Slight and bespectacled with thinning hair, he wore a white T-shirt and jeans. Earbuds trailing to an iPod in his lap made me reassess the book’s page-turning qualities. So did the title: Prep for the LSAT Exam. As Bonhomme underlined in yellow, he chewed his lip.
It took the shadow cast by Milo’s looming form to make him look up. He removed the buds, took in Milo’s badge, and relaxed. Not the usual reaction.
“The form was sent in. I faxed it myself. They’re not here to verify.”
Milo said, “Where are they?”
“Venice,” said Bonhomme. “Italy, not California. Don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Oh, man — the request. Fine, I’ll send another.”
“Who’s in Venice?”
“You’re kidding — who? The owners. Chad and Darren. They go every year, buying trip. C’mon, gentlemen, let’s not start from scratch. Every time a new one of you comes on, it’s inventing the wheel.”
Milo said, “Mr. Bonhomme—”
“Fine, I’ll go over it. Again. The burglary you know about. What you obviously haven’t been informed about is that the insurance company keeps being obstructionist by insisting on a detailed list of stolen items with an official police sign-off before Chad and Darren can ask for an outside appraisal. Even though they’re certified antiques appraisers. I keep sending you guys an official request, it keeps getting lost, no one admits anything.”
Milo said, “The burglary was here?”
“No, the shop—” He sat up. “Hold on, who are you?”
“LAPD. It’s you we’re here to see.”
“About what?” Bonhomme held up his book. “Studying without a license?”
“You’re not in trouble—”
“Well, I should hope not! What now?”
“Sorry for the intrusion,” said Milo. “We called but no one—”
“I turn off my phone when I’m studying. You have any idea what this is?”
“For law school.”
“I take it next week, that’s why I need to concentrate.”
“This won’t take long, Mr. Bonhomme—”
“Bone-ome. It means ‘good man.’ I’d like to think that’s accurate. So you’ve probably confused me with some random black male who—”
Milo said, “We’re here about a death at Revelle, Winters, Loach, and Russo.”
“And I’m supposed to know about that because...”
“You told someone about it.”
“What? No way.”
“You made a joke about a hex at the firm.”
Bonhomme removed his glasses, squinted up at us, grimaced. “Oh, shit, Blondie. You’re kidding. She took that seriously?”
“She took the fact that someone died seriously. She took your comment as tasteless levity.”
“Levity... well, that’s exactly what it was. Tasteless? Ear of the beholder.”
“So it never happened? No one died?”
“It happened,” said Bonhomme. “But the hex thing was... just silly stuff. It was an accident, anyway. Least that’s what I heard. I was just giving her a hard time because she invited it.”
“What kind of accident?”
“That’s all I know, an accident.” He shifted higher. “Are you telling me that’s not true?”
“What’s the name of this accident victim?”
Tony Bonhomme shot us a knowing smile. “You’re just poking around because Blondie freaked out. That was like months ago. A joke, gentlemen. Which, as I said, her manner invited.”
“What manner was that?”
“Being so uptight and superior about everything. As if she was too good to be there. As if anyone’s too good for anything. She made sure I knew she was going to be an actress. You can always tell the dramatis personae. They’re utterly incapable of regulating their emotions. So I messed with her. A hex? That’s kid stuff, she should’ve known better.”
Milo pointed to the book. “Looks like you’re planning on leaving the firm.”
“Soon as I can,” said Bonhomme. “But not because I think it’s below me. I moved to L.A. to get a Ph.D. in physical anthropology and found anthropology’s been taken over by politically correct nitwits. I also realized I hadn’t evolved to the point where I no longer need to eat or drink and so far, I’m not happy with my practice test results. So may I study in peace and try to aim for the affluent class?”
Milo laughed.
Bonhomme said, “See, Officer? Levity. It’s my thing. Now, please. Allow me to resume Fifty Shades of Dull.”
“One more thing, sir. How’d you find out about the accident?”
“Talk around the dungeon — that’s what we call the mailroom and everything else on the lower floor. I can’t remember who said what, it was more ‘poor guy, stuff happens.’ ”
“Poor guy,” said Milo. “The person was male.”
“Hmm,” said Bonhomme. “I believe I did hear the word ‘guy,’ so probably. But don’t hold me to it. It was months ago.”
“How many months?”
“You’re really taking it seriously.”
“Pays to be careful,” said Milo. “We were working your burglary, stuff wouldn’t get lost.”
“Touché,” said Bonhomme. “How long ago... two months, give or take.”
Perfect sync with the onset of Britnee Fauve’s probation.
“Again, don’t hold me to it,” said Bonhomme. Already thinking like a lawyer.
Milo was thinking like a detective. “You met Britnee but not the assistant who died.”
Bonhomme thought. “Yes, that is interesting. Assistants of senior partners rarely descend to the dungeon. They tend to make their requests by text or phone. Perhaps Blondie didn’t know the drill. Or she was hired at a lower pay grade. They’re doing a lot of that. Belt-tightening.” He flexed the book. “Another reason to keep my options open.”
Milo said, “Good luck with that.”
“Good luck to all of us,” said Tony Bonhomme.
Chapter 29
As we returned to the car, I said, “Britnee went down there because Loach planned on fun with Enid and gave her a make-work assignment mission. Unfortunately for him, she got back early.”
“Yeah... an accident. If it wasn’t classified as a crime, we won’t have it. I’ll check with the crypt.”
“One way to find out.”
“Soon as we get back.”
I had other ideas. No sense arguing.
He drove and I played with my phone.
L.A. murders are cataloged in several places. There’s the LAPD roster, the list kept by the coroner, and supplemental files, mostly for statistical purposes, maintained by a host of state and federal agencies.
All of which require a password or other evidence of official approval.
Anyone with Internet access can log onto the Los Angeles Times Homicide Report, a regularly updated cache that promises to provide “a story for every victim,” and does a fine job of fulfilling that pledge.
I had the name in less than a minute. Told him and read him the summary, verbatim.
“ ‘Roderick Salton, thirty-four, a white man, was found dead in a warehouse district near the courthouse on 1945 South Hill Street in Historic South Central. Though Salton worked as a legal assistant at a downtown law firm, his employers said his job wouldn’t have included court business. His family had no ready explanation for what Salton, a Utah transplant slated to enter law school this fall, would be doing in a warehouse district at night. Anyone with information is requested to contact Detective Roger Enow, LAPD Southwest Division.’ ”
An attached color photo showed a full-faced young man with short dark hair and an open smile. Date of death: sixty-eight days ago.