“The way she lives. Like being a little kid. Getting an allowance, having all her needs taken care of, no fuss, no muss.”
Anger’s hand clawed above the keyboard. “I’m sure it’s amusing to ridicule the rich, Mr. Sturgis, but I’ve noticed you’re not immune to material amusements.”
“That so?”
“Your Porsche. You chose it because of what it means to you.”
“Oh, that,” said Milo, rising. “That’s borrowed. My regular transportation’s much less meaningful.”
“Really,” said Anger.
Milo looked at me. “Tell him.”
“He drives a moped,” I said. “Better for stakeouts.”
“Except when it rains,” said Milo. “Then I take an umbrella.”
• • •
Back in the Porsche, he said, “Looks like little Melissa may have been wrong about Stepdaddy’s intentions.”
“True love?” I said. “Yet they don’t sleep together.”
Shrug. “Maybe Ramp loves her for the purity of her soul.”
“Or maybe he intends one day to contest the prenuptial.”
“What a suspicious guy,” he said. “In the meantime, there’s all that allowance money to wonder about.”
“Two million?” I said. “Chump change. Don’t get staggered by a few zeroes, Mr. Sturgis.”
“Heaven forfend.”
He got back on Cathcart, drove slowly. “Thing is, he’s got a point. Her kind of income, a hundred twenty a year, could seem like petty cash. If she spent it. But after being up in her room, I don’t see where it went. Books and magazines and a home gym don’t add up to a hundred twenty gees a year— hell, she didn’t even have a VCR. There’s the therapy, but that’s only for the last year. Unless she’s got some secret charity, eighteen years’ worth of unspent allowance would have accumulated to something pretty tidy. By anyone’s standards. Maybe I should have checked her mattress.”
“Could be that’s where the money for the Cassatt came from— both Cassatts.”
“Possible,” he said. “But that still leaves plenty. If she did deposit it in another bank, we’d be hard-pressed to find it any time soon.”
“How could she deal with another bank without leaving the house?”
“That kind of money at stake, plenty of banks would come to her.”
“Neither Ramp nor Melissa mentioned any visits from bankers.”
“True,” he said. “So maybe she just stashed it. For a rainy day. And maybe the rainy day came and she’s got it clutched in her hot little hand right now.”
I thought about that.
He said, “What?”
“Rich lady hauling megabucks in a Rolls. It spells victim.”
He nodded. “In a hundred goddam languages.”
• • •
We drove back to Sussex Knoll to get my car. The gates were closed but two floodlights above them had been switched on. Welcome Home lights. A stretch at optimism that seemed pitiful in the stillness of the early morning hours.
I said, “Forget the car. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
Without a word, Milo turned around and headed back toward Cathcart, putting on speed and handling the Porsche better than I’d ever seen. We sped west onto California, made the transition to Arroyo Seco in what seemed like seconds. Then the freeway, barren and dark and wind-lashed.
But Milo kept searching anyway, turning his head from side to side, checking the rearview. Waiting until we’d hit the downtown interchange before cranking the volume up on the scanner and listening to the hurts people were choosing to inflict on one another as a new day began.
19
When I got home I was still wound up. I went down to the pond and found clusters of spawn clinging bravely to some of the plants at the edge of the water. Heartened, I climbed back up to the house and wrote. Made myself drowsy in fifteen minutes and barely got my clothes off before tumbling into bed.
I awoke at six-forty A.M. Friday and called Melissa an hour later.
“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed it was me. “I already talked to Mr. Sturgis. Nothing new.”
“Sorry.”
“I did exactly as he said, Dr. Delaware. Called every airline at every airport— even San Francisco and San Jose, which he didn’t mention. Because she could have headed north, right? Then I phoned every hotel and motel I could find in the Yellow Pages, but no one had any record of her checking in. I think he’s starting to realize it might be serious.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he agreed to talk to McCloskey.”
“I see.”
“Is he really good, Dr. Delaware? As a detective?”
“Best I know.”
“I think he is, too. I actually like him better than when I first met him. But I’ve really got to be sure. Because no one else seems to care. The police aren’t doing anything— Chickering acts as if I’m wasting his time by calling. And Don’s gone back to work— can you believe that?”
“What are you doing?”
“Staying right here and waiting. And praying— I haven’t prayed since I was a little kid. Before you helped me.” Pause. “I keep going back and forth between expecting her to walk in at any moment and feeling really sick to my stomach when I realize she could be— I’ve got to stay here. I don’t want her coming home to an empty house.”
“Makes sense.”
“In the meantime, I think I’m going to try some hotels up north. Maybe Nevada, too, because that really isn’t very far by car, is it? Can you think of anywhere else that would be logical?”
“I guess any of the bordering states,” I said.
“Good idea.”
“Is there anything you need, Melissa? Anything I can do for you?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, thanks.”
“I’ll be coming out there today anyway. To get my car.”
“Oh. Sure. Whatever.”
“If you want to talk, just let me know.”
“Sure.”
“Take care, Melissa.”
“I will, Dr. Delaware. Better keep this line open, just in case. Bye.”
• • •
The phone barked: “Sturgis.”
“Well,” I said, “it’s a lot better than “Yeah?’ ”
“Hey, I’m a working man now. What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with Melissa. She told me the two of you conferred.”
“She talked; I listened. If that’s conferred, I guess we did.”
“Sounds as if she’s been keeping herself busy.”
“She worked all night. Kid’s got energy.”
“Adrenaline overdrive,” I said.
“Want me to tell her to cool it?”
“No, it’s okay for the time being. She’s dealing with her anxiety by making herself feel useful. I am concerned about what’ll happen if her mother doesn’t show up soon and her defenses start to crack.”
“Yeah. Well, she’s got you for that. Any time you want her to ease off, just let me know.”
“As if she’d listen.”
“True,” he said.
“So,” I said, “nothing new?”
“Not a damn thing. The bulletin has been expanded statewide and into Nevada and Arizona, and the credit checks are all in place. So far no big-ticket purchases have been phoned in. Small stuff is tabulated when the merchants mail in the receipts, so we’ll have to wait on that. I double-checked some of the places Melissa called— mostly airlines and luxury hotels. No one fitting Mommy’s description checked in during the night. I’m waiting for the passport office to open at eight, just in case she opted for long-distance travel. Told Melissa to keep working the local lines. Actually, she’s a damn good assistant.”
“She said you agreed to see McCloskey.”
“I told her I’d do it some time today. Can’t hurt— nothing else is panning out.”
“What time were you planning on visiting him?”
“Fairly
soon. I’ve got a call in to Douse— the lawyer. He’s supposed to get back to me by nine. I want to verify some of the things Anger told me. If Douse is willing to answer my questions over the phone, I’ll take on McCloskey soon as I’m finished. If not, it’ll mean a couple of hours’ delay hassling Downtown. But McCloskey doesn’t live that far from the law office, so either way I should be there before noon. Whether or not I find him’s another story.”
“Pick me up.”
“Got plenty of free time?”
“Free enough.”
“Fine,” he said. “You buy lunch.”
• • •
He came by at nine-forty, honking the horn of his Fiat. By the time I got outside, he’d parked in the carport.
“Lunch and transportation,” he said, pointing to the Seville I’d picked up from Melissa’s house. Milo had on a gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie.
“Where to?”
“Downtown. I’ll direct you.”
I drove down the Glen to Sunset, got on the 405 south, then switched to the Santa Monica Freeway east. Milo pushed his seat back as far as it went.
“How’d it go with the lawyer?” I said.
“More of the same doublespeak we got at First Fidoosh— I had to engage in the requisite pissing contest before he cooperated. But once he gave in, the guy’s inherent laziness took over— more than happy to talk on the phone. Probably bill the estate for every second of it. Basically he confirmed everything Anger had said: Ramp gets fifty thou; Melissa takes the rest. Mom inherits if anything happens to Melissa. If both of them go before Melissa’s had kids, all of it goes to charity.”
“Any specific charities?”
“Medical research. I asked him to send me copies of all the documents— he said he’d need Melissa’s written permission for that. Which I don’t see as any big problem. I also asked him if he had any idea how Gina spent her allowance. Like Anger, he didn’t seem to think a hundred and twenty grand was anything worth messing with.”
Traffic was light until a mile before the interchange, where it started to curdle.
“Get off at Ninth and take it to L.A.,” said Milo.
I followed his directions north on Los Angeles Street, drove through run-down blocks filled with fashion outlets shrieking bankruptcy bargains, discount appliance stores, import-export concerns, and pay parking lots. To the west a range of mirror-glass high-rises rose like synthetic mountains built on soft soil, Federal redevelopment funds, and Pacific Rim optimism. To the east was the industrial belt that divided Downtown from Boyle Heights.
Downtown was doing its usual split-personality routine: Fast-talking, fast-walking Power Dressers, Wannabee Tycoons, and stiff lipped secretaries sharing turf with bleary-eyed, filth-encrusted human shells transporting their life stories in purloined shopping carts and verminous bedrolls.
At Sixth Street, the shells took over, hordes of them congregating on street corners, slumping in the doorways of boarded-up businesses, sleeping in the shadows of overflowing dumpsters. I caught a red light at Fifth. The taxi in the next lane shot the light and nearly ran over a long-haired, smudge-eyed blond man dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and torn jeans. The man began cursing at the top of his lungs and, with scabbed tattooed hands, slapped the trunk of the cab as it sped on. Two uniformed cops issuing a jaywalking citation to a young Mexican girl across the street paused to observe the tantrum, then returned to their paperwork.
Half a block later I saw two skinny black men in baseball caps and topcoats veer off the sidewalk and come face-to-face under the sagging portico of a half-demolished SRO hotel. They lowered their heads and did a palm-slapping routine so well-coordinated it could have been choreographed by Balanchine. Then one man flashed a small wad of bills and the other bent quickly and retrieved something from his sock. A quick exchange and the two of them were on their way, heading in opposite directions. The entire transaction had taken ten seconds.
Milo saw me watching. “Ah, free enterprise. There’s the place— park wherever you can.”
He was pointing to a wide, flat-roofed three-story building on the east side of the street. The ground floor was faced with off-white tiles that brought to mind a bus station lavatory. The upper facade was pale-aqua stucco. A single row of barred windows ran along the top of the first story, too high to be reached from the street. The rest of the structure was a blank slab. Four or five men, mostly black, all ragged, congregated drowsily near the front door, which was topped by a dead neon deco-style sign that read ETERNAL HOPE MISSION.
All the parking spots in front of the building were taken, so I drove up ten yards and nosed into a space behind a Winnebago with MOBILE MEDICAL painted on the back. A larger and more energetic group of derelicts hovered nearby— at least two dozen men and three or four women, yapping and shuffling and rubbing their arms. As I turned off the ignition I noticed it wasn’t health care they were after. A loose line had formed in front of an accordion-grated storefront. Another neon sign, these tubes flashing: $$ FOR PLASMA.
Milo removed a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it in the Seville’s front window. A 10 by 12 card reading LAPD VEHICLE: IN SERVICE .
“Be sure to lock,” he said, slamming his door.
“Next time we take yours,” I said, watching a bald, eye-patched man engage in an angry conversation with a dead elm tree. “You did it!” the man kept repeating, slapping the trunk of the tree every third or fourth utterance. The palms of his hands were bloody but there was a smile on his face.
“No way— they’d eat mine,” said Milo. “C’mon.”
• • •
The men hanging out in front of the mission noticed us long before we got to the front door, and stepped aside. Their shadows and their stench lingered. Several of them looked hungrily at my shoes— brown loafers, purchased a month ago, that still looked new. I thought how far $120,000 would go in this neighborhood.
Inside, the building was overheated and brightly lit. The front room was large, aqua, crowded with men sitting and lying across randomly placed green plastic chairs. The floors were black-and-gray linoleum, the plaster bare except for a single wooden crucifix tacked high to the welcoming wall.
More body odor, mixed with disinfectant, the bilious reek of stale vomit, and the suety smell of something simmering in broth. A young black man in a white polo shirt and tan slacks circulated among the men, carrying a clipboard and chained pen and a handful of brochures. A name tag above the tiger embroidered on his chest said GILBERT JOHNSON, STUDENT VOLUNTEER . He made his way among the men, consulting the board from time to time. Stopping and bending to talk to someone. Handing out a leaflet. Once in a while he got a response.
None of the men moved much. No conversation that I could see. But there was still noise from afar. Metallic rattles and machine pulses and a rhythmic baritone drone that had to be prayer.
I thought of a depot filled with travelers who’d lost their way.
Milo caught the young black man’s eye. The man frowned and came over.
“Can I help you?” On the clipboard was a list of names, some of them followed by check marks.
“I’m looking for Joel McCloskey.”
Johnson sighed. He was in his early twenties, had broad features, Asian eyes, a cleft chin, and skin not that much darker than Glenn Anger’s tan.
“Again?”
“Is he here?”
“You’ll have to speak to Father Tim first. One second.”
He disappeared down a hallway to the right of the crucifix and came back almost immediately with a thin white man in his early thirties wearing a black shirt, clerical collar, and white jeans over high-top black-and-white basketball shoes. The priest had jug ears, short light-brown hair, a wispy drooping mustache, and skinny hairless arms.
“Tim Andrus,” he said in a soft voice. “I thought it was all cleared up with Joel.”
“Just a few more questions,” said Milo.
Andrus turned to Johnson. “Why
don’t you get back to bed-count, Gilbert? It’s going to be tight tonight— we’ll need to be really accurate.”
“Sure thing, Father.” Johnson shot a quick look at Milo and me, then returned to the men. Several of them had turned around and were staring at us.
The priest gave them a smile that wasn’t reciprocated. Turning to us, he said, “The police were here quite a while last night and I was assured everything had been taken care of.”
Private Eyes Page 29