“Among who?”
“His neighbors,” he said. “He lives in a nice part of Pasadena- near the border with San Marino. Big craftsman place on a full-acre lot, lotsa house for one guy. The rest of the block’s families and senior citizens. Both of Kipper’s immediate neighbors are the latter- genteel old folk. They say he’s unfriendly, keeps to himself, used to go out to his garage late at night, create a racket hammering marble or whatever. Finally, they called the cops, who went out and had a talk with Kipper. After that, things quieted down, but Kipper got downright unfriendly- doesn’t answer when spoken to. The cops told him to cool it by ten, and the neighbors say Kipper makes a point of hammering up until the stroke of ten. Leaves his garage door open, making sure he can be heard.”
“Hostile and vindictive,” I said. “Sculpting and tearing it apart.”
“I spoke to the Pasadena cops, but all they remember is the nuisance call. They sent me the report. Nothing illuminating. The neighbors also said Kipper rarely if ever entertains visitors, but every so often there was a blond lady around. I showed them Julie’s picture, they thought maybe it was her.”
“Maybe?”
“These are folks in their eighties and no one got a close look. Blond is what they remember- very, very light blond hair, the way Julie’s was. So looks like Kipper was telling the truth when he said they’d maintained a relationship.”
“How often was she there?”
“Irregularly. Sometimes once a month, sometimes twice. One of the old gals did tell me she’s sure the blonde sometimes stayed the night because she saw her and Kipper getting into Kipper’s Ferrari the next morning.”
“Occasional intimacy,” I said.
“Maybe she came by to pick up the alimony in person, and they forgot why they split up. That got me thinking about what you said- Julie’s dependency. What if she decided she no longer wanted any part of that, told Kipper so, and things got nasty? He wouldn’t kill her at his place. Not with the neighbors looking over his shoulder, that police report already on file. You’ve been talking about a smart, calculating guy, and he’s a bright one. Do I have any way to prove it? Nyet. But there’s nothing else in my scope.”
“What’s the state of Kipper’s finances?”
“I’m light-years away from any kind of warrant on his accounts, but from all appearances, he’s doing well. In addition to the Testarossa, he’s got a vintage bathtub Porsche, an old MG, and a Toyota Land Cruiser. The house is stately and pretty, he keeps up the gardening and the maintenance- the place sparkles from the curb. Neighbors say he dresses sharp, even on casual days. One coot said he looked ‘Hollywood.’ Which in Pasadena is damn near felonious. Another one- an old lady- went on about Kipper liking black. Described it as ‘an undertaker uniform.’ Then her husband chimes in, and says, ‘No, he looks like one of the stiffs.’ Ninety-one, and he’s cracking wise. Maybe it was the gin and tonic talking- they invited me in for a drinkie. I think I was the most exciting thing in the ’hood since the last Rose Bowl.”
“Gin and tonics with the old folk,” I said. “Refined.”
“The Queen Mother drank gin and tonics and she lived to 101. But I had Coke. Let me tell you, it was tempting- they were pouring Bombay, and I haven’t had much fun, recently. Virtue triumphed. Goddammit. Anyway, Kipper is still on my screen. The hostile, aggressive loner. Also, I did ask around about tall redheaded homeless gals. A few possibles surfaced on the Westside or Pacific Division, but all turned out to be wrong. One of the shelters in Hollywood does remember a woman named Bernadine or Ernadine who fits the description. Tall, big bones, crazy, midthirties or about. She drops in occasionally to dry out, but they haven’t seen her in a while. The shelter supervisor had the feeling she’d fallen quite a ways.”
“Why?”
“When her head cleared, she could sound fairly intelligent.”
“No last name?”
“Unlike the public shelters, the privates don’t always keep records- it’s a church group, Dove House. Pure good deeds, no questions asked.”
“When Bernadine sounded intelligent,” I said, “what did she talk about?”
“I dunno. Why? This was just time-killing because I dead-ended on Kipper.”
“Just wondering if she was a fan of the arts.”
“All of a sudden you think it’s worth pursuing?”
“Not really.”
“What?”
“Forget it,” I said. “I don’t want to waste your time.”
“Right now my time isn’t exactly precious. Julie Kipper’s uncle called this morning, politely inquiring as to my progress, and I had to tell him there was none. What’s on your mind, Alex?”
I told him about the other killings I’d found, recounted my talk with Paul Brancusi.
“Wilfred Reedy I remember,” he said. “Another of Rick’s favorite jazz guys. I think that one was a dope thing. Reedy pissing off a dealer, or something like that.”
“Reedy was an addict?”
“Reedy’s kid was an addict. He OD’d and died and Reedy got hot about all the dealing near the South Central clubs, started making noise. I could be wrong, but that’s what I remember.”
“So it was solved?”
“Don’t know, I’ll find out,” he said. “So… jealousy’s become the motive?”
“It’s the one point of consistency: artists struck down just as they’re about to ascend. Four, if you include Angelique Bernet. But the differences outweigh any link.”
“Wilfred Reedy wasn’t ascending. He’d been admired for years.”
“Like I said, wasting your time.”
Silence.
“On the surface, it’s not much,” he said. “Still, I ain’t sherlocking anything the old-fashioned way. Why don’t I do this: make a few calls and try to disprove the theory. That’s the scientific method, right? Blow up the whatchamacallit…”
“The null hypothesis.”
“Exactly. I’ll find out who handled Reedy, talk to Cambridge PD, see what’s really gone down. I can also check whether or not that ceramicist’s boyfriend is still behind bars, what are their names?”
“Valerie Brusco and Tom Blaskovitch,” I said. “He was sentenced three years ago.”
“Another creative type?”
“Sculptor.”
“Same as Kipper- maybe another vindictive chisel man. Ah, the art world. Like I tell my mother, you never know when the job will elevate you to higher ground.”
16
The next few weeks were a slow fade to futility. No new evidence on the Kipper murder surfaced, and Milo learned nothing about the other killings that excited him. He contacted Petra and learned she’d dead-ended on Baby Boy.
Tom Blaskovitch, the sculptor-killer, had been released from prison a year before, having earned good behavior points by setting up art classes for his fellow inmates. But he’d settled in Idaho, gotten a job as a handyman at a dude ranch, which was exactly where his boss was certain he’d been on the nights of the Kipper and the Lee murders.
Detective Fiorelle of the Cambridge police remembered me as a “pushy guy, one of those intellectuals- I know the type, plenty around here.” The facts of Angelique Bernet’s murder did nothing to support any link with Baby Boy or Julie: The dancer had been stabbed half a dozen times and dumped in an area of the college town that was well traveled during the day but quiet at night. No strangulation, no sexual posing; she’d been found fully clad.
The detective who’d worked the Wilfred Reedy case was dead. Milo got a copy of the file. Reedy had been gut-stabbed in an alley like Baby Boy, but strong indications of a drug-related hit had surfaced at the time, including the name of a probable suspect: a small-time dealer named Celestino Hawkins, who’d fed the habit of Reedy’s son. Hawkins had served time for assault with a knife. He’d been dead for three years.