Not earthshaking but he wanted a face-to-face.
I said, “Sure, name the place.”
“Yours.”
Chapter 23
He walked in toting his battered green not-even-close-to-leather attaché case and dressed for a day off in a gray golf shirt, brown poly slacks worn low to give his gut breathing room, and the eternal desert boots, this pair tan eroded to gray. A loose bit of sole flapped at one toe-end.
He saw me looking at it. “Hey, Rick says they’re a fashion statement, now.”
“Sole-ful, huh?”
He grumbled and loped to the kitchen and began the mandatory fridge-grope.
I said, “Off duty?”
“On duty but a slow day, no need to meet the public. Too damn many slow days recently.”
“Bored?”
“Near-comatose. The citizens of West L.A. are failing to fulfill their homicidal obligations.” He straightened, brushed hair off his forehead, turned toward me. “Rumors are circulating. Not enough crime, too many detectives, time to streamline.”
“You’re protected.”
“Only up to a point. They can’t dump me outright but they can bug me about early retirement. Or try to break down my already fragile psyche by shoving trivial stuff at me.”
“Assaults, robberies, burglaries.”
“If I wanted to fill out reports all day, I’d be working for the government.”
“As opposed to...”
“Continuing to serve a paramilitary organization that makes use of my exceptional people skills, heroic nature, and inductive talents to bring bad guys to justice.”
He bent and searched a lower shelf. “You guys are kinda sparse in the nourishment department... okay, here’s a start.”
Scrambling five eggs with slices of leftover steak and hastily shredded fried chicken, he tossed in onions, mushrooms, bell pepper, celery, and zucchini, topped it all off with spirited dashes of cayenne, garlic salt, and whipping cream.
Moments later he’d plated a shimmering yellow mound the size of a cat, tucked a paper towel under his chin, and sat down. “Where’s the pooch? I’m Pavlov’d to where I need to feed her first.”
“On an errand with Robin.”
“So I caught you at a lonely-guy time.”
“What’s not earthshaking?”
“I owe a favor to a Rampart D.” He shoveled in omelet, chewed, swallowed, repeated. “Damn, forgot fluids.”
I poured him a glass of water and brewed a pot of coffee.
He said, “Sterling service. And you’re not even an actor.” He looked up. “Did that evoke Zelda? Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. We live in L.A., everything’s about performance. And I’m resolved about Zelda.”
“Choosing to be optimistic about the kid? Good.” His eyes drifted leftward as he took another forkful.
Hiding something?
I said, “Earth-not-shaking?”
“Okay, the favor is looking into a Rampart missing. Fifty-eight-year-old woman named Imelda Soriano, lives with her son’s family in Pico-Union. She’s always worked as a housekeeper, has been freelancing for agencies in order to spend more time with her grandkids. Eight days ago she headed to her current job, didn’t return home, hasn’t been heard from since. D II Lorrie Mendez took it as a favor to the family, there’s some sort of connection. Lorrie and I have worked together, she’s a peach of a gal — pardon the gender specificity. She hasn’t made any headway past Imelda maybe being on the first bus of two she takes to work, driver thought so but couldn’t be sure. Driver of the second bus had no idea.”
He wiped his mouth. “Why am I telling you all this? Because Imelda’s job is on my turf, Lorrie hadn’t been able to make contact with the estate manager, and the agency’s attitude was ‘our labor pool is transient, she’s already been replaced.’ ”
I said, “Living with her son’s family is transient?”
“It’s a euphemism, Alex.”
“Immigration issues.”
He nodded. “Lorrie thought maybe I could pull some Westside clout.”
I said, “The part of your turf where estates are managed. How close to where Zelda died?”
A cherry-sized lump formed along his sagging jawline. His eyes drifted upward, then down. “Walkable. From here, drivable.”
He gulped two cups of coffee and we left, taking an unmarked Chevy Impala I hadn’t seen before, paint the color of an old scab, the interior smelling of ten thousand pine trees.
As he rolled south on Beverly Glen, I opened the attaché case. Inside were a page of handwritten notes and an enlarged color photo of Imelda Soriano.
The missing woman was white-haired, round-faced, bespectacled, and devoid of criminal record or any other complicating factors. For ten weeks, she’d worked as a four-day-a-week cleaner at a property deeded to a limited liability corporation registered to a family named Aziz. The manager was Jason Clegg, a thirty-eight-year-old white male with several traffic violations and one DUI to his credit.
Milo had written the address in bold block capitals: 1 ST. DENIS WAY.
Narrow, hilly strip branching west off St. Denis Lane. I’d run past three days in a row.
I said, “That’s closer than walkable. A baby could crawl there.”
He rubbed his face. “Yeah, it’s weird and so is the time frame — two days after Zelda. But I can’t see any connection and if I didn’t owe Lorrie it never woulda come to my attention.”
“What did she do for you?”
“Last year I picked up an idiot gang shooting, I.D.’d the bad guy immediately, had an address in Echo Park but couldn’t find him. Neither could the marshals, which tells you it was a serious rabbit. Lorrie doesn’t only work in Rampart, she was born there. Turns out she knew the asshole from high school. Located him at a second cousin’s and helped set up an arrest with, as they say, ‘no incident.’ ”
“Cooperative policing. It’s so nice when the kids get along.”
“Hey,” he said. “We’re one city. Or pretend to be.”
—
St. Denis Way (the sign said Not a Through Street) intersected St. Denis Lane a hundred yards above Enid DePauw’s property. Low-hanging trees arched over the anorexic strip of roadway. Steeper than it appeared — pitched at twenty percent grade — and hosting only two properties.
On the south side, an old Tudor, topped by a collection of hand-carved stone chimneys, luxuriated atop a mossy-green, flower-bordered hillock. Set far back from the road but rendered visible by open iron fencing and gate; throwback to an era when bragging trumped anxiety.
The Aziz estate filled the north side of the road as well as its spoon-shaped termination. Nothing visible here; dense fifteen-foot ficus abutted the curb and a gate of the same height was recessed two car lengths in, exposing a broad drive paved in black, hexagonal stone. The gate and the posts flanking it were black, as well. Shiny as patent leather, probably some sort of high-tech plastic.
Black camera on the left-hand post. Black call box on a black post, the only spot of color a red button. Atop the box, a carved falcon perched. What looked to be black onyx.
Milo murmured “Warm and welcoming” and jabbed the call button three times. The phone rang eight times before a male voice said, “Yes?”
“Police.”
Silence.
Milo repeated himself.
The voice said, “Seriously?”
“Couldn’t be more serious.”
“Right. There’s no soliciting, my friend.”
“Only thing I’m selling is justice for all. Open up.”
“Seriously?”
Extending his arm, Milo flashed his badge at the lens. “Use your camera.”
A moment passed. The voice said, “No worries.”
The gate slid open.