes Electric,” he said.

  “An electrician would wear a uniform. One of those anonymous beige or gray things that could resemble a park worker's. Electricians also carry lots of equipment, so who'd notice an extra camera in the back of the van? And I remember something Robin told me when we were rebuilding the house. Of all the tradesmen, electricians tend to be the most precise. Perfectionistic.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “Slip up and get fried. . . . Was the van at the Carmelis' the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  We walked through the restaurant, moving quickly past diners. The unmarked was parked in front, in a loading zone.

  “Hermes,” I said. “The god of—”

  “Speed. So we've got a fast little motherfucker on our hands?”

  He used the mobile digital terminal to connect to DMV, then typed in the plate number. The answer came back within minutes.

  “Seventy-eight Chevy Nova registered to P. L. Almoni on Fairfax. So the asshole switched plates. This is looking better and better— I'm heading right over to the address . . . looks like between Pico and Olympic.”

  “The number on the side of the van was an 818.”

  “So he lives in the city, works in the Valley. Has a personal car and a work van and switches plates around when he wants to play . . . Almoni . . . that could be Israeli, too, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Juicier and juicier . . . okay, let's see what the state crime files and NCIC have to say about him.”

  Checking those data banks produced no hits. He started driving.

  “Clean record,” said Milo. “A goddamn beginner like you said. . . . Let's see how this asshole lives— unless you want to go home.”

  My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. “Not a chance.”

  The east side of Fairfax, a dark, relatively untraveled section of the avenue, was filled with one shabby storefront after another. Every store closed, except for an Ethiopian restaurant with no drapes over the window. Inside, three people sat concentrating on heaping plates.

  The sign atop P. L. Almoni's address read NOTARY PUBLIC, PHOTOCOPY SERVICES, MAILBOXES FOR RENT. We got out and looked through the window. Three walls of lockboxes, a service counter in back.

  “Goddamn mail drop,” said Milo. “Onward to his business.”

  We got back in the car, where he phoned Valley Information, waited, said, “You're sure?” and wrote something down.

  Hanging up, he gave a sour smile. “It's a Valley exchange all right, but the address is in 310 territory. Holloway Drive in West Hollywood. Welcome to the maze, fellow rats.”

  Holloway was a ten-minute drive from the mail drop, nice and convenient for the convoluted Mr. Almoni. West to La Cienega, then north just past Santa Monica Boulevard, and a left turn onto a quiet street filled with apartment buildings. Well-designed buildings, many of them prewar, some concealed behind tall hedges. I guessed Almoni's would be one of them.

  Only a short walk to Sunset Strip but insulated from the din and the lights. I noticed a woman walking a huge dog, its gait and hers long and confident. Tucked among the apartments was an old Mediterranean mansion turned into a private school.

  So dark it was hard to read addresses. As Milo searched for the right number, I composed news copy in my head:

  Not much is known about Almoni. He was a quiet man, residents in this comfortable neighborhood said.

  Suddenly, he pulled to the curb.

  Bad guess: Hermes Electric's home base was a newer, well-lit three-story structure with an unshielded brick face and glass doors leading into a bright, mirrored lobby.

  A short walk, also, to Milo and Rick's West Hollywood house.

  He was thinking the same thing, clenched his jaw and said, “Evening, neighbor.”

  Out of the car, he studied a collection of parking signs on a lamppost. Bottom line: permit parking only.

  Placing an LAPD sticker on the dash, he said, “Not that it'll help. West Hollywood's county territory, the meter-leeches they contract with could give a shit.”

  We walked up to the glass doors. Ten mailbox slots, each with a call button.

  Number 6 said I. BUDZHYSHYN. HERMES LANGUAGE SCHOOL, INC.

  “Multitalented,” Milo said, squinting at his Timex. “Almost midnight . . . no jurisdiction, no warrant . . . wonder if there's an in-house manager— here we go, Number 2, hope he's not a morning person.”

  He finger-stabbed Unit 2's button. No answer for several moments, then a thick, male voice said, “Yes?”

  “Police, sir. Sorry to bother you but could you come down to the lobby, please.”

  “What?”


  Milo repeated the greeting.

  The thick voice said, “How do I know you're the police?”

  “If you come down to the lobby, I'll be happy to show you identification, sir.”

  “If this is some kind of joke—”