CHAPTER
38
Philip Demarest Duke fancied himself an actor.
That, despite no film credits and only a scatter of community playhouse roles, none more recent than ten years ago. In the eighties, he had appeared on episodic TV but, again, the crop was thin: a few cameos in pilots that never went to series, one walk-on in a forgettable police drama.
“He does have the voice,” I said.
Milo said, “Does he?”
“Stentorian.”
“I’ll pay closer attention when I’ve got him in a small, windowless room.”
The résumé Duke included on his Facebook page listed a birthdate that made him sixty-four years old. DMV records added two years, Social Security, six.
Social Security also provided his employment record. For the past forty-five years, he’d worked in long-distance trucking, insurance sales, unspecified retail sales, real estate management, swimming pool maintenance, construction, landscaping. All that topped off by stints at big-box nurseries and building supplies emporia.
For two years, he’d been living on Social Security and disability. One piece of real estate, the house in West L.A. where we’d met him. Where we’d had no reason to doubt his account of Gerard Waters’s movements.
His registered vehicle, a 2003 gray Ford Windstar minivan.
Milo said, “Gotcha! Think he’s DeeDee’s daddy?”
I said, “The age fits and he did mention his daughter was moving back in.”
We returned to Phil Duke’s social network. More like asocial: no friends, followers, or family.
A headshot atop the anemic acting history showed Duke looking around forty and dressed in costume. The production, King Lear, a nonprofit playhouse in La Habra. Duke had played “a Knight of Lear’s Train.”
He’d chosen a shot that made him look like a comical send-up of the bard, himself: puffy red velvet tunic, oversized ruff that appeared fashioned from cardboard, glued-on handlebar over what looked like a real Vandyke, atop his head a goofy skin cap simulating baldness and fringed with shoulder-length scraggle.
Milo said, “A star is born. This is the best he could do?”
I said, “Living in the past. And now he’s expecting wealth and eternal bliss.”
He logged on to the assessor’s page and found the record of purchase of Duke’s house. Initial purchase, thirty years ago. A quartet of near-foreclosures, all forestalled at the last minute.
Milo sniffed the air. “What’s that wafting? Oh, yeah, Eau de Loser.”
I said, “The cologne or the handy-dandy aftershave?”
“More like toilet water. Okay, let’s firm up the I.D. on this prince—scratch that, duke.”
He phoned High Steaks. Arturo wasn’t working but the manager gave up the waiter’s full name and number.
“None of that do-you-have-a-warrant crap,” said Milo, “I must be getting good at this.” He punched buttons. “Mr. De La Cruz? Lieutenant Sturgis. We talked the other day in the restaurant about the lady who tips five percent.”
“You got her for something?”
“I was wondering if I could show you a photo, see if it matched the man you saw with her.”
“Sure, c’mon over.”
“Where do you live?”
“Reseda,” said De La Cruz. “Traffic’s going to be brutal but I’m not leaving.”
Milo said, “How about I email it to you?”
“I don’t have one of those phones gets emails.”
“Do you have a computer?”
“My wife does but she’s out.”
“How about I lead you through it?”
“Hmm, I guess,” said Arturo De La Cruz. “Second most exciting thing happened all month.”
“What’s the first?”
“Last week some guy was choking, I got to do the Heimlich.”
“Good for you.”
“Better for him. Okay, I’m walking over to her sewing desk, that’s where she keeps it, no more sewing since she got into the yoga.”
—
Guiding De La Cruz through the finer points of electronic transmission took a while. Once the image arrived, the waiter’s verdict was instantaneous. “Yup, that’s him.”
“No doubt at all, sir?”
“Never forget a face, Lieutenant. Actually, that’s a lie, I forget plenty of faces and a lot of other stuff, to boot. Like names, places, why I come into a room. But him I remember. ’Cause he was the only person I ever saw with her.”
“Got it,” said Milo. “Really appreciate it.”
De La Cruz said, “So what’d the two of them pull off? Some kind of lawyer scam?”
“Don’t have the whole picture yet.”
“But they did pull off something. I knew something was off with her. You ever feel like telling me, I won’t argue. Who knows, it could knock the choking guy down to number two.”
—
Milo reached Sean Binchy at home in Long Beach. Kids’ voices in the background.
“Still doing daddy stuff?”
“The party’s finished but the girls are having fun, Loot. I was just about to shoot a few holes, but not important if you need me.”
“How long will it take you to get here?”
“I’ll try for an hour.”
Binchy arrived in forty-three minutes.
Milo said, “Hello, Lead-foot.”
The young detective grinned. He’d gelled and spiked his rusty hair, put on his usual work clothes: dark suit, blue shirt, and tie. Spit-polished Doc Martens, the sole reminder of his pre-cop days as a ska-punk bassist.
Milo said, “We’re in the big room, downstairs, let’s go meet the others.”
“Not just Moe, a team?” said Binchy.
“This one calls for it.”
During Binchy’s drive-time, Milo had talked personnel with his captain, his case made easy by the possibility of a mountain of victims. The three of us walked downstairs to a conference room he’d commandeered, complete with a long, impressive table and a whiteboard. On the table, a pointer, a case folder, and half a dozen two-way radios.
No one else in the room. Binchy examined the photos taped to the board. Grimaced when he came to Ricki Sylvester.
“Loot, it still bugs me—”
He cut himself off, realizing Milo was back on the phone.
First call: Moe Reed’s desk in the big D-room. Two additionals: a couple of rookies released by the captain and waiting on stand-by.
Patrol officers Eric Monchen and Ashley Burgoyne arrived together, wearing black rock-concert tees, jeans, and sneakers, and looking nervous. He was twenty-two, she a year older. Both of them were cute enough to be models for a wholesome product. Both had requested plainclothes assignments, despite skimpy and fruitless experience with stings. Monchen’s, a dope surveillance near the U. that went nowhere; Burgoyne’s, a Pico-Robertson prostitution sting, equally futile. They didn’t know each other but looked as if they belonged together.
Reed was the last to arrive, apologizing for the delay, an armed robbery call that had taken time to palm off. Blond, crew-cut, baby-faced, and built like the power lifter he was, he wore a white shirt with short sleeves that fought to contain his biceps, a gray wool clip-on tie, black jeans, and black cop oxfords shined glossier than Binchy’s Docs.
Both young D’s mostly worked their own cases, primarily assaults and robberies because of late Westside murders were in short supply. When Milo beckoned, it often meant lots of sitting around and watching, a gig few detectives enjoy. Binchy and Reed never balked and both excelled at remaining sharp over long, tedious stretches.
Who says the younger generation has no attention span?
Without bothering to introduce me to the rookies, Milo stepped up to the board, pointer in hand. “This is a nasty one involving multiple murder and there’s no guarantee surveillance is gonna pay off but we have to try.”
Directing the preface to the rookies. They sat up straight and stared directly ahead.
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Milo tapped Deandra Demarest’s and Henry Bakstrom’s photo enlargements. “These are the faulty citizens we’re after.”
He embarked on a quick, efficient summary, starting with Thalia’s murder and progressing to those of Gerard Waters, Kurtis DeGraw, and possibly Ricki Sylvester.
Next topic: the ruby. The mention of fifty-seven carats and the image of the gem got all four of them wide-eyed.
Sean Binchy said, “Super-bling, it’s like a movie.”
Milo said, “Funny you should say that, this guy thinks he’s an actor.” Tapping Phil Duke’s ten-year-old DMV shot. “He’s involved on some level but the specifics are unknown beyond romancing Sylvester. What we do know is he’s related to Deandra and is the right age to be her daddy. However, no kids or marriage show up in his records.”
Moe Reed said, “He romanced Sylvester in order to get her to play along?”
“That’s the working hypothesis, Moses.” He recounted Sylvester’s role as executor, her frequent house calls, the role her grandfather had played in Leroy Hoke’s criminal enterprise. “In general, she’s privy to tons of insider information relating to Thalia.”
Reed said, “And now she’s parts unknown. So either a rabbit or bad news for her.”
Milo nodded. “DeeDee and Henry like to clean house, there’s logic to either possibility. Any other questions, so far?”
Head shakes.
“Onward to the surveillance, kids.” Tap tap on Phil Duke’s house.
Milo read off the address.
Binchy said, “That’s real close to here.”
“Fifteen minutes, tops. That’s the good news. The bad news is if you could pick a surveillance target, this one would be way at the bottom of your list. Respectable low-crime neighborhood, quiet, not a lot of trees or any other kind of cover, and the parking regs work against us: no street parking during morning drive-time—seven to nine—then again from six to eight P.M. After that, there’s a brief okay-period from eight to nine P.M. Why they bothered I don’t know because at nine it reverts to no overnight until five a.m. Obviously, we can’t risk a sit-by, so we’re limited to drive-bys and we can’t be conspicuous.”
He returned to the head of the table and sat down. “Cruising past in the same vehicle over and over is going to attract the wrong kind of attention. Don’t even think about walk-bys. And even though Phil Duke’s dirty, he’s not our priority, at least not yet. So if he does appear—and he probably will, like tending to his gardening, he’s picky about his front yard—we make a note of it but keep going. He’s an anchovy, we’re trolling for sharks.”
Pulling sheets of paper out of a folder, he dealt them like playing cards.
I got one, too, but no need for education, I’d helped put together the contents.
Surveillance schedule arranged in a grid. Two observers per two-hour shift, driving serially with several minutes between them, each pass requiring a change of vehicle.
The motor pool, twelve forfeitures rushed over from the West L.A. lot.
Milo drank coffee as the four young cops read. When everyone looked up, he said, “Anyone not drive a stick?”
Head shakes.
“Good, we’ve got a Ford truck with a three on the column. The teams are Detective Reed and Officer Burgoyne, Detective Binchy and Officer Monchen. That’s in reverse order, after the lead team finishes, which is myself and Dr. Delaware.”
My title sparked Burgoyne and Monchen’s curiosity. They studied me.
Milo said, “You heard me right. Doctor. Psychology, he’s our behavioral consultant and too highly educated for this kind of thing. But you know the staffing situation and he offered and years ago he took a race-car course, so I’m sure he can keep up.”
Binchy said, “Do you get to use your Caddy, Doc?”
The rookies’ eyes widened.
I said, “I wish.”
Milo said, “Okay, you all just read the drill but now I’m going over it. When it’s your turn to drive, you leave here on one of three predetermined routes to the target and cruise past at medium speed—no hot-rodding, no dawdling. You see DeeDee or Bakstrom you radio in immediately but keep going. You see nothing, you return here, your partner takes off, you pick up a new set of wheels and take another of the three routes. What we’re aiming for is a steady but not obvious stream of observation. Got it?”
Nods.
“Your shift lasts for two hours, during which you’ll probably complete seven to nine circuits. After that, you’re off for two hours and another team takes over but you stick around here, just in case things get interesting and backup is called for. Sticking around includes grub and water but no personal phone calls, you’re on call and can’t afford to miss a message. Obviously, we’re not talking a twenty-four-seven regimen, unless any of you have figured out a way to survive without grub and water and sleep.”
Sean Binchy said, “I heard there’s a guy, MIT or something, working on stretching human capacity with hormones.”
“If he wasn’t in Boston, Sean, I’d ask him to join us.”
Nervous laughter from the rookies, a wee smile from Moe Reed.
“Given our mortal limitations,” said Milo, “I’m starting with a fourteen-hour surveillance period. I’m not saying there’s anything magical about that time period but we need to prioritize and bad guys like darkness and this is the best I’ve come up with, courtesy of Dr. Delaware’s input. A couple of days of this proves useless, maybe I’ll change my mind and switch to something completely different. Questions?”
Silence.
“You’ll each get a two-way and wear your issued firearm. Communication will remain open between all of us. When I’m not driving, I’m the command post. When I am driving, Detective Binchy and Detective Reed will take over.”
“It’s kind of an algorithm,” said Ashley Burgoyne, poring over the grid.
“Dr. Delaware informs me a whole bunch of combinations are possible over the long run. Right now, I’ll settle for no one getting made or hurt.”
CHAPTER
39
Day 1, shift 1, four thirty-five P.M.
Milo, leading off in the Ford truck, spotted Phil Duke walking around from the back of his house.
By the time I cruised by there in a malodorous Audi, Duke was picking leaves out of his flower beds. Same Catalina Jazz Club T-shirt, baggy shorts, rubber thongs. Limited wardrobe? Waiting for the big score before going couture?
I slowed down enough to snag a look at his face. Bland, nothing furtive. Maybe he was a cold bastard. Maybe we were wrong about him.
By the time Milo made his second circuit in a Toyota Tercel, Duke was gone.
—
No further sightings until the end of my third shift at five A.M.
Milo said, “Tomorrow, you go last, so take your time getting here, say seven thirty.”
I drove home, tried to empty my head and catch some sleep. When I got to the conference room the following evening at six thirty, Reed and Binchy were out driving and the rookies sat at the far end of the table, watching videos on their phones.
My greeting was met by slow, dispirited nods. Monchen and Burgoyne looked like they were about to take a test.
Milo pulled me aside. “They’re bored. It keeps going this way, they’ll probably switch careers.”
“Find something more exciting,” I said. “Like sitting in a tollbooth.”
He switched on his radio. Moe Reed’s calm voice did nothing to attract the rookies’ attention.
“Sean and I both saw him for a full hour but he went back inside, the van’s still there.”
Milo clicked off.
I said, “Out gardening?”
“Seems to be his favorite thing. Maybe this is a waste of time and the worst thing he does is overwater.”
—
I spent the next hour and a half polishing evaluation reports on my iPad, picked up my new ride, a nice black Camaro, just before eight, waited until Milo returned in a barely breathing
Datsun at eight thirty.
Circuit one, nothing. Same for two.
By the time I began three, at nine thirty-five, I was wondering if having a scotch or two when I got home would help or hinder sleep.
A full-sized van driving slowly up Phil Duke’s street caught my attention. Lettering on the back said Rapid-Rooter was available 24/7 for plumbing emergencies. Toll-free number, cartoon of a beaming, bow-tied man who could’ve been Ward Cleaver’s cleaner-cut brother.
The van stopped and started.
I notified Milo.
He said, “Sounds like something we’d do. God help me if there’s some other agency involved and we’re crossing wires.”
The van stopped again. I held back. Suddenly, it sped up, lurched forward several houses past Duke’s, and pulled into a driveway. A man carrying a tool case walked up to one of Phil Duke’s neighbors. A pretty young woman in a T-shirt and shorts greeted him.
Genuine emergency.
I told Milo.
He said, “Or someone’s shooting a porn movie.”
I laughed. “No cameras in sight—okay, I’m coming up on Duke’s place.”
“Yawn yawn.”
I drove past the lovely lawn, ready for a whole lot of nothing.
Instead, I got something. The front door was open. Two figures stood in the doorway, one partially hid by the jamb, the other totally visible and backlit.
Female contours. Big mop of hair. One leg crooked. Languid wrist.
Sparks tumbled. Flicking her cigarette.
Taken by surprise, I pulled an amateur move and lifted my foot off the gas. The figures in the doorway didn’t seem to notice. Standing close to each other. Facing each other.
I drove on, passed the plumbing van. Lights on inside the house with the clogged drain. At the end of the block, I radioed in.
Milo said, “Really,” and broke his own rules, gunning a battered Dodge Ram and arriving sooner than scheduled.
“Got it! Shapely blonde.”
I said, “I’ll go back, make an extra circuit.”
“No, hold on—who’s up, guys?”
Moe Reed said, “Sean and me, the toddlers were yawning so we sent them to get coffee. I can take the next one.”
Heartbreak Hotel Page 27