'She didn't mention any appointment to anyone, and her book was clear except for the party.'
'Posing but no assault. That could be someone wanted to make it look sexual.'
'That's the vibe I get. The whole thing is too damned contrived for a rape-murder.'
'Almost like an art piece,' I said. 'Performance art.'
His jaws bunched.
I said, 'Why'd you take this one?'
'Personal favor. Her family knew my family back in Indiana. Her dad worked steel with my dad. Actually, he
was one of the guys my dad supervised on the line. He's dead, and so is Julie's mother, but the dad's brother -Julie's uncle - flew out to ID the body, got hold of me, and asked me to take it. Last thing I wanted was something with a personal connection, but what choice did I have? The guy was coming on like I was some goddamn Sherlock.'
'You're famous in Indiana.'
'Oh, joy,' he said, forking a wad of okra, then changing his mind and flipping the gooey mess back on the plate.
'Was the wire ligament left behind?'
'No, that was the coroner's surmise from the marks on her neck. It sliced through the skin, but the killer took the time to remove it. We canvassed the area, found nothing.'
'More careful planning,' I said. "This is a smart one.'
'Ain't we got fun.'
We finished up and got into my car and Milo directed me to Light and Space's address on Carmelina, just north of Pico. I knew the neighborhood: storage facilities, auto body shops and small factories, just a stroll from L.A.'s western border with the city of Santa Monica. If Julie Kipper had been strangled a couple of blocks away, her uncle's appeal to Milo would've been futile.
As I drove, Milo balanced a toothpick between the tips of his index fingers and radar-scanned the passing world with cop's eyes. 'Been a while since we did this, huh?'
Over the past few months we'd seen each other less and less. I'd put it down to his backlog of cold files and my workload. That was denial. There was mutual isolation going on. 'Guess you didn't have enough weird ones.'
'Matter of fact, that's true,' he said. 'Just the usual, and I don't trouble you with the usual.' A second later: 'You doing all right? In general?'
'Everything's fine.'
'Good.' A block later: 'So... everything with Allison's... things are working out?'
'Allison's wonderful,' I said.
'Well, that's good.' He picked his teeth, kept surveill-ing the city.
His first contacts with Allison had been professional: wrapping up the Ingalls file. She told me he'd been deft and compassionate.
His first reaction upon hearing that we were seeing each other had been silence. Then: She's gorgeous, I'll grant you that.
I'd thought: What won't you grant me? Then I figured I was being touchy and kept my mouth shut. A few weeks later, I cooked dinner for four at my place: a mild March evening, steaks and baked potatoes and red wine out on the terrace. Milo and Rick Silverman, Allison and me.
The surprise was Allison and Rick knew each other. One of her patients had been brought into the Cedars-Sinai ER after a car wreck and Rick had been the surgeon on duty.
They talked shop, I played host, Milo ate and fidgeted. Toward the end of the evening, he drew me aside. 'Nice girl, Alex. Not that you need my approval.' Sounding as if someone had prodded him to make the speech.
Since then, he'd seldom mentioned her.
'A few more blocks,' he said. 'How's the pooch?'
'I hear he's fine.'
A moment later: 'Robin and I got together a couple of times for coffee.'
Surprise, surprise.
'Nothing wrong with that,' I said.
'You're pissed.'
"Why would I be pissed?'
'You sound pissed.'
'I'm not pissed. Where do I turn?'
'Two more blocks, then a right,' he said. 'Okay, I keep my trap Crazy-Glued shut. Even though all these years you've been telling me I should express my feelings.'
'Express away,' I said.
'That guy she's with-'
'He has a name. Tim.'
'Tim's a wimp.'
'Give it up, Milo.'
'Give what up?'
'Reconciliation fantasies.'
'I-'
"When you saw her was she pining for me?'
Silence.
'Whoa,' he said.
'Right turn here?'
'Yeah.'
Light and Space's neighbors were a plating plant and a wholesaler of plastic signs. The gallery's warehouse origins were obvious: brick-faced, tar-roofed, three segmented steel overhead doors in front, instead of a window. Black plastic letters above the central door read LIGHT AND SPACE: AN ART PLACE. Stout combination locks secured the outer doors but the one in the middle was held in place by a single dead bolt that responded to a key on Milo's ring. He pushed, and the metal panel slid upward into a pocket.
"They gave you a key?' I said.
'My honest face,' he said, stepping inside and flicking on lights. The interior was five thousand square feet or
so. Walls painted that vanilla white that brings out the best in art, gray cement floors, twenty-foot ceilings thatched by ductwork, high-focus spotlights fixed upon several large, unframed canvases.
No furniture except for a desk up front, bearing brochures and a CD player. The nearest wall was lettered in the same black plastic used on the outside of the building.
Juliet Kipper Air and Image
Same title on the brochures. I picked one up, skimmed a few paragraphs of art-speak, flipped to a black-and-white headshot of the artist.
Juliet Kipper had posed in a black turtleneck and no jewelry, her face pallid against a gray matte background. Squarish face, not un-pretty under chopped, platinum hair. Pale eyes, deep-set and watchful, challenged the camera. Her mouth was grim - tugged down at the corners. High, uneven bangs exposed a furrowed forehead. Concentrating hard. Or burdened. She'd made an effort to look the part of the troubled artist, or it had come naturally.
Milo was pacing the gallery, setting off echoes as he drifted from painting to painting. I began doing the same.
A smug psycho-prediction of Juliet Kipper's art based upon the cheerlessness of her photo would have fallen flat. She'd created fifteen luminous landscapes, exuberantly colorful and textured, each marked by a master's control of composition and light.
Sere arroyos, fog-shrouded, razor-hewn mountains, furious waterfalls emptying to mirror-glass streams, deep green forests pierced by gilded bursts that promised distant discovery. Two ocean nocturnes were livened by cerulean blue heavens and lemon moonglow that turned the tide to froth. Every painting bore the confident brushstrokes of someone who'd known how to move pigment around the canvas. Layers of color seemed to fluoresce; in lesser hands, the work would've veered into tourist kitsch.
Prices ranged from two to four thousand. I examined the canvases with another eye, searching for familiar locales, but finding none. Then I read the title tags: Dream I, Dream II, Dream III... Juliet Kipper had created her own terrain. I said, 'To my eye, she was a major talent.' My voice bounced around the near-empty space.
Milo said, 'I like her stuff, too, but what do I know? C'mon, let me show you where she died.'
The bathroom was too small for both of us, and Milo waited outside as I checked out the grimy spot where Juliet Kipper had been strangled.
A nasty little space, windowless, dank. Cracked sink, oxidized spigots. Black threads of mold curled in the corners.
With all that dirt, the series of faint brown smudges on the cement floor would've escaped my notice if I hadn't known better.
I backed out of the room and Milo showed me the rest of the rear space. A large storage area to the left was filled with unframed paintings and office supplies and random pieces of cheap-looking furniture. The men's room was no more generous or attractive.
The gallery's rear door was striped by a push bolt.
'Another self-locking mechanis
m,' I said. 'Another deliberate attempt to invite discovery.'
'Exhibitionist.'
'But he keeps it in check. Someone very measured.'
He pushed the bolt, propped the door open with a block of wood left there for that purpose, and we exited the building. An asphalt strip was backed by a ten-foot block wall. A Dumpster took up the far corner.
'What's on the other side of the wall?'
'Parking lot of a plumbing supplies outfit. The ground's higher on their side - two feet or so - but it would still be a climb. And there'd be no reason for the killer to scale it because all he had to do was walk right in.' He led me around the north side of the gallery and pointed down another tarred passageway that bordered the plating plant and opened to the street. Fumes rose from the plant; the air smelled lethal.
'Not much security,' I said.
'Why would a bunch of artists need any?'
We returned to the propped-open door, and I had a closer look at the lock.
'Same key as the front?'
'Yup.'
'I assume all the co-op members have keys.'
'Access is no mystery, Alex. Motive is. Like I said, I've already talked to all the co-op members, and none of them even remotely twangs my antenna. Fourteen out of twenty are women and of the six guys, three are of CoCo's vintage. The young ones seem like your basic,
head-in-the-clouds creative type. We're talking the Venice crowd, here. Make art, not war. No one's being evasive. I ran checks on all of them, anyway. Clean. I've been fooled too often to think it can't happen again, but I'm just not picking up any serious vibes from this bunch.'
We re-entered the gallery, and I had another look at Juliet Kipper's paintings.
Beautiful.
I wasn't sure that meant much in the art world, but it meant something to me, and I wanted to cry.
I said, 'When was she divorced?'
'Ten years ago. Three years before she moved out here.'
'Who's the ex?'
'Guy named Everett Kipper,' he said. 'He used to be an artist, too. They met at Rhode Island, but he switched careers.'
'She kept his name.'
'Julie told people the split was amicable. And Kipper was at the opening. Everyone I spoke to said they looked friendly'
'What career did he switch to?'
'Bond broker.'
'From art to finance,' I said. 'Does he pay alimony?'
'Her bankbook shows monthly deposits of two grand, and she has no other obvious means of support.'
'So with her gone, he saves twenty-four grand a year.'
'Yeah, yeah, like any spouse he's the first suspect,' he said. 'I've got an appointment to talk to him in an hour.'
'He's local?'
'lives in South Pasadena, works in Century City.'
'Why so long to get to him?'
'We played phone tag. I'm heading over there, next.' He fingered the knot of his tie. 'Businesslike enough for Avenue of the Stars?'
'No business I'd want a part of.'
As we returned to the Seville, an old blue VW bus drove up to the gallery. SAVE THE WETLANDS sticker on the rear bumper. Above that: ART IS LIFE. A tiny white-haired woman sat low in the driver's seat. A yellow-and-brown dog on the passenger side stared at the windshield.
The woman waved. 'Yoo-hoo, Detective!' and we approached the bus.
'Ms Barnes,' said Milo. 'What's up?' He introduced me to CoCo Barnes, and she gripped my hand with what felt like a sparrow's talon.
'Just came by to see if you got in okay.' Barnes glanced at the gallery's frontage. The dog remained in place, dull-eyed but tight-jawed. Big dog with a graybeard muzzle. Bits of dry leaves specked its coat.
I chanced petting the animal. It licked my hand.
Milo said, 'We got in fine.'
'You're all finished up in there?' CoCo Barnes's voice was scratchy, veering toward abrasive, tempered by a Southern inflection. She looked to be seventy. The white hair was cut in a boyish cap and trimmed unceremoniously. Her skin was the color and consistency of well-roasted chicken. Slate gray eyes - more acute than the dog's, but filmy, nonetheless - checked me out.
'What's his name?' I said.
'Lance.'
'Nice dog.'
'If he likes you.' CoCo Barnes turned to Milo. 'Any progress on Julie?'
'It's still early in the investigation, ma'am.'
The old woman frowned. 'Didn't I hear something about if you don't solve it quickly, you probably won't solve it at all?'
'It's not that simple, ma'am.'
CoCo Barnes ruffled lance's neck. 'I'm glad I caught you, it saves me a phone call. Remember how you asked me to think about anything unusual that happened Saturday night, and I said there'd been nothing, it had just been your typical opening? Well, I thought about it some more, and there was something. Not at night and not at the opening, strictly speaking. And I'm not sure it's really what you're after.'
'What happened?' said Milo.
'This was before the opening,' said Barnes. 'The day of the opening, around 2 p.m. Julie wasn't even here, yet. Just me and Lance, here. Clark Van Alstrom was here, too - the man who does those aluminum stabiles?'
Milo nodded.
CoCo Barnes said, 'I brought Clark along because I can't lift that metal door by myself. Once I got in, Clark left, and I started setting up. Making sure everything was in order - a few months ago we had a power outage, and that was no good.' She smiled. 'Especially because the artist worked in neon... Anyway, I was checking things out, and I heard Lance bark. That doesn't happen often. He's a very quiet boy.'
She smiled at the dog. Lance made a low, contented sound. 'I'd set up a water bowl for him at the back, in the
hallway near where Julie - just outside the bathrooms -but I'd left the door to the vestibule open, and I could hear him barking. He doesn't have much of a bark, mind you, he's fourteen years old and his vocal cords are pretty shot. What he produces is more of a cough.' She demonstrated with a series of dry hacks. Lance's eyes shifted to her, but he remained inert. 'He just kept it up, wouldn't stop, and I went back there to see what was wrong. By the time I got there he'd shlepped himself up on his feet and was facing the back door. I wondered if he'd heard rats - we'd had some rat problems a couple of seasons ago, an opening that was absolutely disastrous, where's the Pied Piper of Hamelin when you need him-so... where was I... oh, yes, I opened the door and had a look out back and there were no rats. But there was a woman. Foraging in the Dumpster. Obviously homeless, obviously quite mad.'
'Mad as in angry?' said Milo.
'Mad as in disturbed, psychotic, mentally ill. I abhor labels, but sometimes they do get the picture across. This one was mad as the proverbial chapeau maker.'
'You could tell this by-'
'Her eyes, for starts,' said Barnes. 'Wild eyes - scared eyes. Jumping all over the place.' She tried to demonstrate with her own gray orbs, but they moved lazily. Blinking several times, as if to clear them, she turned to Lance and scratched behind his ear, and said, 'Easy now, you're a good boy... then there was the way she carried herself, her clothes - mismatched, oversized, too many layers for the weather. I've lived in Venice for fifty-three years, Detective. I've seen enough mental illness to know it when it stares me in the face. Then, of course, there was the foraging. The moment the door opened she jumped back, lost her balance, and nearly fell. Such fear. I said, "If you wait right here, I'll fetch you something to eat." But she raised her hand to her mouth, chewed her knuckles, and ran off. They do that a lot, you know. Turn down food. Some of them even get hostile when you try to help them. They've got voices blabbering in their heads, telling them who-knows-what. Can you blame them for not trusting?'
She ruffled the dog some more. 'It's probably nothing, but in view of what happened to Julie I don't suppose we can be too complacent.'
'No we can't, ma'am. What else can you tell me about this woman?' said Milo.
The old woman's eyes sparked. 'So you do think it's important?'
'Well, that's good to know. Because I almost didn't tell you, being as it was a woman and my assumption was a man killed Julie - the way she was...' The old woman's eyes clamped shut, then fluttered open. 'I'm still trying to rid myself of the image... not that this woman couldn't have overpowered Julie. She was large - maybe six feet tall. Built big, too. Though with all that clothing, it was hard to tell, precisely. And we were only face-to-face for a second or so.'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart Page 6