“What about the three teachers Freeman named?”
“They will be made available to you. Have you checked out Freeman’s boyfriend yet, the Italian guy?”
“All I’ve done so far is visit the scene and read the file, sir. What there is of it.”
“What there is of it is enough for you to start on. Begin with the boyfriend. Who kills women? Men they’re involved with. The Italian turns up absolutely clean, you’ll have access to the teachers. Don’t pester me until then. And no emails about the case to me or anyone else, the same goes for recording phone calls. The sole chronicle will be the murder book, you will chart strictly in accordance with the regs. That means no speculating in print. Or verbally to any civilian or any member of the department other than me. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Furthermore, when you are not writing or consulting said murder book, you will keep it locked in your desk. The same goes for your daily notes and your message slips. Even your damn Post-its will be locked up. And don’t photocopy anything until I’ve reviewed the material.” Spearing a shrimp. “Other than that, it’s business as usual.”
“What about Dr. Delaware?”
“Now that you’ve made him a fait accompli, I might as well take advantage of him. I’m sure there’ll be no problem because he knows that indiscreet psychologists get bitten hard by the medical board.”
Tipping the brim of his suede cap, he winked. “Not that it would ever come to that, Doctor.”
CHAPTER
5
We left the chief mulling flan versus flourless chocolate cake.
As the unmarked idled, Milo found Sal Fidella’s cell number in his pad and called.
“Helpful fellow, ready to meet us right now, onward to Sherman Oaks.” He looked up the address in his Thomas Guide. “Hmm… this says it’s Van Nuys. Maybe Ol’ Sal’s a little pretentious. Be nice if he turns out to be a degenerate psychopath and lies about everything?”
I said, “Be nicer if the chief’s kid had a low IQ.”
The house was a Spanish one-story on Burdette Court just north of Burbank Boulevard, turned mangy by flaking gray spray-coat.
A brown seventies Corvette occupied the driveway. The neighborhood ranged from spotless cottages sporting pride-of-ownership gardens to dumps with paved-over frontage hosting trailers and junkers.
Fidella’s place was somewhere in the middle, with a neatly edged lawn but no landscaping other than a struggling banana plant inches from the sidewalk. The picture window was draped with what looked like a bedsheet. The Corvette was dirt-streaked, the concrete beneath its well-worn tires cracked and crumbling.
Milo said, “He didn’t spend his casino dough on décor.”
Fidella came out the door, unlit cigar in hand, and gave a small wave. Five six with a low center of gravity, he wore a whiskey-colored velour sweat suit and yellow flip-flops. He’d traded the red beard for a soul patch and let it go white. A hunk of something shiny gleamed from one earlobe.
“Play-ah,” mumbled Milo. “What’s your guess, diamond or zircon?”
Fidella studied us but didn’t approach. Licking the tip of the cigar, he folded an arm across his chest.
“He look grief-stricken to you?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” I said.
“What?”
“He really is a murderous psychopath, you close it quick, Charlie gets into Yale and becomes president of the United States.”
“Dare to dream.” He got out of the car.
Sal Fidella extended a hand to Milo, then to me. “Hey. This stinks.”
He had deep blue eyes, pudgy, oversized fingers, and a back-slanted gait that made his upper body look as if it were hurrying to catch up with his feet. A smooth basso radio-announcer voice could sell you things you didn’t need.
The living room he led us into was Bachelor Cliché Centraclass="underline" black leather couches fitted with built-in head pillows and cup holders, matching ottoman in lieu of a coffee table set up with ashtrays, cigarette packs, a cigar box, a collection of remote controls. A wet bar favored tequila and rum. A stack of audiovisual gizmos took up most of the hearth. The sixty-inch flat-screen above the mantel was tuned to ESPN Classic, no sound. Lakers-Celtics play-off from back when giants were okay wearing short-shorts.
The adjoining dining room was unfurnished. An open doorway flashed a glimpse of bare kitchen counters. The window cover wasn’t a bedsheet; a frayed, beige curtain had come loose from its rod, was held in place by duct tape and clothespins. The place smelled like a cocktail lounge after closing.
Fidella said, “Beer, guys? Something else?”
“No, thanks,” said Milo.
“Mind if I do?”
“Suit yourself.”
Fidella slouched to the bar, poured himself a double shot of Silver Patrón, selected a lime wedge from a bowl of mixed citrus segments, and squirted the tequila.
Half the drink was gone by the time he sat facing us. “Can’t believe Elise is gone. Crazy.”
“Must’ve been tough discovering her,” said Milo.
“Oh, man, it was out of a movie.” Fidella sucked on his cigar and sipped. “I mean the moment I saw her, wow, it was… I knew she was gone. But I guess I didn’t wanna accept it so I kept telling myself she’d be okay. It wasn’t till later that it started sinking in.” A meaty hand slashed air. “Permanent.”
Fidella began rooting inside an eyelid with a fingertip, pulled something out, studied, flicked. “Guess she wasn’t being paranoid.”
“About what?”
“Bastards at Prep—the school she worked at. She told me they were out to get her.”
“Which bastards?” said Milo.
Fidella shook his head. “That’s the thing, she wouldn’t mention names. I tried to get it out of her but she changed the subject.”
“All she said was someone was out to get her.”
“Yeah.”
“Not how or why?”
“Uh-uh.”
“When did this conversation take place, Mr. Fidella?”
“Maybe… a month ago? Three weeks? To be honest, guys, I figured she was being a drama queen. Elise could get like that. ’Specially that time of the month, know what I mean? Hormonal, almost kinda bipolar?”
“She could be moody.”
“One day she’s sweetness and light, next day it’s like a dark cloud’s over her, she’s all closed up. When she gets like that, she doesn’t answer her phone. What I used to do was come over, try to work things out, you know? But she never answered the door. And if I used my key, she’d freak out. Even though she was the one gave it to me in the first place. Tell the truth, that’s what I kinda assumed when she didn’t return calls for three days. That she was in one of those closed-up situations. But I went over anyway. ’Cause it wasn’t that time of the month, know what I mean?”
“You keep tabs on that kind of thing,” said Milo.
“Huh? No, it’s just that when you’re with a girl you get to know her rhythm.”
“So you knew Elise wasn’t premenstrual and you went over.”
“Because she didn’t answer the phone.”
“You let yourself in with your key.”
“I call out her name, no answer, figure maybe she’s sick, in the bedroom, whatever. I’m worried, so yeah, I go in. She’s not in the front, not in the bedroom, I go into the bathroom, the door’s closed. I call her name, she doesn’t answer, that’s when I get this weird feeling. I open the door.” Wince. “See her. I was gonna pull her out but she was clearly gone, you know? Blue, not moving. I figured moving her wouldn’t be a good thing. For you guys’ sake.”