I sat with Milo in a morgue conference room. Detective Robert Aguilar from Newton showed up first. Young, good-looking, with a sleek black pompadour, he wore a gray pinstriped suit tailored to his trim frame. Manicured nails. He spoke very crisply, a little too fast, tried to come across light-hearted but couldn't pull it off. Milo'd told me he was new to the division, a Detective I. For all I knew, this was his first case.
Last to arrive was Willis Hooks from Central. I'd met him when he worked Southwest. A series of killings of handicapped people that had given me a glimpse of a cowardly new world.
Hooks was in his early forties, black, five-nine, heavy, with a clean head, bulldog jowls, and a thick, drooping mustache. His navy blazer had that baggy, too-long look you sometimes see with big-chested men. His shoes were dusty.
"Milo," he said, sitting down. "Dr. Delaware. Fate keeps putting us in the same room."
Aguilar watched and listened, trying, I guessed, to gauge Hooks's mood. To know with whom to align himself.
"Fate or just plain bad luck, Willis," said Milo.
Hooks laughed hoarsely and spread pudgy fingers on the table.
Milo said, "Willis, this is Robert Aguilar."
"Newton Division," said Aguilar.
"Charmed," said Hooks. "Yours is the train?"
"Yup," said Aguilar. "Ellroy Lincoln Beatty, male black, fifty-two."
"Mine's Leroy Washington Beatty, male black, fifty-two. Think they could be distantly related?"
Before Aguilar could answer, Hooks winked and said, "Mine went down around three A.M., give or take."
"Mine, too," said Aguilar.
"How 'bout that?" Hooks turned to Milo. "It appears someone's got it in for the Beatty family. Maybe we should find out if they've got any other siblings. Maybe there's some more Beatty 187's all over town-hell, this could be a Beatty Holocaust. If not, least we should do is warn them."
Aguilar frowned. Taking out a gold Cross pen, he began writing in his pad.
Hooks said, "Got some ideas, Detective?"
Aguilar looked up. His lips were tight. "Just charting the data flow."
Hooks pursed his lips and his mustache bristled. "Well, that's good. So tell me, Detective Sturgis. What's your connection to the Bobbsey twins?"
"You're not going to believe this," said Milo.
We left the morgue at twelve-thirty P.M. Mission Road was alive with pedestrians. The air smelled like fried chicken.
"Grease," said Milo. "Yum. Lunch?"
"Not in the mood," I said.
"Such strength of character."
He'd left the unmarked in the red zone turnaround in front of the building along with other police vehicles. I'd used a nearby lot. A white-and-blue coroner's van circled past us and cruised out to the street.
Milo said," 'Choo choo bang bang.' A train and a gun." He rested a foot on the unmarked's front bumper." 'Bad eyes in a box.' Both times Peake spouts off the day before. So when does the bastard go on the Psychic Hotline and start raking in serious money?"
"If the news got out, I'm sure agents would be doing lunch with him at Spago."
He huffed. "So what the hell does it mean, Alex?"
"Two homeless men, a psychologist, a waiter," I said. "Wide range of ages, both sexes, blacks, whites. If there's a connection, I don't see it. Maybe Wendell Pelley's behind some of it. But he didn't do Dada. So if Dada's part of the mix, it means more than one killer. Same if the Beatty brothers really were killed simultaneously."
"Fine, fine, there's a psycho army out there. For all we know, Peake spouted off about Richard, too, but till Claire showed up, no one was around to listen. The question is how the hell does Peake know?"
"The only logical possibility," I said, "is that he has some link to the outside."
"Got to be Pelley," he said. "Or another Starkweather alum. Guys like that would know all the boozehound places like the train tracks, the alley where Leroy was shot. Booze and mental illness, you said so yourself: bad combination. And Pelley's history fits: he was blind drunk when he shot his girlfriend and her kids. Now he's living on the streets again. The Beattys are just the kind of people he'd run into."
"Why use the train?" I said. "Why not shoot both of them?"
"The guy's crazy. Maybe a voice told him to do it that way. Choo choo goddamn bang bang. The main thing is, there's some pattern here."
I didn't reply.
He said, "You have a problem with Pelley?"
"No," I said. "I just can't see any conceptual link, even eliminating Richard Dada from the mix, between Claire and the Beattys."
"The Beattys were alcoholics," he said. "Claire worked with alcoholics. Maybe they were her patients."
"They'd fit the County profile," I said, "but that still doesn't offer any motive to kill them. It had to have something to do with Peake. His crimes-those clippings Claire held on to. She targeted him because there was something she wanted to learn about him. Or from him. I went back into the newspaper files and got some background on the Ardullo family. Scott's father was a major agricultural figure, adamant about not selling farmland to developers-he'd been wooed for years, but refused. Then he died, Scott and his family got murdered, and all the Ardullo land was sold. Be interesting to know who inherited."
"What?" he said. "We're running off in a whole other direction? The Ardullos were eliminated for profit, and Peake's some corporate hit man? C'mon, Alex, I'm more likely to believe Peake can flow through walls at will, off people, and return to his beddy-bye at the Loon Farm."
"I know Peake's disorganized, but big money always adds another dimension. Maybe you should at least visit Treadway-Fairway Ranch. Maybe someone will be around who remembers."
"Remembers what?"
"The crime. Something. Just to be thorough."
"Right now being thorough means finding Wendell Pelley."
He placed both hands on the hood of the unmarked and gazed over at the coroner's building, then up at the milky sky. Behind us were Dumpsters, water pumps, the rears of two antique hospital buildings. Sculpted cornices and ornate moldings topped crumbling brick. More Victorian London than East L.A. Jack the Ripper would've found it cozy.
"Okay," I said. "Let's stick with here-and-now. I can even give you a motive. The Beatty twins died at around the same time. That has a ritual flavor to it-a game. My vote is slaughter for fun. That also fits with the second-killer scenario. Plenty of precedent: Leopold and Loeb, Bianchi and Buono, Bittaker and Norris. It could return Richard Dada to the victim list. Pelley's buddy killed Dada before Pelley was released. But only a month before-the crime would still be psychologically fresh. Maybe the buddy's descriptions of how he did it turned Pelley on, got him back in the murder game."
"And the other bastard could be some nutcase Pelley hooked up with at the halfway house, Alex. I saw the guys living there. Not the Kiwanis Club. Okay, I'm going back, gonna be a little more assertive. Gonna continue patrolling Ramparts on my own, too. Keep checking the bum haunts. Play more phone tag with other divisions, neighboring cities, in case Pelley and/or Nut Buddy has been a bad boy somewhere else. Though the site of the Beattys' murders says they're still local. Which makes sense. They probably have no wheels, can't hit the freeway."
That reminded me of something. "The first time we discussed Richard, we talked about someone without a car. Maybe a bus rider. Same for Claire's phantom boyfriend."
"There you go," he said. "Bus-riding lunatics. You said he wouldn't look crazy. How do you feel about that, now?"
"Pretty much the same," I said. "All four murders were planned and meticulous. Whoever killed Richard and Claire had the sense not to steal their cars. And murdering the Beattys on the same night adds another level of calculation. Choreography. So if Pelley is involved, he's probably not actively psychotic. At least not externally. Don't forget, they let him out. He must've appeared coherent."