"As you see, he claimed to be gainfully employed but couldn't produce backup. The squad pegged him as mentally ill, probably a dope fiend, suggested he seek some help at a community MH center. He refused."
"Why didn't the squad evict him?"
"Without a complaint from the owner, no grounds. I stopped off at the building this morning but he's gone, everyone is. Just construction workers, big remodeling project. Sorry it's not more."
"Hey, it's something— thanks for taking the time," said Milo. "Squatting by himself . . ."
I knew he was thinking about the abandoned building in Denver. He turned a page. "No mug shot?"
"The Bummers didn't carry cameras. But look at the back page, I got a booking photo faxed down from Marin County Jail, not terrific quality."
Milo found the shot, studied it, showed it to me.
Eldon Salcido Mate, freshly inducted to penal custody, numbered plaque dangling from a chain around his neck, the mandatory sullen stare leavened by a hard, hot light in the eyes that might've been madness, or just the glare of the room.
Long, stringy hair but clean-shaven. Light-complected, as Guillerma Salcido had said. Round face, weak around the jowls. Small, prissy features that could've made incarceration a greater-than-usual challenge. Premature wrinkles. A young man aging too fast.
Striking resemblance to a face on a dissecting table; Guillerma Salcido Mate had been right. Donny was his father's son.
Milo read some more. "Says here he claimed to be working in a tattoo parlor on the Boulevard, didn't remember which one."
"I tried a few places, no one knows him. But the jailer up in Marin said Salcido had done some skin work on other inmates, that was probably what kept him safe."
"Safe from what?" I said.
"The jail's organized along gang lines," she said. "Someone without affiliation is fair prey unless they've got something to offer. Salcido sold his art, but the jailer said no one wanted him in their group because he was seen as a mental case."
"Tattoos," said Milo. "The boy likes to draw."
Petra nodded. "I read about the painting. You're thinking it's him?"
"Seems like a good bet."
"What's the painting like?"
"Not what I'd want in my dining room." Milo shut the file. "You're an artist, aren't you?"
"Not hardly."
"Come on, I've seen your stuff."
"My past life," she insisted.
"Want to see it?"
She looked at her watch. "Sure, why not?"
• • •
She held it at arm's length. Squinted. Turned it around, inspected the sides. Placed it on the floor and backed away ten feet before returning to get another close look.
"He really slapped on the paint," she said. "Looks like he worked quickly here— probably a palette knife as well as a brush . . . here, too . . . fast but not sloppy, the composition's actually pretty good— he got the proportions just about right."
She turned away from the painting. "This is only a guess, but what I see here is someone alternating between careful draftsmanship and abandon— at some point he planned meticulously, but once he got into the groove he gave himself over to it."
Milo frowned, then glanced at me.
"Anyway," said Petra. "So much for art criticism."
"What does that mean?" Milo asked her. "Being careful and then cutting loose."
"That he's like most artists."
"You see any talent here?"
"Oh sure. Nothing staggering, but he can render. Plenty of ambition, too— redoing Rembrandt."
"Rembrandt and tattoos," said Milo.
"If Salcido did tattoos well enough to keep himself out of trouble in prison, he's got to be pretty good. Skin work's challenging, you have to get a feel for the changing density of the epidermis, movement, resistance to the needle."
Now she was flushed pink.
Milo smiled. "I'm not even going to ask."
She smiled back. "High school. Anyway, got to run. Hope it helps."
"I owe you, Petra."
"I'm sure I'll find a way to collect." Shifting her bag to her other shoulder, she moved toward the stairs. "I wish I could tell you we'll have our eyes peeled for Salcido, Milo, but you know how it is— sorry to run."
"Good luck in court," said Milo.
"Hopefully I won't need luck. No-brainer shooting that got transferred to SM because downtown's backlogged with potential three-strikers. Unattractive defendant, inexperienced public defender with a caseload as long as The English Patient. Today I will triumph! Nice to see you, Doctor— let's keep rooting for Billy."
• • •
Back to Milo's desk. During the time we'd spent with Petra, a new message slip had been added to the stack.
"Special Agent Fusco again. The painting probably heated up his attention-seeking blood." He tossed the slip, looked across the room.
Detectives Korn and Demetri were headed our way. They stopped at the desk, glaring, as if it were a barrier to freedom. Milo made the introductions. They nodded stiffly, didn't offer their hands. Demetri's eyeglasses were slightly askew and his bald head was sunburned and peeling.
"What's up, gentlemen?"
"Nothing," said Demetri. He had one of those voices so low it sounded electronically manipulated. "That's the problem."
Korn ran his finger under his collar. His blow-dried hair seemed an affront to his partner's tonsure. "Nothing with whipped cream and a cherry," he said. "We spent all morning at Haiselden's neighborhood. Found the gardener, big deal. Haiselden's paid up for the month, guy has no idea where señor is, couldn't give a shit where señor went. Haiselden's mail is piling up at the Westwood post office, but we can't get hold of it without a warrant. You want us to do that?"
"Yes," said Milo.
"Figures."
"Problem, Steve?"
"No. No problem at all." Korn played with his collar again. Demetri removed his glasses and wiped them on a corner of his sport coat.
"Don't lose heart, boys," said Milo. "Haiselden's mail stop shows he definitely rabbited. So keep on him— who knows, you might solve this one."
A glance passed between the two detectives. Demetri shifted his weight to his left leg. "That's assuming Haiselden has anything to do with Mate. We discussed it and we're not convinced he does."
"Why's that, Brad?"
"There's sure no evidence in that direction. Besides, it doesn't make sense. Haiselden made money from Mate. Why would he off his meal ticket? We figure he just went on a vacation— probably got depressed because he lost his meal ticket."
"Taking some time off to reflect," said Milo.
"Right."
"Diagnosis of depression, he decided to deal with his feelings on some sunny beach."
Demetri looked at Korn for support. Korn said, "Makes sense to me." His jaw tightened. "With all the publicity over Mate, maybe Haiselden wants time to sort things out. Face it, you've got nothing on his being dirty."
"Nothing at all," said Milo. "Except for the fact that he was a damn publicity hound who rabbited during what has to be the most public moment of his life."
Neither of the younger men spoke.
"Okay then," said Milo. "So how about you write up that warrant for his mail, see if you can get hold of his credit card bills, too. Maybe there'll be a travel agent charge somewhere in there and you can verify your vacation hypothesis."
Another passed glance. Demetri said, "Yeah, sure, whatever you say. We figured we'd hit the gym first. All the hours we've been puttin' in, we haven't had a chance to work out."
"Sure. Get yourselves a coupla Jamba Juices afterward— make sure they put plenty of enzymes in them."
"Something else," said Demetri. "That painting, we just saw it. Real piece of shit, if you ask me."
"Everyone's a critic," said Milo.
18
"WHAT NOW?" I said.
"If those two manage to write a decent warrant application, I'll have a look at Haiselden
's mail. More likely, I'll be correcting their grammar. Meantime, I'm gonna check out art galleries, tattoo parlors, see if anyone else knows Donny, as himself or Tollrance. The fact that he chose a Santa Monica gallery might mean he left Hollywood and is squatting somewhere on the Westside. There are a few abandoned buildings in Venice I want to take a look at."
"Are you liking him better than Haiselden because of the painting?"
"That, his felony record, and what Petra said about the combination of cleverness and psychosis— your hypothesis. With Haiselden, all I've got is his rabbiting, for all I know those two La-Z-Boys could be right and it's one big goose chase, but let them prove it to me." He stood. "As good a time as any to heed the call of nature. 'Scuse me."
He loped toward the men's room and I used his phone to call in for messages.
Two requests for consults from judges that had come in during my ride to the station, and Richard Doss's office wanting me to call— that one was less than five minutes old.
Richard's secretary— the same woman who'd treated me like hired help yesterday— thanked me for getting back so soon and asked me to please hold for just one second. Before her words had faded, Richard came on.
"Thank you," he said, in a tone I'd never heard. Hoarse, faltering, tentative. Both volume and tone controls switched to low.
"What's up, Richard?"
"I found Eric. This morning, four A.M., on campus, he never left, was sitting in an out-of-the-way spot, under a tree. He'd been there for a long time, just sitting, won't say why. He refuses to talk to me at all. I did manage to get him back on the plane, brought him back to L.A. He's missing all kinds of exams, but I don't give a goddamn about that. I'd like you to see him. Please."
"Does Stacy know about this?"
"I knew you'd be concerned about sibling rivalry, or whatever, so I asked her if you could see Eric and she said sure— if you want to verify that, I'll get her on another line."
Voice straining— a man racing against something inexorable.
"No, that's all right, Richard," I said. "Have you had Eric examined medically?"
"No, there wasn't a scratch on him. It's his psychological status I'm worried about. Let's do it sooner rather than later, okay? This isn't Eric. He's always been the— Never lost his productivity. Whatever the hell's going on, I don't like it. When should we set it up?"
"Bring him by this afternoon. But please have a physician check him out first. Just to make sure we're not missing something."
Silence. "Sure. Whatever you say. Are there any particular tests you want?"
"Check for head trauma, fever, acute infection."
"Fine, fine— what time?"
"Let's plan on four."
"That's nearly four hours from now."
"If the doctor finishes sooner, call me. I'll stay close. Where's Eric now?"
"Right here, in my office. I've got him in the conference room. One of my girls is keeping him company."
"He hasn't said anything since you found him?"
"Not a word, just sitting there— this is so damn neurotic, but I can't help thinking this is what Joanne did. The way she started. Pulling away."
"When you touch Eric or move him, how's his muscle tone?"
"Fine, it's not like he's catatonic or anything. He looks me in the eye, I can tell he's all there. He just won't talk to me. Shutting me out. I don't like this one damn bit. One more thing: I don't want Stanford to know about this, see him as damaged goods. The only one who knows so far is that Chinese kid, the roommate, and I let him know it would be in all our interests to keep this close to the vest."
Click.
Milo entered the room. Before he reached the desk, another detective pulled a sheet out of the fax machine and handed it to him.
"Look at this," he said, bringing it over. "Further communication from Agent Fusco. Persistent little civil servant, ain't he?"
He placed the fax on the desk. Reprint of a news item, dated fifteen months earlier, datelined Buffalo, New York.
Doctor Suspected in Attempted Murder
An emergency room physician who allegedly laced the drink of a former supervisor with poison is being sought by police. Michael Ferris Burke, 38, is suspected of concocting a lethal combination of toxic materials in an attempt to murder Selwyn Rabinowitz, chairman of the Department of Emergency Medicine at Unitas Critical Care Center in Rochester. Burke had recently been placed on suspension by Rabinowitz due to "questionable medical practices" and had made veiled threats to his superior. Rabinowitz drank one sip of the doctored coffee and grew ill almost immediately. Suspicion fell on Burke because of the threats and due to the fact that the suspended doctor had left town. Several syringes and vials were recovered from a locker in the physicians' lounge at Unitas, but police refuse to say if they belonged to Burke. Rabinowitz remains hospitalized in stable condition.
Below the article, a few lines of neat, upright handwriting:
Detective Sturgis:
You might want to know more about this.
Lem Fusco
"So what's he saying?" said Milo. "This has something to do with Mate?"
"Burke," I said. "Why's that name familiar?"
"Hell if I know. I'm getting to the point where everything sounds familiar."
I gave the clipping another read. Something came into focus. "Where's the material I pulled off the Internet?"
He opened a drawer, searched for a while, pulled out more papers, produced the printouts. I found what I was looking for right away. "Here you go. Another upstate New York story. Rochester. Roger Sharveneau, the respiratory tech who confessed to poisoning ICU patients, then recanted. Months later, he claimed to have been under the influence of a Dr. Burke, whom no one had ever seen. No sign anyone followed up on that, probably because Sharveneau's pattern of confessing and recanting led them to believe he'd made it all up. But this Dr. Burke was working in Buffalo, sixty, seventy miles away, and getting into mischief. Poison mischief, and Sharveneau died of an overdose."
Milo exhaled. "Okay," he said. "I give in. S.A. Fusco gets his meeting. Want to come?"
"If it's soon," I said. "I've got an appointment at four."
"Appointment for what?"
"What they sent me to school for."
"Oh yeah, you do that occasionally, don't you." He punched the number Fusco'd listed on the fax, got through, listened.
"Taped message," he said. "Hey, personalized for me . . . If I'm interested, meet him at Mort's Deli on Wilshire and Wellesley in Santa Monica. He'll be the one with the boring tie."
"What time?"
"He didn't specify. He knew I'd call after I got the fax, is confident I'll show up. I just love being played." He put on his jacket.
"What key?" I said.
"D minor. As in detective. As in dumb. But why the hell not, the deli's not far from those squats in Venice. How about you?"
"I'll take my own car."
"Sure," he said. "That's how it starts. Soon you'll be wanting your own dish and spoon."
19
THE EXTERIOR OF Mort's Deli was a single cloudy window over a swath of brown board below red-painted letters proclaiming lunch for $5.99. The interior was all yellows and scarlets, narrow black leatherette booths, wallpaper that looked inspired by parrot plumage, the uneasily coexisting odors of fried fish, pickle brine and overripe potatoes.
Leimert Fusco was easy to spot, with or without neckwear. The only other patron was an ancient woman up in front spooning soup into a palsying mouth. The FBI man was three booths back. The tie was gray tweed— same fabric and shade as his sport coat, as if the jacket had given birth to a nursing pup.
"Welcome," he said, pointing to the sandwich on his plate. "The brisket's not bad for L.A." In his fifties, the same gravel voice.
"Where's the brisket better?" said Milo.
Fusco smiled, showed lots of gum. His teeth were huge, equine, white as hotel sheeting. Short, bristly white hair rode low on his brow. Long, heavily wrinkled fa
ce, aggressive jaw, big bulbous nose. The tail end of his fifties. The saddest brown eyes I'd ever seen, nearly hid- den by crepey folds. He had broad shoulders and wide hands. Seated, he gave the impression of bulk and frustrated movement.
"Meaning, where am I from?" he said. "Most recently Quantico. Before that, all kinds of places. I learned about brisket in New York— where else? Spent five years at the main Manhattan office. Those qualifications good enough for you to sit down?"
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