“It’s not what he does. He’s just an odd one.”
“Why’d you rent to him, ma’am?”
“I didn’t. He was already here before I moved in.”
“How long is that?”
“I arrived shortly after my husband died, which was four years ago. I used to have my own house in Crenshaw, nice neighborhood, then it got bad, now it’s getting nice again. After Walter passed on, I said who needs all this space, a big yard to take care of. A fast-talking real estate agent offered me what I thought was a good price so I sold. Big mistake. At least I’ve got the money invested, been thinking about getting another house. Maybe out in Riverside, where my daughter lives, you get more for your money there.”
She patted her hair. “Meanwhile, I’m here, and what they pay me to manage covers my expenses and then some.”
“Who’s they?”
“The owners. Couple of brothers, rich kids, inherited the building from their parents along with a whole lot of other buildings.”
“Does Mr. Peaty pay his rent on time?”
“That’s one thing he does do,” said Stadlbraun. “First day of the month, postal money order.”
“He go to work every day?”
Stadlbraun nodded.
“Where?”
“I have no idea.”
“Does he ever entertain visitors?”
“Him?” She laughed. “Where would he entertain? If I could show you his place, you’d see what I mean, teeny-weeny. Used to be a laundry room until the owners converted it to a single. There’s barely room for his bed and all he’s got besides the bed is a hot plate and a little TV and a dresser.”
“When were you inside last?”
“Must’ve been a couple of years ago. His toilet backed up and I called a rooter service to snake it. I was ready to blame it on him— you know, overstuffing the commode like some fools do?” Regret made her eyes droop. “Turns out it was lint. When they converted it, no one had the sense to clean the traps and somehow the lint got wadded up and moved round and caused a godawful mess. I remember thinking what a teeny little place, how can anyone live like this.”
Milo said, “Sounds like a cell.”
“That’s exactly what it is.” Stadlbraun squinted. Sat back. Folded her arms across her chest. “You should’ve told me from the beginning, young man.”
“Told you what, ma’am?”
“Like a cell? He’s an ex-con, right? What’d he do that sent him to prison? More important, what’d he do to bring you around now?”
“Nothing, ma’am. We just need to ask a few questions.”
“Come on, now,” said Ertha Stadlbraun. “No shilly-shallying.”
“At this point— ”
“Young man, you are not asking me questions because that one’s thinking of running for president. What’d he do?”
“Nothing that we know of. That’s the truth, Mrs. Stadlbraun.”
“You don’t know anything for certain, but you sure suspect something.”
“I really can’t say more, Mrs. Stadlbraun.”
“This is not right, sir. Your job is to protect citizens so you should say. He’s a crazy person and an ex-con living in the same building with normal folks.”
“Ma’am, he’s done nothing. This is part of a preliminary investigation and he’s one of several people we’re talking to.”
She folded her arms across her dress. “Is he dangerous? Tell me yes or no.”
“There’s no reason to think that— ”
“That’s a lawyer answer. What if he’s one of those ticking time bombs you hear about on the news, real quiet until he explodes? Some of the Mexicans have kids. What if he’s one of those perverts and you didn’t tell me?”
“Why would you think that, ma’am?”
“He is?” said Stadlbraun. “A pervert? That’s what this is about?”
“No, ma’am, and it would be a real bad idea— ”
“It’s in the news every day, all these perverts. It wasn’t like that in my day. Where did they all come from?”
Milo didn’t answer.
Ertha Stadlbraun shook her head. “He gives me the willies. And now you’re telling me he’s an ex-con child molester.”
Milo leaned in closer. “I am definitely not telling you that, ma’am. It would be a terrible idea to spread those kinds of rumors.”
“You’re saying he could sue me?”
“I’m saying that Mr. Peaty is not suspected of anything. He may be a material witness and we’re not even sure of that. This is what we call a background check. We do it all the time to be thorough. Mostly it ends up going nowhere.”
Ertha Stadlbraun considered that. “Some job you’ve got.”
Milo suppressed a smile. “If you were in danger, I’d tell you. I promise, ma’am.”
Another hair pat. “Well, I’ve got nothing more to tell you. Wouldn’t want to be careless and spread rumors.”
She stood.
Milo said, “May I ask a few more questions?”
“Such as?”
“When he comes home from work, does he ever leave again?”
Her chest heaved. “He’s an innocent lamb but you want to know about his schedule...oh, never mind, you’re clearly not going to tell me the truth.”
She turned her back on us.
“Does he ever leave once he’s home?” said Milo.
“Not that I’ve seen but I don’t keep tabs.”
“What about last night?”
She faced us again, shot a disgusted look. “Last night I was busy cooking. Three whole chickens, green beans with onions, yams, coleslaw with bacon shreds, four pies. I freeze early in the week so I can relax on Sunday when the kids come to visit. That way I can defrost Sunday morning before church, get back and heat up and we have a real dinner, not that greasy fast food.”
“So you didn’t notice what time Mr. Peaty came in.”
“I never notice,” she said.
“Never?”
“I might see him come in occasionally.”
“What time does he usually get here from work?”
“Six, seven.”
“And weekends?”
“Far as I can tell, weekends he stays inside all day. But I’m not going to promise you he never leaves. It’s not like he’d stop by to say hello, him with those eyes aiming down like he’s counting ants on a hill. I certainly can’t tell you about last night. While I cooked, I had music on, then I watched the news, then I watched the Essence Awards, then I did a crossword and went to sleep. So if you’re looking for me to alibi that nut, forget it.”
CHAPTER 10
Much has been made of geographical profiling— criminals remaining within a comfort zone. Like any theory, sometimes it pans out, sometimes it doesn’t and you get killers prowling the interstate or venturing far from home so they can establish a comfort zone far from prying eyes.
With any alleged rules about human behavior, you’re lucky if you do better than chance. But the four-minute drive from Peaty’s apartment to Michaela Brand’s place on Holt was hard to ignore.
Her building was a mint-green fifties dingbat. The front was an open carport set behind oil-specked concrete. Six parking slots, unoccupied but for a dusty brown Dodge minivan. The facade was spanned by two olive-green diamonds. Speckles in the stucco caught afternoon light. Way too giddy.
A bank of key-lock mailboxes set into the wall just south of the parking area bore no names, only unit numbers. No manager designation. Michaela’s compartment was shut tight. Milo squinted through the slot. “Lots of stuff inside.”
Her apartment was at the back. Louvre windows as old as the building were a burglar’s dream. The glass slats were folded shut but green curtains had been left slightly parted. Dark inside, but the outlines of furniture were clear.
Milo began knocking on doors.
* * *
The only tenant at home was a woman in her twenties wearing a stiff, brandy-colored wig and a calf-length denim jumper over
a white, long-sleeved sweater. The wig made me wonder about chemotherapy, but she was buxom and her gray eyes were clear. The same kind of lightly freckled complexion Michaela Brand had been blessed with. Open face tightened by surprise.
I saw the side curls and yarmulke on the squirming blond boy she was holding and got it: Some Orthodox Jewish women covered their natural hair out of modesty.
The badge made her press her son to her chest. “Yes?”
The boy’s arms and feet shot out simultaneously and she nearly lost her grip. He looked to be three or so. Stocky and sturdy, twisting and turning, emitting little growly noises.
“Calm down, Gershie Yoel!”
The boy waved a fist. “Hero hero Yehudah! Fall the elephant!”
He squirmed some more and she gave up and set him down. He rocked on his feet and growled some more. Eyed us and said, “Fall!”
“Gershie Yoel, go in the kitchen and take a cookie— but only one. And don’t wake up the babies!”
“Hero-hero! Yehudah HaMakawbee gonna spear you bad Greek!”
“Go now, good boy, or no cookie!”
“Grr!” Gershie Yoel ran off, past walls covered with bookshelves. Books on every table and the couch. Any remaining space was filled with playpens and toys and packages of disposable diapers.
The boy’s shouts diminished.
“He’s still celebrating the holidays,” said the young woman.
“Hanukkah?” said Milo.
She smiled. “Yes. He thinks he’s Yehudah— Judah Maccabee. That’s a big hero in the Hannukah story. The elephant is from a story about one of his brothers— ” She stopped, blushed. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re here about one of your neighbors, Mrs....”
“Winograd. Shayndie Winograd.”
Milo had her spell it and wrote it down.
She said, “You need my name?”
“Just for the record, ma’am.”
“Which neighbors, the punk rockers?”
“Which punk rockers are those?”
She pointed to an upstairs unit two doors down. “Over there, Unit Four. Three of them, they think they’re musicians. My husband tells me they’re punk rockers, I don’t know from such things.” She held her ears.
“Noise problem?” said Milo.
“There was before,” said Shayndie Winograd. “Everyone complained to the owner and it’s been okay...excuse me a second, I need to check on the babies, please come in.”
We cleared books from a brown corduroy couch. Leatherette-bound volumes gold-embossed with Hebrew titles.
Shayndie Winograd returned. “Still sleeping, boruch— thank God.”
“How many babies?” said Milo.
“Twins,” she said. “Seven months ago.”
“Mazel tov,” said Milo. “Three’s a lot to handle.”
Shayndie Winograd smiled. “Three would be easy. I’ve got six, five are school-age. Gershie Yoel should be in school but he was coughing this morning and I thought maybe he had a cold. Then, wouldn’t you know, he got miraculously better.”
Milo said, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Her smile widened. “Maybe I should have you talk to him about honesty...so is the problem the punk rockers?”
“This is about Ms. Brand, the tenant in Unit Three.”
“The model?” said Shayndie Winograd.
“She modeled?”
“I call her that because she looks like a model. Pretty, very skinny? What’s the problem?”
“Unfortunately, ma’am, she was murdered last night.”
Shayndie Winograd’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God— oh, no.” She reached back for an armchair, removed a toy truck, and sat down. “Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mrs. Winograd.”
“Maybe her boyfriend?”
“Who’s that?”
“Another skinny one.”
Out of Milo’s attaché came Dylan Meserve’s book shot from the hoax.
Winograd glanced at the photo. “That’s him. He was arrested? He’s a criminal?”
“He and Ms. Brand were involved in a situation. It was in the papers.”
“We don’t read the papers. What kind of situation?”
Milo gave her a summary of the phony abduction.
She said, “Why would they do such a thing?”
“It seems to have been a publicity stunt.”
Shayndie Winograd’s stare was blank.
“To help their acting careers,” said Milo.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s hard to understand, ma’am. They thought the attention might help them get noticed in Hollywood. So why would you think Mr. Meserve would hurt Ms. Brand?”
“Sometimes they screamed at each other.”
“You heard it up here on the second floor?”
“It was loud.”
“What did they scream about?”
Shayndie Winograd shook her head. “I didn’t hear the words, just the noise.”
“Were these fights frequent?”
“Is he a bad person? Dangerous?”
“You’re not in any danger, ma’am. How often did he and Ms. Brand scream at each other?”
“I don’t know— he didn’t live here, he just came over.”
“How often?”
“Once in a while.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
She thought. “Weeks.”
“When’s the last time they had an argument?”
“Even longer...I’d say a month, maybe more?” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I try not to notice things.”
“Not wanting to pry,” said Milo.
“I don’t want nahrish— foolish things in my life.”
“So Mr. Meserve hasn’t been here for a few weeks.”
“At least,” said Shayndie Winograd.
“And when did you last see Ms. Brand?”
“Her...let me think...not recently. But she used to come in late. The only time I ever noticed her was when I was out late with my husband and that’s not often.”
“The children.”
“The children get up early, everyone’s always needing something.”
“Don’t know how you do it, ma’am.”
“You concentrate on what’s important.”
Milo nodded. “So you haven’t seen Ms. Brand recently. Could you think back, maybe come up with something more specific?”
The young woman pushed back a lock of tight-sprayed, supplementary hair. “Maybe two weeks, three. I really can’t say more than that. Don’t want to give you false testimony.”
Milo suppressed a smile. The young woman shook her head. “I go out. To work. I just don’t look at things that aren’t important.”
“With six kids you have time to work?”
“At the preschool, I stay half a day. What happened to her, it’s terrible. Was it the way she lived?”
“What do you mean, ma’am?”
“I’m not insulting her, but we live one way, they live another way.”
“They?”
“The outside world.” Shayndie Winograd reddened. “I shouldn’t be talking like this. My husband says each person should pay attention to their own actions, not what other people do.”
“Your husband’s a rabbi?”
“He has smicha— he’s a rabbi but he doesn’t work as a rabbi. Half a day he does bookkeeping, the rest of the time he learns.”
“Learns what?”
Shayndie Winograd smiled again. “Torah, Judaism. He goes to a kollel— it’s like a graduate school.”
“Working on an advanced degree,” said Milo.
“He learns for the sake of learning.”
“Ah...anyway, sounds like you guys have your hands full...so, tell me about Michaela Brand’s way of life.”
“She was the normal way. What’s the American way now.”
“Meaning?”
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