Biro says, “What you want me to do?”
“What do you mean?” Sykes has dropped her drawl.
“Huh?”
“I thought Ramon worked that out.”
“Yeah, right,” says Biro. “Do a guy.”
“So you do know.”
“That’s nothin’, lady.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do can be anything,” says Biro. “How you want it?”
“By ‘how’ you mean—”
“Shoot, cut, break the fuckin’ head.” He turns to her, exhales a bust of smoke. “They’s all kinda do, Mary.”
Sykes opens a window and breathes in fresh air. “Would you mind putting that out? You’re really asphyxiating me.”
Biro, still puffing: “You gonna tell me or what?”
“I assumed Ramon already discussed—”
“Fuck Ramon, I’m here, you’re here—you sure you got all the money, lady? You only showed me that bunch.”
“Of course I’m sure.” Peeved.
Silence.
Connie says, “I’m a busy person. Why would I bother to come here if I wasn’t serious.” She laughs.
“Something funny, lady?”
“I mean, George, you don’t impress me as the type of guy who does things just for fun. Though I imagine it must be fun for you.”
Biro stares at her. “You talk crazy, lady. Gonna tell me what you want, or what?”
Connie stares back. Her mouth is set hard.
The atmosphere in the Camaro has shifted and all of us know it.
Milo rubs his face, as if washing without water.
Rivera says, “Uh-oh … c’mon, Raul, work it, man.”
Biro says, “What, lady?”
Connie says, “I think you’re being … legalistic, George.”
“Huh?”
“Pressing me for details.”
“It’s your job, lady.”
“But you’re the pro, George.”
“Yeah. So.”
“So you decide.”
“Everything?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Suit yourself, Mary. I just figured you’d wanna—”
Without warning, Connie Sykes pushes the Camaro’s passenger door open and exits the car. Rather than flee to the Lexus, she returns to the rear of the black car, stops for a second. Seems to be studying something.
Milo says, “What the—she’s memorizing the tag?”
Rivera says, “Unbelievable. Ballsy bitch.”
Raul Biro speaks, barely moving his lips. “What now, guys? I go after her?”
His tone says that’s the last thing he wants.
Milo says, “Stay there.”
Connie Sykes walks into the restaurant.
Milo says, “Get out of there.”
Biro complies.
Moments after the Camaro exits the lot, Connie Sykes steps out, looks around, approaches her Lexus, takes the time for another check of her surroundings before getting into her car.
Cruising slowly, she’s gone.
Millie Rivera curses.
Milo joins her.
My head fills with what-ifs. I keep them to myself.
CHAPTER
13
Driving back to the city via Laurel Canyon, Milo headed for Hollywood Division and the sure-to-be-depressing meet-up with Raul Biro.
Not at the station on Wilcox. Biro, sounding deflated, had no desire to be in the company of Petra or any of his peers.
He directed us to a coffee shop on Sunset near Gower, was already seated at a booth, coffee cup in hand. He’d loosened the top button on the Pendleton, rolled up the sleeves. Clean arms but marked-up hands. Instead of the bandanna he wore a Dodgers cap.
Before Milo, Rivera, and I were sitting, he said, “I know I messed up but I still can’t figure out how.”
He’s an unusually bright and perceptive detective, free of macho self-delusion but confident and self-possessed. Seeing him like this was sad.
Milo said, “That’s ’cause you didn’t screw up, Raul. She’s a paranoid weirdo.”
As if he hadn’t heard, Biro said, “I did the hard-guy because the department shrink said to.” He looked at me. “I would’ve asked you but they said you were too involved.”
I said, “Understandable.”
“Would you have done it differently?”
“There’s never a cookbook. Milo’s right, there was no way to predict.”
“Oh, man,” said Biro, “what a mess.”
“You poor guy,” said Millie Rivera. “Losing your hair.”
“Don’t care about that, it’ll grow back,” said Biro. “Meanwhile she’s still out there—I’m really sorry, Doc.”
I said, “Don’t worry.”
Biro shook his head. “I used to think actors were idiots. Now I’m thinking I’m the fool, need to appreciate them.”
A waitress came over. The request for three more coffees made her scowl. “That’s it?”
“Nah, that’s the appetizer,” said Milo. “Bring me a chocolate sundae with hot fudge—you got pineapple sauce?”
“Just peaches and cherries.”
“Fine.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“It’s extra.”
“I’m an extra type of guy.”
The waitress left, rolling her eyes.
Biro said, “El Tee, if I eat now, I hurl.”
Rivera said, “Well, I can use a sugar rush—maybe I’ll also get a sundae.”
Milo said, “It’s yours I just ordered,” and stood, nodding at me to do the same. We left the booth. He said, “Don’t sweat it, kids, it’ll work out.”
“You two are going?” said Rivera.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“We’re finished?”
“In terms of official business? For the time being.”
“What do I tell Lieutenant White?”
“I’ll tell him.”
“What about Guzman?”
“Sounds like he’s under control via Effo.”
Rivera thought about that. “Okay, what about Effo?”
“Do your thing, Millie.”
She looked at me. “How do you feel about that, Doc?”
“If you’re asking will I warn him, I won’t. But even if I did, would it make a difference? He’s got to know you’re after him.”
Rivera bared her teeth.
The waitress approached with the sundae.
Milo said, “Sweeten your life, kid,” and tossed a twenty on the table.
The waitress said, “You don’t want this?”
“I like it but it doesn’t like me.” Patting his gut, he handed her a ten. Her mouth dropped open.
Milo winked at her and we left.
As I reached the coffee shop door, I glanced back at the booth. Neither Biro nor Rivera had moved.
Cop tableau.
My best friend had a surplus of personal power, knew how to use it judiciously.
I should’ve found that comforting.
Milo started up the car. “In answer to your first unasked question, I’ll take care of the situation. In answer to the second, why bother yourself with the details?”
I let him drive for a while before speaking. “In response to your first answer, how, when, and where? In terms of the second: because it’s my life and I need to know what’s going on.”
He picked up speed. “Fair enough. I’m figuring on a nice direct confrontation with Crazy Connie.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Hear me out, Alex. I’m going to surprise her at home, let her know we know everything, scare the hell out of her within legal limits, maybe even get her to do something that allows me to arrest her.” Touching his abdomen, again. “I’m not exactly a small target. She makes contact anywhere on this Sahara of Irish dermis, she’s toast.”
“You’ll be—”
“I’m a homicide cop, I get to work any damn homicides or attempted homi
cides that I choose. Per His Majesty.”
“You asked the chief?”
“I posed a theoretical question to one of the chief’s sycophants.”
“You figured the sting would fail?”
“I figured nothing, Alex. It’s the Boy Scout training. Be prepared.”
“Connie uses the legal system—”
“Yeah, yeah, she’ll get herself a lawyer. But meanwhile, the booking process can go real slow, let’s see how snotty she is after a stretch in County with some east side homegirls as roomies.” Big wolfish smile. “She wants to end your life because you wrote a damn report? Fuck her. Where does she live?”
“Westwood.”
“Address.”
“Don’t know it by heart.”
“It’s in her file.”
“Yes.”
“File’s back at your house.”
Nod.
“Then that’s where I’m aiming this chariot.”
Instead of heading to my office, he said, “First things first,” and continued through the house and out to the garden and Robin’s studio.
She was working the table saw, so the two of us stood just inside the door. When the roar died, she removed her goggles, brushed dust off a rectangle of spruce. “Big Guy.”
Milo said, “Hey.”
Wiping her hands, she came forward. Blanche followed. “I’d like to say great to see you, Milo, but I’m sensing bad news.”
He told her.
She shrugged. “Those things, you never know.”
“The perfect woman.”
Finally, something I could agree with.
The three of us convened around the kitchen table. Blanche settled at Milo’s feet. He scratched her head absently. “If you had K-9 training, pooch, I’d take you along.”
Robin said, “Take her where?”
I said, “He’s going to confront Sykes.”
Milo reiterated his logic.
Robin said, “Makes perfect sense. Thank you.” To me: “Really, honey, what’s the choice, continue in limbo?”
“I’m not sure this will get us out of limbo.”
“What’s your approach?” said Milo. “Doing therapy with her?”
I said nothing.
Robin fooled with my hair. “Honestly, Alex, the only other solution I see is you put her out of her misery, yourself.” Sly smile. “Or I do it. Come to think of it, I’ve got all sorts of implements of destruction back at the studio.”
Milo clamped his hands over his ears and began humming.
Robin laughed, pulled his left hand free, placed her mouth near his lips. “And then I fill a bathtub with sulfuric acid, after which I take the bitch and—”
“Save it for the movie version, kid. Alex, get me that address.”
I said, “When are you planning to do it?”
“She’s a doctor, probably works late, I want to catch her at home, maybe tennish.”
“Tonight?”
“You see any reason to prolong this? Gonna get myself a nice hearty dinner, something rib-sticking—hey, maybe ribs, that joint on Centinela—no, kids, don’t offer to provide sustenance, I need a little alone time. Collecting thoughts, as it were.”
“Ding dong,” I said. “Homicide calling.”
“Hey,” he said, “if she’d succeeded, she woulda met me, anyway.”
CHAPTER
14
After Milo left, Robin and I returned to the kitchen table.
I said, “So.”
She said, “I suggest we adopt Plan B.”
I said, “What’s A?”
“Sitting around, our tummies in a knot, waiting for Big Guy to call and tell us what happened.”
“Where’s your sense of fun? What’s B?”
“Enjoy life—maybe a rib-sticking meal of our own. If anyone can clear up this mess it’s him, so why worry?”
“You can eat?”
“I’d sure as heck like to try. And please don’t ask what happens if he doesn’t convince her. We’ll deal with that if and when it comes up.”
“Fine. Where do you want to go?”
“Let’s decide once we’re on the road.”
“Okay,” I said. “Sorry.”
“For being a potential victim? I think not, Alex. I think the only one who needs to apologize is that insane monster.”
“I live,” I said, “with the perfect woman.”
“Far from it, darling.” She punched my shoulder lightly. “But I’m way better than most.”
We decided on Thai food at a storefront café on Melrose, were finished at nine forty-five. By now, Milo would be at Connie Sykes’s place, watching, waiting.
I asked Robin if she wanted to drive around a bit.
She said, “You bet, beats us obsessing.”
“Appreciate the kindness.”
“What kindness?”
“Using the plural.”
“What, you think I’m an Iron Maiden? This is nerve-racking for me, too. I’m just trying to utilize all those coping skills some psychologist taught me.”
We cruised west into Beverly Hills, traversing Rodeo, stopping a few times so Robin could check out window displays.
“Name it, it’s yours, Tsarina.”
“Thank you, Sugar Daddy.” Adopting a southern drawl. Unfortunate choice; my gut tightened. I looked at the dashboard clock.
Ten twenty-three. By now, Milo would be—
Robin said, “Let’s go home, watch some tube, if he doesn’t call by midnight, I’m assuming all is well and our dreams are going to be a lot better than hers.”
Ten after midnight. Lights out.
“Love you, babe, thanks for your patience.”
“Love you, too, Alex. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Three minutes later, I was swimming in worst-case scenarios, jumped when the phone rang.
Milo said, “It’s me. You’re safe.”
“You’re sure—”
“Trust me, you’re safe. My life, on the other hand, just got a whole lot more complicated.”
CHAPTER
15
Connie Sykes’s residence was a one-story brick Tudor on a hilly dead-end street between Wilshire and Sunset. A cobbled driveway hosted the cream-colored Lexus.
Nice quiet location, mature trees lining the curb. Walking distance to the U. made it a good fit for a young professor’s family, back when professors could afford Westwood. The house was set farther back from the curb than its neighbors, shrouded by shrubs and a four-story deodar cedar. Ideal setup for someone who craved privacy.
A typical custody evaluation would have led me to visit the place. No need for that in Sykes v. Sykes and the house had remained an abstraction—an address in a file.
Until now I hadn’t realized how close it was to my home: five-minute drive, ten if commuters jammed up the Glen.
Walking distance if you were fit and so inclined.
It would’ve been easy enough for Connie to take a little hike under cover of darkness. The locked gate at the bottom of my road would have impeded a vehicle but a stalker on foot could’ve found a way around.
But that wasn’t Connie’s style; she was a delegator.
Now she was on the receiving end of someone else’s plan.
Three black-and-whites parked diagonally across the street kept me well back from the yellow tape. So did a carelessly positioned white coroner’s van and one of the black vans used to transport crime scene techs. The sky was black; same for the sidewalk fronting the house save for a single spotlit area near the front door.
I walked to the cops guarding the yellow tape. Jack-and-Jill team, early twenties. Officer Flynn, Officer Roosevelt, neither one impressed by my dropping Milo’s name. I wasn’t sure checking with him would help; he’d been clear about his preference.
“No, stay home, Alex.”
“You called me.”
“To let you know you’re safe.”
Click.
Stepping back from the u
niforms, I phoned him. “Reporting for duty, Lieutenant.”
He said, “Oh, shit.”
“Instruct your minions to let me in.”
“Alex—”
“I won’t make a mess. Promise. Mom.”
“Why the he—”
“I need to see.”
He hung up. Moments later, the female uniform, Flynn, got a call on her radio. Looking doubtful, she waved me under the tape.
Connie Sykes lay on her back near the center of her smallish entry rotunda. No center table, just a round rug over hardwood. Imitation Persian, beige and blue and green, plus a splotch of amorphous, rusty red no weaver had ever intended.
A wrought-iron chandelier illuminated her death. She wore a mocha-colored terry-cloth robe over sensible white flannel pajamas patterned with tiny sky-blue flowers. A white china teacup sat on its side, backed by a yellow evidence marker, around six feet to her right. The cup had landed just off the rug, coming to rest on oak flooring. The surrounding tea stain was a clear amoeba with a gray border.
The terry robe had flapped open, revealing another rusty blotch, dry and crusted, spreading over much of her pajama top. Just above the spot where her navel would be, a five-inch rip was visible in the blood. Clean, straight, horizontal, puckering at the center.
Initial pierce, then a side-to-side slash, laying waste to the diaphragm.
The robe was open because its sash had been removed and used to garrote Connie Sykes.
Her face was gray where it wasn’t purplish-black. Her tongue was a Japanese eggplant sprouting from between chalky lips.
A coroner’s investigator I knew as Gloria kneeled beside the body, camera around her neck, jotting notes in a little spiral book. Milo watched from a few feet away.
I said, “Stabbed, then strangled?”
Milo said, “In that order. No forced entry, no sign of struggle, all doors were locked when I entered. So she probably opened the door for someone, got stuck, and after she was down, they finished her off with the belt.”
“Would the stab wound have been fatal?”
“I look like a doctor?”
Gloria smiled. “Hi, Dr. D., we can’t go on meeting like this. No way to know for sure until she gets opened up but if I had to guess, I’d say yes. Go deep enough where she was cut, breathing stops.”
I said, “But just to make sure, strangle her.” I looked at the sash. No knot, just a loop.
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