“Every one of my clients. Other agents have shown it, too. They keep their own records.”
“But you could put together a list?”
“Why?”
“Your house looks similar to the Larson residence. They’re mirror images, right?”
Graysha nodded. “They were built by the same developer. Same floor plan, but reversed. Is that important?”
I took a bite of chicken, wiped my fingers on a napkin, and took a swig of milk from the carton. “Maybe, maybe not,” I answered. “I’d like your cooperation, so I’m going to tell you something we held back from the media, something I want you to keep to yourself. We think whoever killed the Larsons knew his way around their house a lot better than he should have. He was either in there before, or…”
“… in a house like it.”
“Right. What I want from you is a list of every real estate agent who’s shown your property.”
Graysha’s eyes widened. “You think an agent might be the killer?”
“Not really, but it’s a place to start. Mostly I want to find out whether anyone has seen anything suspicious-a client who acted strangely, a car they noticed cruising the area, a window mysteriously left open.”
“A window left open?”
I shrugged. “Maybe the guy came back after a showing and used the house as an observation post.”
“All right,” said Graysha reluctantly. “I don’t see how any of the agents could object to my giving their names.”
“Good. I would like a list of every client who’s been through there as well.”
Graysha shook her head. “That could be a problem. Giving out client names is against policy, at least without a warrant.”
In my experience, most people are willing to assist in a police investigation, especially a murder investigation. Sometimes they just need a little prodding. “I don’t think that’s the way you want to go,” I advised.
“What do you mean?”
Just then my cell phone beeped. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I retreated to the privacy of a small alcove bordering the patio, flipping open my phone on the way. The call was from Phil Nostrant, my friend in Administrative Narcotics.
“Phil. Thanks for returning my call.”
“No sweat,” Nostrant’s voice came back. “What’s up?”
“I’m handling the Palisades multiple homicide that’s been in the news lately. We found coke in the house. It’s a long shot, but there’s an off-chance the murders were drug related. I need information on who was supplying the murdered family. I also want to know if the Larsons were dealing and, if so, whether anyone had a grudge against them.”
“Like somebody who got burned on a deal?”
“Right.”
“That’ll be tough. Coke in the Palisades mostly falls in your so-called ‘recreational use’ category, filtering down a friend-to-friend network. Difficult to trace.”
“Who’s at the top?”
“That’s easy. Antonio Morales. We’ve never been able to make anything stick, but everything on the Westside goes through him.”
“So Morales could find out.”
“Probably, but he’s not gonna-”
“Is he connected?”
“Definitely.”
“I want to talk to him. Tonight. Set it up, will you?”
“It won’t do any good. This guy’s-”
“Do it, okay?”
“I’ll give it a shot,” Nostrant sighed. “Call me later.”
After hanging up, I returned to the table. Graysha was still picking at her salad.
“I believe we were discussing your getting me a list of prospective buyers?” I said.
“ You were talking about it,” Graysha replied.
Look, Ms. Hunt, there are two ways to go about this,” I said patiently. “I’ll be more than happy to do it the easy way. I know you’re nervous about giving out your client list, thinking some heavy-handed cop is going to hassle your buyers and screw up sales. I promise we’ll be discreet, and nobody has to know where we got the names.”
“And the other way?”
“I get a warrant and drag in everybody who ever went near your listing. Unfortunately, the press has a way of finding out about things like a real estate agency refusing to cooperate with authorities in a murder investigation. In fact, I can almost guarantee it.”
Graysha thought a moment. “I’ll speak with my broker, but I’m certain a warrant won’t be necessary. You’ll get your list.”
“Thank you, Graysha.” I passed her my card. “Here’s my number. If I’m not there, they’ll know where to find me.”
Later that night, after returning to the beach house, I sat at the kitchen table gazing out over the deserted beach. To the east, at the foot of the bay, the moon had risen like a skull over the lights of Santa Monica. The tide was out, and clumps of kelp and piles of driftwood and swirls of crab hulls and dead starfish littered the sand to the water’s edge. Far offshore, the outline of a small raft bobbed on the waves.
I took a bite of leftover pizza that Allison and Nate had saved for me. I washed it down with the last of my Coke, setting the empty can on a stack of partially completed VICAP forms. More of the blue sheets lay strewn across the table. Eyeing the FBI profiling questionnaire still to come, I realized I would be up half the night.
Glumly, I picked up my pen and worked uninterrupted on the VICAP forms for the next thirty minutes, pausing when I reached the narcotics section. Idly, I traced a question mark in the blank space, recalling my visit earlier that evening to the home of Antonio Morales, the man purportedly controlling cocaine distribution for the entire Westside. It had gone better than I’d hoped-not that it was likely to help.
That afternoon, after clearing my desk at the West LA station, I had met with Detective Philip Nostrant. As requested, the Ad-Narc detective had somehow managed to arrange a meeting with Antonio Morales. Although doubtful of the outcome, he had also agreed to accompany me to Morales’s Pacific Palisades mansion.
Leaving together from the station house, Phil and I made a twenty-minute drive down Sunset Boulevard to Morales’s estate. Darkness had fallen by the time we turned into Evans Canyon, a dead-end ravine near Will Rogers State Park. “Don’t recall seeing this road before,” I noted as we proceeded up the unlit street.
Nostrant braked as we passed an owners’ register and a “Private Road-No Trespassing” sign. “It’s secluded, all right,” he agreed. Noticing my glance at the register, he added, “Don’t be fooled by the other names on the residents list. Morales bought out all his neighbors a long time back. Owns the whole canyon now.”
A short drive along a narrow streambed brought us to the entrance of Morales’s sprawling estate. Surrounded by live oaks and ornamental fencing, the main house lay past a bridge spanning the creek. Partially hidden in a thicket of hyacinth, a guardhouse sat inside a ten-foot-high gate.
Nostrant pulled up to the barrier and flashed his badge at a TV camera mounted above a speaker. “LAPD to see Mr. Morales.”
A moment later the gate swung open. A guard in a black uniform waved us down the cobbled driveway. Morales, a short, dark man in his early thirties, stood waiting for us on the steps of his three-story mansion. Two powerful-looking men in matching sport coats accompanied him. Another was posted on the landing, a hand inside his jacket.
“What’s this about?” Morales asked bluntly when we arrived, watching with hooded eyes as we climbed from our car.
“Just a friendly visit,” Nostrant answered. “We’re investigating a homicide in the area. Detective Kane here thinks you could help him run down the source of some cocaine found at the scene.”
Morales stared. “I’m a businessman,” he said. “I have nothing to do with illicit drugs. And even if I did,” he added with a wintry smile, “I certainly wouldn’t discuss it with the police.”
I stepped forward. “Maybe it’s time you did.”
The men with Morales stiffened.
“I don’t think so,” said Morales. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-”
“How’s about you and me having a private little conference, Mr. Morales?” I suggested. “Off the record. It’ll take only a couple minutes, and you might learn something interesting. In fact, I guarantee it. What do you say?”