“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 Steinmetz 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 corner 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.”