"Where are the kids?" I asked Milo.
Something in my voice made him wince. "Let's talk upstairs, Alex."
The use of my name made Moore look up. "Hey there, Detective Sturgis," he said. "This gent's been waiting for you."
Milo grunted and led me to the stairs. We climbed quickly to the second floor, but instead of exiting, he stopped at the fire door and leaned against it. "Hear me out. This was not my decision—"
"You didn't send those two—"
"The command to pick up and question Doss came from downtown. Command, not request. Downtown claims they tried to reach me. I was out in Venice, and instead of trying harder they went around me and gave the order to Korn."
"Demetri said you knew."
"Demetri's an asshole." Neck bulging against the collar. Unhealthy flush. I was three steps below him and he probably didn't mean to glare down at me. But the effect was there— looming bulk, volcanic rage. The stairwell was hot, gray, soupy with the steel-and-sweat pungency of a high-school corridor.
"Would I have done the same thing?" he said. "Yes, it was a command. But not at your house. So please. I've got plenty to deal with."
"Fine," I said, not sounding fine at all. "But cut me some slack, too. I saw the looks on those kids' faces. What the hell's the emergency? What's Richard done?"
He exhaled. "Upsetting his kids is the least of his problems. He's in serious trouble, Alex."
My stomach lurched. "On Mate?"
"Oh yeah."
"What the hell changed in two hours?" I said.
"What changed is we've got evidence on Doss."
"What kind of evidence?"
He ran a finger under his collar. "If you breathe a word of it, you're essentially decapitating me."
"Heaven forbid," I said. "Without a head, you couldn't eat. Come on, what do you have?"
He stretched a leg, sat on the top step. "What I have is a pleasant fellow named Quentin Goad, locked up at County, waiting trial on an armed robbery beef."
He fished a mug shot out of his pocket. Heavyset white man with a shaved head and black goatee.
"Looks like an overweight Satan," I said.
"When Quentin's not holding up 7-Elevens, he works construction— roofing and sheet-metal work. He's done a lot of work for Mr. Doss— apparently Mr. Doss likes to hire cons, pays them under the table to avoid taxes, which tells you something about his character. The way Goad tells it, two months ago he was roofing a project out in San Bernardino— some big shopping center Doss bought cheap and was refurbishing— when Doss approached him and offered him five thousand bucks to kill Mate. Told him to make it nasty and bloody so everyone would think it was a serial killer. Gave Goad a thousand up front, promised four when the job was finished. Goad says he took the dough but never intended to follow through, saw it as a perfect way to con Doss and cut town with a grand. He'd been wanting to move to Nevada anyway, because he had two strikes against him in California and it made him nervous."
"Don't tell me," I said. "Before he left, he decided to give himself a going-away party."
"A month ago, hamburger joint in San Fernando, late at night, just before closing time. Mr. Goad, a .22, a paper bag. Eight-hundred-buck haul. Goad already had the counter boy facedown on the floor and the money in the bag when the security guard appeared out of nowhere and took him down. Gunshot to the leg. Flesh wound. Goad spent two weeks at County Gen getting free medical care, and then they moved him to the Twin Towers. The .22 wasn't even loaded."
"So now he's facing three strikes and he's trying to deal by selling out Richard. He's claiming Richard gave him money two months ago and didn't mind no follow-through. The Richard I know isn't high on patience."
"Richard bugged him, all right. About three weeks in, wanting a progress report. Goad told him he needed to plan it just right, was watching Mate, waiting for the perfect opportunity."
"Was he?"
"He says no. The whole thing was a scam."
"Come on, Milo, however you look at it, this guy's a liar and a—"
"Low-life moke. And if it was only Goad's story, your pal would be facing a much brighter future. Unfortunately, witnesses saw Doss and Goad meet at one of Goad's hangouts— ex-con bar in San Fernando, only a block from the hamburger joint he tried to rip off, which tells you how smart Goad is. The thing is, Doss didn't act too smart, either. We've got three drinkers and the bartender who saw the two of them having a serious head-to-head. They remember Doss because of the way he dressed. Fancy black duds, he didn't fit in. The waitress saw Doss pass an envelope to Goad. Nice, fat envelope. And she's got no reason to lie."
"But she never actually saw money changing hands."
"What?" he said. "Doss was passing him Halloween candy?"
"Goad claims Richard passed him cash, right out in the open?"
"The bar's a con hangout, Alex. Dark dive. Maybe Doss figured no one was watching. Or that it wouldn't come back to haunt him. For all I know, this isn't the first time Doss paid a con to do dirty work for him. We've also recovered some of the money. Doss paid Goad ten hundreds, Goad spent eight but two bills are left. We just printed Doss, should know soon if anything shows up. Want to take bets on that?"
"A dumb psychopath like Goad actually held on to loose cash?"
"He says it was Greyhound money. Something to tide him over until he pulled off the hamburger heist. What's the alternative explanation, Alex? Everyone in the bar's lying? Some grand conspiracy to frame poor Richard because maybe one time he played golf with O.J.? Come on, this is crime as I know it: tawdry, predictable, stupid. Doss may be a hotshot businessman but he was out of his element and he screwed up. He's been on my list, along with Haiselden and Donny. Now he's moved up to number one man."
"Does Goad claim Richard gave him a reason to kill Mate?"
"Goad says Richard told him Mate had murdered his wife. That she wasn't really sick, that as a doctor Mate should have known that, should have tried to talk her out of it. He told Goad he'd be doing a public service by getting rid of the guy. As if Goad cared about doing good— your boy thinks he's street-smart but that shows how out of his element he was. Mr. Brentwood slumming with the lowlife . . . It sounds damn real to me, Alex."
"Even if you do find Richard's prints on the money, what would that prove?" I said. "Goad worked for Richard and you just said he paid his workers under the table."
He looked up at me wearily. "All of a sudden you're a defense attorney? In my humble opinion, your time would be better spent dealing with those two kids than constructing excuses for their daddy. I'm sorry for you that it worked out this way, but as the guy who's been slogging this case, I'm happy as hell to have a real lead."
He didn't look happy.
I said, "Once more with feeling: where are the kids now?"
He hooked a thumb at the door. "I put them in a victim's family room. Assigned them a nice, sensitive female D to keep them company."
"How're they doing?"
"Don't know. Frankly, I've been spending my time on the phone with my alleged superiors and trying to talk to Daddy— who's clammed till his attorney gets here. I can't promise you the kids won't be interviewed eventually, but right now they're just waiting. Want to see them?"
"If they'll see me," I said. "Having the gruesome twosome show up at my door didn't do much for my credibility."
"I'm sorry, Alex. Goad's PD called Parker Center direct, ready to deal, and a big brass hard-on developed. Try to forget the kids for a second and see this for what it is: major unsolved homicide going nowhere and along comes credible evidence of a prior threat against the victim from someone with means and motive. At the very least, we've got Doss on conspiracy to solicit murder, which might be enough to hold him while we go looking for goodies."
"How'd Korn and Demetri figure out where he was?"
"Dropped in on his secretary." He chewed his cheek. "Saw your name in the appointment book."
"Great."
"You of all people shoul
d know it's not a pretty job, Alex."
"When's Richard's lawyer due?"
"Soon. Big-time mouthpiece named Safer, specializes in getting the upper crust out of scrapes. He'll advise Doss to stay clammed, we'll try to hold your boy on conspiracy. Either way, it'll take a long time clearing the paperwork, so figure on his being here overnight, at least."
He stood, stretched his arms, said, "I'm stiff, too much sitting around."
"Poor baby."
"You want me to apologize again? Fine, mea culpa, culpa mea."
I said, "What about Fusco's file? What about the painting? What does Doss have to do with that?"
"Who's to say the painting has anything to do with the murder? And no, nothing's forgotten, just deferred. If you can still bring yourself to do it, read the damn file. If not, I understand."
He shoved at the door and walked out into the hall.
The victim's family room was a few doors up. A young, honey-haired woman in a powder-blue pantsuit stood a few feet away.
"Detective Marchesi, Dr. Delaware," said Milo.
"Hi," she said. "I offered them Cokes but they refused, Milo."
"How're they doing?"
"Can't really say, because I've been out here the whole time. They insisted— the boy insisted— that they be by themselves. He seems to be the boss."
"Thanks, Sheila," said Milo. "Take a break."
"Sure. I'll be at my desk if you need me."
Marchesi made her way to the detective's room. Milo said, "All yours," and I turned the handle.
• • •
The room wasn't much different from an interrogation cell, had probably been converted from one. Tiny, windowless, hemmed by high-gloss mustard walls. Three chairs upholstered in mismatched floral cotton prints instead of county-issue metal. In place of the steel table with the cuff bolts was a low wooden slatted thing that resembled a picnic bench with the legs cut off. Magazines: People, Ladies' Home Journal, Modern Computer.
Eric and Stacy sat in two of the chairs.
Stacy stared at me.
Eric said, "Get out."
Stacy said, "Eric—"
"He's the fuck out of here— don't argue, Stace. He's obviously part of this, we can't trust him."
I said, "Eric, I can understand your thinking—"
"No more bullshit! The fat cop's your pal, you set my dad up, you fuck!"
I said, "Just give me—"
"I'll give you dick!" he shouted. Then he rushed me as Stacy cried out. Suffused blood darkened his skin to chocolate. His eyes were wild and his arms were churning and I knew he'd try to hit me. I backed away, got ready to protect myself without hurting him. Stacy was still shouting, her voice high and feline and frightened. I'd made it out the door when Eric stopped, stood there, waved his fist. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth.
"Get out of our lives! We'll take care of ourselves!"
Over his shoulder, I saw Stacy, bent low, face buried in her hands.
Eric said, "You're off the case, you fucking loser."
22
I DROVE HOME, cold hands strangling the steering wheel, heart punching against my chest wall.
Try to forget the kids, they are no longer my affair. Concentrate on facts.
Milo was right. The facts fit. His instincts had aimed him at Richard. Time to be honest: so had mine. The first time I'd heard about Mate's death, Richard had popped into my head. I'd run from the truth, hidden behind the complexities of ethical conflict, but now reality was spitting in my face.
I recalled Richard's gloating after bringing up Mate's death: Festive times. The sonofabitch finally got what he deserved.
Finally. Did that mean he'd turned to someone else when Goad had failed to follow through?
Means, motive. Vicarious opportunity. Ready with an alibi. Milo had pegged it right away. People like Richard didn't do their own dirty work.
For all my theories about co-optation and irony, did the van butchery boil down to stupid, bloody revenge?
But why? What could lead someone as bright as Richard to risk so much over a man who'd been no more than an accomplice to his wife's last wishes? Was he one of those skillful psychopaths bright enough to channel his drives into high finance?
Distressed properties. A man who profited from the distress of others. Had Richard been running from a truth of his own? The fact that Joanne had frozen him out of her life, shut him out completely, chosen death in a cheap motel room over a life with him in the Palisades?
Dying in the company of another man . . . the inti- macy of death. The feminist journal—S(Hero)— wondered about the preponderance of female travelers, specu- lated about the sexual overtones of assisted suicide. Had Richard seen Joanne's last night as the worst kind of adultery? I supposed it was possible, but it still seemed so . . . clumsy.
Was Richard behind the phony book and the broken stethoscope? You're out of business, Doc?
A sick uneasiness slithered over me. Happy Traveling, You Sick Bastard. . . . Why had Richard contacted me within a week of the murder? Stacy's college future, as he'd claimed, or, knowing that Quentin Goad had been arrested, was he preparing himself for exactly what had happened?
Asking me to see Eric, too.
Take care of the kids while I'm gone. . . . Look how that had turned out.
Then I thought of something much worse. Eric, all that talk of guilt and expiation.
The directed child, the gifted firstborn who'd dropped out to tend to his mother, had seemed to be adjusting. Suddenly leaving his dorm room, sitting up all night . . . obsessed with guilt because guilt was all he felt?
Involved. Had his father been cruel enough, crazy enough to get him involved?
I'd allowed myself to wonder if Eric had been Mate's slayer. Now that I'd seen his anger at work, those speculations took on weight.
Richard's deal with Goad peters out, so he keeps it in the family.
Dad in San Francisco, son down in L.A. for a couple of days with the keys to Dad's car.
I wanted to think Richard was— if nothing else— too smart for that, but if he'd been willing to risk his family by passing cash in a con bar, was there any reason to trust his judgment?
Something— a fissure— had forced its way through this family. Something to do with Joanne's death— the how, the why. Bob Manitow claimed her deterioration was all due to depression, and maybe he was right. Even so, that kind of emotional collapse didn't manifest overnight. What had led a woman with two PhDs to destroy herself slowly?
Something long-standing . . . something Richard had reason to feel guilty about? A guilt so crushing it had caused him to displace his feelings onto Mate?
Kill the messenger.
Make it bloody.
Father and son. And daughter.
Stacy sitting alone at the beach. Eric sitting alone under a tree. Everyone isolated. Driven apart . . . something that Mate's murder had brought to a head? Here I was again, guessing. Obsessing.
Once, when I was nine, I went through a compulsive phase, labeling my drawers, lining my shoes up in the closet. Unable to sleep unless I pulled the covers over my head in a very special way. Or maybe I'd just been trying to shut out the sound of my father's rage.
I turned off Veteran onto Sunset, raced up the glen, was still groping and supposing when the road to my house appeared so suddenly I nearly missed it. Hooking onto the bridle path, I sped up the hill, drove through the gateposts, parked in front of my little chunk of the American dream.
Home sweet home. Richard's was being torn down, brick by brick.
• • •
Robin was in the living room, straightening up. No sign of Spike.
"Out in back," she said. "Doing his business, if you must know."
"A businessman."
She laughed, kissed me, saw my face. Looked at the file. "Looks like you've got business, too."
"Things you don't want to know about," I said.
"More on Mate? The news said they arrested someo
ne."
"Did they." I told her about Korn and Demetri's drop-in.
"Here? Oh my God."
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