A Deadly Legacy

by Julie Vail

  “That’s a good pick-up line, John. I bet it works on all the girls.”

  “Ouch.”

  And then another sigh—the ‘I’m rethinking you’ kind. “Besides,” she said, “I never have great sex before a meeting. It muddles me. Now, if you were offering just good sex, or mediocre sex—which is even better—I’d think on it.”

  Mediocre sex. Yeah. You got the right one, lady. “Can’t do it, even for a good cause, Gennaro. It’s great sex I’m offering. Take it or leave it.”

  “Meet me at five-thirty at the little deli across from St. John’s and we can discuss it.”

  “Alright. See you then.” I hung up and sat in my car until my heart slowed.

  ††††

  I sat at my desk and made a call to Lansing, Michigan. Again, no answer. We checked missing persons yesterday, and nothing came up. Where was this kid’s family, and why couldn’t we get hold of them?

  “When we finally find this kid’s parents, what do we do when they ask to see the body?” Alex was leaning against my desk.

  “We hope they don’t ask. Barring that, we take a deep breath, then talk them out of it.”

  “Detectives?” I followed the voice. Ginger was standing in the doorway. An African-American woman with high morals and questionable patience, Ginger Armstrong was the rock that held the station house together. Her husband, Clive, worked the bomb squad detail, until he was killed on the job. That was a few years ago. When Dale B. wasn’t relying on her for everything, and she could find a moment to breathe, we started in. She was all heart, with an incredible sense of humor. She took care of us, and we her. We had to.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Armstrong. You’re looking lovely today.”

  Ginger had the ability to raise one eyebrow at a time, and she hoisted the right one north about two inches and trained her large hazel eyes on me. Red daggers shot out of them, and I raised my hands in defense.

  “Don’t you try and butter me up today, suga’. I have a lady on the line looking for her boy. You want her, or should I send her on?”

  “Is the name . . .”

  “. . . Crane? Yes.”

  “I’d kiss you, except you don’t look like you’re in the mood.”

  “You are right about that. You see your boss, tell him I’m taking a break. It isn’t even ten and that man has me runnin’ six marathons at once. And if he doesn’t like it, he can kiss my young, gifted and black ass.”

  “Woman, you know your problem?” Dale B. stood in the other doorway, seeming to appear out of nowhere. Scary.

  “No,” she huffed, not the least bit intimidated. “But I’m sure if I stand here long enough, you’ll tell me.”

  “You’re not young, and you ain’t all that gifted. You’re fired,”

  “Again?” she answered. Then she spun on her heel and walked out, shouting, “I’ll send the call back,” over her shoulder.

  “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  Dale chuckled and a moment later, my line rang. I picked up.

  “Mrs. Crane? This is John Testarossa. I’m a homicide detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Ma’am, I have some news about your son, David.”

  ††††

  Madeline Crane sat opposite me in the conference room two hours later. Unable to reach their son, they hopped a plane to L.A. in hopes of finding him, never dreaming we’d been trying to reach them. Her husband, James, sat next to her. We offered coffee, and they declined. But they took water.

  “David left home for L.A. on July 31st.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue that appeared dry to me.

  “School doesn’t start until September. Why so early?” I asked.

  “He was moving into a new place. He lived in campus housing last year, and this year he was moving in with a couple of boys from the rowing team. Is that right, James?”

  “Yes. David was on the Crew team . . .”

  “Yes, Crew . . . I’m sorry, dear. Funny, he wrestled in high school, played tennis. In college he rows in a boat. Funny.” She chuckled and was silent for a moment. “He lived on campus last year . . .”

  “You said that already, darling,” James Crane admonished gently.

  “I’m sorry. This is all . . .”

  “It’s alright, ma’am,” offered Alex gently. “We understand.”

  Mr. Crane continued. “The team starts training early for a few tournaments in late summer, but as I understand it, the official season doesn’t start until sometime in November.” He looked at his wife. “We came out last year to watch him compete.” One corner of his mouth turned up, for his wife’s benefit only. Realizing he’d said enough, he went back to staring at his hands.

  “How was David doing in school?”

  Mrs. Crane answered. “Fine. First semester of last year was an adjustment, but he ended the year with a 3.6 G.P.A. He was majoring in Communications with a minor in Journalism.”

  “He have friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he having problems with anyone, to your knowledge?”

  “No. Not that we knew about.”

  “When did you last speak to your son, Mrs. Crane?”

  “On August 2nd. James and I were taking a trip to Europe. We called and spoke to David, said goodbye.” She sniffed and held the tissue against her eyes, and this time it came away moist. “We called several times from Europe, but when we couldn’t get hold of him, we figured, with the time difference . . . and we knew he was busy . . .” She dabbed again. “But it just wasn’t like him to not at least call and leave a message. In fact, we were so sure of David that we called the cell phone company to make sure our plan covered the areas we were visiting. Silly, when you think about it now. We should have come home sooner.”

  “When were you scheduled to return from your trip, ma’am?” I asked.

  “Labor Day, the 3rd. We were due to be gone a month.”

  I made notes as she spoke. “You have other children?”

  “Yes, three others—girls. Two in high school, and one in middle school. We managed to speak with them almost daily. David is . . . was our only son.”

  “Ma’am, that’s a long time away from home—a month. Is this something you normally do?”

  “No. This was special. James and I just celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. I have family in England, and James has people in Wales. Our daughters were taken care of, David was here. Everything seemed . . .” She paused, then the rest came out in a whisper. “. . . seemed to fall into place. It seemed so right that we . . . that we do this.”

  James Crane, who had been staring at his hands silently, raised his head and spoke.

  “David came home at the end of his freshman year conflicted. He’d had a wonderful first year, and he really enjoyed Campbell.”

  I waited for him to continue, and when he didn’t, I helped him along. “But . . .”

  “Detective, we’re LDS—Mormon. Young men, when they reach nineteen, go on missions for the church. It’s eighteen months out of their life, and to most LDS families, it is very important. David wasn’t sure he wanted to go. It seemed to us that his priority was coming back here to Los Angeles.”

  “That seem odd to you?” I asked.

  “Well, yes, considering that serving on a mission was all David talked about since he was twelve. Suddenly it wasn’t important to him anymore.”

  “Kids change their minds all the time,” I offered.

  “Yes, but not these kids. It’s ingrained into their lives—their psyches—early on. I . . . I don’t know if I’m explaining this correctly.”

  “I think I understand. How did you feel about his decision?”

  “I was against it, of course. I wanted him to serve his mission. I think it’s important. I think that serving on a mission only enhances his ability to lead his family spiritually.”

  “His family?”

  “His wife and his children. Return missionaries are generally married within a year.”

  “He came home upset
after last year,” Mrs. Crane said.

  “What about?” I asked.

  “A young man on the team . . . died. Suicide. David was devastated. He kept saying that it didn’t make sense, that it never should have happened. He wouldn’t say much more than that, but he was determined to return to school, and not go on that mission—and I think the death of that boy was the reason.”

  “What was the boy’s name, Mrs. Crane?”

  “Jackson Bennett.”

  I wrote the name down. “Alright. Did he talk about the people he was moving in with?”

  “Yes. He was close with Matt Chambliss, one of the boys. They talked often while David was home for the summer. He was also close with another boy—Jesse Walters.”

  “And they were moving into this address in Westchester?” I handed her a card on which I had written the address we got from the university records office.

  “Yes,” she answered. “That looks right.” She lay the tissue on the table and folded her hands.

  “Detective Testarossa, how did my son . . . how did he . . . die?”

  “Right now, we are investigating this as a homicide.”

  “James . . .” she whispered. She took his hand in hers, but did not look at him. They were both small people—he not over five-eight, and if she was five-two I’d be surprised. David, too, was small. The coroner put him at five-foot six, and the coroner estimated that at time of death he weighed between 125 and 130. Small guy. Easy target.

  “I . . .” The sound was guttural, and I didn’t know where it came from until I saw James Crane’s face go from stoic to complete collapse.

  “Dear . . . oh, darling . . .” she consoled.

  “I . . . I let him come here . . . I was angry, we fought . . . you don’t know this, Maddie . . .” He turned to her for a moment. “We fought over his decision not to go on a mission. I took him to the airport, but the goodbye . . . was less than warm, and then I . . .” He turned to his wife again. “I didn’t speak to him before we left for Europe. I told you I did, but . . . I didn’t.”

  “James . . .”

  “The last time we were together, I expressed disappointment. I usually . . . I always tell him how much I love him, but I didn’t that day at the airport . . . and I didn’t speak to him the day we left for Europe. I . . . I always thought I’d have another chance.”

  Madeline Crane held his hand, and they sat for a long time, heads leaning against each other. I couldn’t begin to imagine what they were feeling. Finally, she looked up at me.

  “Detective, when can we see David’s body?”

  Her ice-blue eyes were wet. The florescent lights above us reflected off her white hair, turned that way prematurely I assumed, as she didn’t appear much older than fifty. Her hands had been fumbling with the tissue she took when she first sat down, and fine dust now littered the dark mahogany table. The coffee pot made a gurgling noise behind her, and as soon as that stopped the small refrigerator cycled on, creating a white noise that competed with the air conditioner. The top button of her blouse had come open revealing white lace and very little promise, and I wondered how she would survive having one less child to hold there, in that spot where all mothers hold their children, even after they’ve grown. The photograph of David they provided lay face-down on the table in front of me. I must have inadvertently set it down that way—an unconscious attempt at distance. I had glanced briefly at the picture when Madeline Crane first handed it to me. I couldn’t then, nor could I now, reconcile the boy in the picture with the one stuffed up under that overpass, black and bloated. If I couldn’t, how could his parents?

  My hands, moist and flat on the table, made no move to turn the picture over, to try to bring things into focus. I felt, rather than heard, Alex shift uncomfortably. I kept my eyes focused on the back of the picture. David, Senior Year 2006 was written in a gentle hand worthy of praise from the harshest second grade nun. Without looking up, I addressed his mother.

  “Mrs. Crane, we don’t recommend you do that.”

  ELEVEN

  The mother sat at the kitchen table and waited for her brother Frank. She turned the blue bankbook over and over in her hands as she waited. The boy walked in for a drink.

  Your uncle Frank is coming for dinner. He loved his uncle Frank. Of all his mother’s brothers, Frank was the nicest. He went outside, bounced the Spaldeen off the front stoop, and waited. Finally, Frank drove up in his new Cadillac.

  Hey, there, Johnny-boy! Your mom and me, we got some things to discuss, so you play out here a while, okay? He has learned to listen and listen well, not to orders like these, but to his own heart. He waited until his uncle was inside, then went around back, stood under the open kitchen window, and listened.

  We’re getting none of his pension. None.

  Frank sighed Why? How can that be, Angie?

  All he heard was his mother crying.

  With Ginger’s help, the Crane’s were directed to a hotel for the night. They would decide tomorrow about extending their stay.

  We headed over to the address in Westchester, where David Crane was scheduled to move. It occurred to me as we exited the lot of Pacific Station, that in exactly one week, David would have started his sophomore year.

  “So, this kid, Bennett, offs himself right before his junior year ends. David Crane goes home with a plan to do . . . this what-ever-it-is . . .”

  “Mission,” Alex helped.

  “Yeah, whatever . . . then decides he needs to come back, and the only thing his mother can come up with as to why, is this Bennett kid’s suicide.”

  “You wrapped that up nicely.”

  “Yeah, but why? Why this incident, and why did David Crane feel he needed to be here, instead of off converting heretics—where he belonged, according to his parents?”

  “And that’s rhetorical, right? Because I’m right where you are on this.” Alex made a right onto 80th off of Sepulveda. “Maybe the mother is wrong.”

  “Maybe there was some butt-sex between Crane and Bennett, and Crane is so broken up over his death that he . . .”

  “He . . .?” Alex said after a moment.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s all I got.”

  “I think you just wanted to say ‘butt-sex’.”

  I shrugged again.

  “Maybe David got a girl knocked up, and that’s why he came back.”

  “Yeah,” I said, moving along. “Maybe the knocked-up girlfriend killed him. Caved his head in, then shot him, then shoved him up under an overpass, because dropping her frog in prison seemed like something she’d enjoy.”

  “Maybe it was Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick.” Alex and I did this often. Relieved tension.

  After a few moments, Alex said, “If he was killed at the creek, like you suspect, then wouldn’t it make sense that the killer would toss the gun into the creek? That’s what I’d do—shoot you dead, then toss that gun as far as I could.”

  “Beats carrying it around and getting caught. Be nice to also find whatever it was the killer used to cave his head in.” I stared out the window. “Maybe the roommates can shed some light.”

  “Yeah. Otherwise this drive is a waste of time.”

  “Let’s go back to Ballona Creek with a diver. The creek’s lower now than it was a week or so ago. And a lot of the victim’s shit was found in the water—the jacket, his shoe. How’d that happen?”

  Alex shrugged and fell silent. Then this: “Who’s the woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “The one who’s got you smiling from ear to ear. That one.”

  I looked out the window, unsure of how to answer.

  “How do you know it’s a woman?” I said looking at him finally. He was chewing on a toothpick, moving it from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “Because I’ve looked at your ugly puss every day for close to ten years now, and I haven’t seen you smile this much in one day. So, unless you just won the lottery . . . or switched sides
. . .”

  I looked out the window again. “Remember that trauma surgeon who took care of Patterson?”

  “Yeah. She also took care of you after you dropped, as I recall.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I went out with her last night.”

  “Huh. Really?” Pause. “You pay her?”

  “Funny.”

  “Not tryin’ to be.”

  “Seeing her tonight, too.”

  “Huh. She’s a doc, so I know she’s not blind. Seriously, you actually showed up for the date? You didn’t send Gonz pretending to be you?”

  “You’re a real fuckin’ comedian, you know that?”

  “Yeah.” He drove in silence, and I knew this particular line of questioning was over—for now.

  The house was located in the Kentwood area, which was not cheap by any stretch. It was a nice house, definitely one of the older ones in the area, but nicely kept with a lawn that looked freshly laid and some very nice landscaping. See, here in L.A., once your lawn dies you just resod. I’ve never known anyone to simply reseed. Too simple. Kids couldn’t possibly live here. Everything was too nice, too well-kept. A Hummer H2 and a Toyota Camry sat in the driveway, and a classic candy-apple red VW Bug sat on the street. All three cars had Campbell College decals in the back windows, and the bug and the Camry had Campbell Crew decals on the back as well.

  We knocked on the door and within seconds, a young girl answered. She was a typical California girl: blond, blue-eyed. She had on a halter-top that barely covered what she had, which was substantial, and low-slung jeans that someone must have painted on for her. I pulled out my badge and introduced myself.

  “Are you the owner of the house?” I asked.

  “No . . . uh, no I’m not.”

  “You live here?”

  “No. Just a minute.” She started to turn away.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Kim. Kim Monroe. Is something wrong, detective?” She looked as concerned as I’ve ever seen someone look.

  “Who lives here?”

  “Uh, my boyfriend and another guy . . . uh, two guys. Just a minute, and I’ll get him.” I heard her calling for him, and the tone was nervous, desperate. Not nonchalant. Nonchalant was good. Desperate, not so good. And then I knew why . . . or rather, smelled why.