'Eighty-five on the guest list,' said Milo. 'Why not prearrange all the seats?'
'Stefan left a few extras for outsiders in order to be public-spirited. Music students, teachers, that kind of thing.'
'Any publicity other than radio?'
'We don't try for that,' said Loh. 'Even the small bit of exposure we get means more seat requests than we can handle.'
'Was that true tonight?'
'I'd assume so.' Loh frowned. 'You can't seriously
believe a member of the audience did this.' 'At this point, I'll entertain any theories, sir.' 'Here's mine: Someone intruded. The truth is, anyone could've gone back there behind the poolhouse and stabbed Vassily. Bristol's an open street, we don't like living behind walls and gates.' 'What would Levitch have been doing back there?' Loh shrugged. 'Possibly walking off his tension after the recital.'
'Any idea when he left the reception?' 'Not a clue. People were milling. Stefan suggests that the artists stick around. For their sake - making connections. Generally, the artists comply. Obviously, Vassily slipped away.'
'Shy type?' said Milo. 'Holing up in his room.' 'Yes. But he did like to stroll the garden at night. After he finished practicing. By himself.' 'Were there guests milling outside, too?' 'We discourage that, try to keep them indoors. Trampling the plants and all that. But it's not as if we post armed guards.'
'No armed guards,' said Milo. 'Just one security man.' 'For the neighbors - they prefer that Bristol be free of a Gestapo ambience. And there's never been any need for an army of guards. This is one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. Despite you-know-who.' "The only fence is at the rear property line.' 'Correct, behind the tennis court,' said Loh. 'How big's the property?' 'A little over two acres.'
'What was the security guard's specific assignment?' 'To provide security, whatever that means. I'm sure he
wasn't prepared for any... serious eventuality. This wasn't exactly a rap concert. The average age of the audience had to be sixty-five. We're talking perfect behavior.'
'That include the outsiders?'
'When it comes to the concerts, Stefan can be a bit of a martinet. He insists on dead silence. And his tastes run to soothing music. Chopin, Debussy, all that good stuff.'
'Do you share Mr Szabo's tastes?'
Loh grinned again. 'I'm more into technorock and David Bowie.'
'Any David Bowie concerts scheduled for the odeum?'
Loh chuckled. 'Mr Bowie isn't exactly within our price range. Nor would Stefan's sensibilities survive the experience.' He shot a sleek black cuff and consulted a sleek black watch.
Milo said, 'Let's have a look at Levitch's room.'
As we climbed the stairs, Milo said, 'Big house.'
Loh said, 'Stefan's family escaped from Hungary in 1956. He was a teenager, but they managed to cram him into a large steamer trunk. We're talking days without food or toilet facilities, a few air holes for breathing. I'd say he's entitled to his space, wouldn't you?'
The right side of the landing was taken up by two enormous bedrooms - Szabo's and Loh's. Open doors to both revealed flashes of brocade and damask, polished wood, soft lighting. To the left were three guest suites, smaller, less opulent, but still stylishly turned out.
The room where Vassily Levitch had spent the past two nights was taped off. Milo broke the tape, and I
followed him inside. Tom Loh stood in the doorway, and said, 'What should I do?'
'Thanks for your time, sir,' said Milo. 'Feel free to go about your business.'
Loh went back down the stairs.
Milo said, 'Stay there while I toss, if you don't mind. The evidentiary chain and all that.'
'Got to be careful,' I said. 'Especially in light of you-know-who.'
The guest suite was papered in red silk, furnished with a canopied queen bed, two Regency nightstands, and an ornate, inlaid Italian chest of drawers. Empty drawers, as was the closet. Vassily Levitch had lived out of his black nylon suitcase. Even his toiletries had remained in the valise.
Milo examined the contents of the pianist's wallet, went through the pockets of every garment. A kit bag produced aftershave, a safety razor, Advil, Valium, and Pepto-Bismol. A manila envelope in a zippered compartment of the suitcase contained photocopied reviews of other recitals Levitch had given. The critics lauded the young man's touch and phrasing. He'd won the Stein-metz Competition, the Hurlbank Competition, the Great Barrington Piano Gala.
No driver's license. A check-cashing ID card put him at twenty-seven years old.
Milo said, 'Zero plus zero.'
I said, 'Can I see the body?'
A rear patio as large as the odeum emptied to the rolling lawn and widely spaced birch trees walled by a
twelve-foot-tall ficus hedge. A gothic arch cut into the hedge led the way to a fifty-foot lap pool, a tennis court, a cactus garden, a shallow pond devoid of fish and, tucked into the rear, right corner, a four-car garage.
I could see no driveway or any other direct access from the street to the garage, and asked Milo about that.
"They use it for storage - antiques, clothing, lamps. You should see the stuff; I could live off their castaways.'
"They leave their cars in front?'
'His and his Mercedes 600s. Concert nights they park on the street. Want the house to look "aesthetically pure." Nice life, huh? C'mon.'
He led me behind the garage to where a female cop guarded Vassily Levitch's corpse. The body lay on a narrow strip of soiled concrete backed by another high ficus hedge, sharing space with five plastic garbage cans. A battery-op LAPD floodlight turned everything bilious. Milo told the policewoman to take five. She looked grateful as she headed toward the cactus garden.
He stood back and let me take in the details.
A mean, putrid space; even the grandest of estates have them, but on this estate, you had to make your way through two acres of beauty to find it.
Best kill spot on the property. Someone who'd been here before and knew the layout?
I raised the point. Milo chewed on it but said nothing.
I got closer to the body, stepping into greenish light.
In life, Levitch had been a handsome young man - a golden-haired boy, literally. His sculpted face stared up into the night, topped by a mass of curls that caressed his shoulders. Prominent nose, chin, cheekbones, an
aggressive forehead. Long-fingered hands were frozen in palms-up supplication. The tails of his cutaway coat had crumpled under him. A starched white shirt, now mostly crimson, had been ripped open, exposing a hairless chest. A seven-inch slit, the edges curling, ran vertically from umbilicus to the hollow beneath the pianist's sternum. Something pale and wormy peeked out from the wound. A curl of bowel.
Levitch's white pique bow tie was also blood-splotched. His eyes popped, a distended tongue flopped from one comer of his mouth, a bloody ring necklaced his gullet.
I said, 'Paramedics rip the shirt?'
He nodded.
I stared at the corpse some more, moved away.
'Any thoughts?'
'Baby Boy was stabbed, Julie Kipper was strangled, and this poor guy endured both. Was the cut pre- or postmortem?'
'Coroner says probably pre because of all the blood spray. Then the wire was looped around his neck. So what are you saying? A serial with escalation?'
'Or strangulation is the killer's goal and sometimes he needs to make concessions. Sadists and sexual psychopaths enjoy choking out their victims because it's intimate, slow, and feeds the power lust incrementally. Julie was an easy target because she was tiny, and the cramped space of the bathroom trapped her, so the killer was able to go straight for his fun. Levitch, on the other hand, was a strong young guy, so he had to be disabled first.'
'What about Baby Boy? Far as I've heard, there was nothing around his neck.'
'Baby Boy was a huge man. Choking him out would've
been a challenge. And Baby Boy's kill spot was public - a city alley, easy for someone to walk by. Maybe
the killer was being careful. Or he got spooked before he could finish.'
'Be interesting to know how Levitch's stab wounds match up with Baby Boy. I'll check with Petra. Till now we didn't think our cases had anything in common.'
He stared at me, shook his head. Took another look at Levitch.
'However this shakes out, I need to do the routine, Alex. Which in this case is major-league scut: IDing audience members, canvassing the neighborhood for sightings of suspicious strangers, checking the files for recent prowler calls. Too much for one noble soldier. The guys who pulled the case initially are a couple of D-Is, green, no whodunit experience, claim they're interested in getting their feet wet. They actually seem grateful for Uncle Milo's council. I'll sic 'em on the grunt work, get on the phone tomorrow with Levitch's agent in New York and see what I can learn about him.'
'Hey, boss-man,' I said.
'That's me,' he said. 'Chairman of the Gore. Seen enough?'
'More than enough.'
We walked back to the house, and I thought about Vassily Levitch left to die in the company of garbage cans. Baby Boy, dumped in a back alley, Juliet Kipper's life terminated in a toilet.
'Demeaning them is the thing,' I said. 'Reducing art to trash.'
The next day Milo asked me to a meeting. Five P.M. in the back room of the same Indian restaurant.
'I'll be there. Anything new?'
'Levitch's agent and mother had nothing to offer. She mostly sobbed, all the agent could say was Vassily was a beautiful boy, amazing talent. The reason I want to put heads together is Petra said Levitch's wound sounds like a perfect match to Baby Boy's. Plus, the coroner's telling me the ligature used on Levitch is the same gauge and consistency as the one used to choke out Julie. And guess what - your idea about Baby Boy's killer being spooked might be right-on. Turns out there was a witness in the alley, some homeless guy. Pretty well booze-blasted, and between that and the darkness, his description didn't amount to much. But maybe the killer sensed him and split.'
'What's the description?'
'Tall guy in a long coat. He came up to Lee, shmoozed, then moved in for what looked like a hug. Guy walks away, Lee falls down. The killer made no move on the homeless guy - Linus Brophy - but you never know.'
'The killer wouldn't go for Brophy.' 'Why not?'
'Out of his focus,' I said. 'We're talking about someone with very specific goals.'
I gathered together my notes and drove to Cafe Moghul. The same amiable sari'd woman beamed as she ushered me through the restaurant and over to an unmarked door next to the men's room. 'He is here!'
The windowless, green room had probably once served as storage space. Milo sat at a table set for three. Behind him was a sleeper couch pushed up against the wall. On the couch was a tightly curled bedroll, a stack of Indian magazines, and a box of tissues. Curry smells drifted in through a ceiling grate.
I sat down as he dipped some kind of wafer into a bowl of red sauce. The sauce tinted his lips liverish.
'Our hostess seems quite impressed with you.'
'I tip big. And they think my presence offers protection.'
'They've had problems?'
'Just the usual - drunks wandering in, unwanted solicitors. Couple of weeks ago I happened to be here when some idiot peddling dried flowers for an instant nirvana cult got unruly. I engaged in diplomacy.'
'And now the U.N.'s requesting your resume.'
'Hey, those clowns could use the help - here she is.'
He stood and greeted Petra Connor.
She looked around and grinned. 'You really know how to treat a girl, Milo.'
'Only the best for Hollywood Division.'
She had on the usual black pantsuit, the brownish
lipstick and pale matte makeup. Her short, black hair was glossy, and her eyes shone. Like Milo, she'd brought a bulging, soft attache case. His was cracked and gray, hers, black and oiled.
She gave me a wave. 'Hi, Alex.' Then she half turned as a round-shouldered man stepped into the room. 'Guys, this is my new partner, Eric Stahl.'
Stahl wore black, too. A baggy suit over a starched white shirt and skinny gray tie. He had collapsed cheeks, eyes recessed as deeply as those of a blind man. His spiky crew cut was a deep brown shade one half tone lighter than Petra's ebony coif, but, hue-wise, that was a fine distinction. A few years older than Petra, but like her, thin with fair skin. In Stahl's case, a tallowy pallor rendered sickly by contrast to Petra's crisp, cosmetic kabuki. But for rosy spots on his cheeks, he might've been fashioned of wax.
He appraised the room. Flat, inert eyes.
Milo said, 'Hey, Eric'
Stahl said, 'Hey,' in a low voice and shifted his gaze to the table.
Three place settings.
Milo said, 'I'll get you fixed up.'
'Just get a chair, Eric won't be eating,' said Petra.
'Oh, yeah?' said Milo. 'Don't like Indian, Eric?'
'I ate already,' said Stahl. His voice matched his eyes.
'Eric doesn't eat,' said Petra. 'He claims he does, but I've never seen it.'
The smiling woman brought platters of food. Milo snarfed, Petra and I picked, Eric Stahl placed his hands flat on the table and stared at his fingernails.
Stahl's presence seemed to discourage small talk. So
did the situation, and Milo got right down to business, passing around Julie Kipper's case file, then summarizing the little he had on Vassily Levitch.
Both Hollywood detectives took it in without comment. Milo said, 'Could you recap Baby Boy?'
Petra said, 'Sure.' Her account was concise, focused on the relevant details. The precise delivery emphasized how little she'd unearthed, and when she finished, she seemed bothered.
Stahl remained mute.
Milo said, 'Sounds like a match to Levitch, at least. How about the psych wisdom, Alex?'
I summarized the out-of-town cases quickly, glossed over Wilfred Reedy because his murder sounded like a drug hit, and- moved on to China Maranga. As I put forth the suggestion that she might've been stalked without knowing it, the three of them listened but didn't react.
A trio of blank faces; if I was right, they were faced with monumental work.
'The night China disappeared,' I said, 'she left the studio in a foul mood and quite possibly stoned. Under the best of circumstances, she had a bad temper, was known to unload on people without warning. Here's a prime example: She refused an interview with a fanzine, but the editor was persistent and ran the story anyway. A puff piece. China's thanks was to phone the guy and abuse him. Viciously, was the way her band mate put it. She had no sense of personal safety, lived high-risk. That and a major tantrum in the wrong setting could've proved fatal.'
'What was the name of the fanzine?' said Petra.
'Something called GrooveRat. I looked for it but couldn't-'
Her slim, white fingers on my wrist stopped me midsentence.
'GrooveRat did a piece on Baby Boy,' she said. She opened her attache case, drew out a blue murder book, and began paging. 'The editor was persistent with me, too. Real pest, kept calling, bugging me for details... here we go: Yuri Drummond. I didn't take him seriously because he sounded like an obnoxious kid. He told me he'd never actually met Baby Boy but ran a profile on him.'
'Same as China,' said Milo. 'Baby Boy turn him down, too?'
'I didn't ask. He claimed interviews weren't the magazine's style, they were into the essence of art, not the persona, or some nonsense like that. He sounded about twelve.'
'What did he want from you?' I said.
'The gory details.' She frowned. 'I figured him for an adolescent ghoul, shined him on.'
Milo said, 'Be interesting to know if he ever wrote up Julie Kipper.'
'Wouldn't it,' said Petra.
I said, 'I tried to find a copy of GrooveRat at the big newsstand on Selma, but they didn't carry it. The owner suggested a comics store on the boulevard, but they were closed.'
'Probably a dinky fly-by-night
deal,' said Milo.
'That's what China's band mate said. He didn't save a copy, either.'
'Yuri Drummond... sounds like a made-up name.
What, he wants to be a cosmonaut?'
'Everyone reinvents themselves,' said Petra. 'It's the L.A. way.' Glancing at Stahl. He didn't respond.
'Especially if they're running from something,' I said.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 17 - A Cold Heart Page 14