The body’s driven to the back of the Coroner’s and eased onto a loading dock. No tasteless humor to be heard, just the mute ballet of people doing their jobs.
And the buzz of aspirational flies collecting at doors and windows. No matter how tightly the building is sealed, they never stop trying.
In a homicide, the case belongs to the detective but the body belongs to the coroner and it’s hands-off until the coroner’s investigator gives the okay. The C.I. this morning had already been to a shooting near Skid Row and didn’t arrive until just after five a.m.
Milo had spent the time inside the hospital, interviewing nurses and doctors, all of them wide-eyed with shock and having nothing to offer. The flustered guard was located dry-retching in a bathroom. Because of his age and obvious frailty, Milo went easy on him.
Not that pressuring him would’ve made a difference. All Atkins Gillibrand knew was that after he’d seen “the bundle,” he notified the white coats and watched in horror as they unwrapped it.
“They didn’t do no doctoring, sir, not a bit. Checked for a pulse, said she was long-cold, and called 911.”
Nossir, he didn’t know her. No one else did, either. Pretty girl, though, couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-five.
Canvassing the neighborhood is basic procedure but in this case it was irrelevant because there were no residences or open businesses nearby, just shuttered industrial buildings and the freeway jumble. Homeless people often camp under the passes but no sign of any so maybe they’d fled at the sight of black-and-whites speeding by, light bars strobing the darkness.
Once Milo had learned all that, there was little for him to do. When the C.I., a retired RN named Gladys King, arrived, the same applied to her.
No pockets through which to rummage or labels to read, no obvious “defects.”
“Probably an O.D.,” she said.
Milo said, “She was dumped by a guy who sped off.”
“Ah,” said King. “Guess that makes it your business. Good luck.”
Chapter 2
Our silent walk covered three blocks before Milo hooked a thumb at a café with a tricolor Italian flag over the door.
Geppetto’s was Closed SATURDAYS until noon. One person inside, a squat, aproned, gray-haired man sweeping. Milo rapped the glass, the man saw us and unlocked the door, beaming.
“The usual, Comandante?”
“Sounds good, Miro.”
“You, signor?”
I’d had three cups of Ethiopian at home. “Decaf espresso.”
We settled at a marble-topped table in the far corner as Miro fiddled behind the counter.
I said, “Miro. He’s Spanish?”
“Croatian. Miroslav.”
“Ah.”
“Long story.” Showing no inclination to tell it.
Miro returned with a double latte for Milo, a demitasse for me, and a plate that he set down in front of Milo.
“Some coffee” had expanded to an assortment of baked goods. Or maybe that was the intention all along.
“Today we got cannoli, amaretti, and frittelle.” A finger-poke indicated each one.
Milo said, “Can’t wait,” and didn’t.
When he’d finished the pastries and accepted two more cannoli from Miro, I told him what I knew about the hospital.
“You held off telling me because...”
“Didn’t see it as relevant but now I’m wondering. At a typical hospital he couldn’t have escaped detection. Maybe he’s got a connection to the place. Or he’s from the neighborhood and familiar enough to know security’s lax. A third possibility is that he’s actually dumped another O.D. there.”
“I asked the staff about anything like that happening there and they said no.”
“Given all the changes, the current staff probably hasn’t been there long.”
“Fine, I’ll look into it.”
Reaching for the cannoli, he bit down with fury, rained crumbs onto his shirt.
He finished everything Miro brought before throwing cash on the table, standing and stretching.
During the walk back to the station, his head canted forward as if primed for battle.
Resumption of silence.
That changed a block later when his phone chirped Mozart.
He listened, said, “Fantastic, kiddo. Could you email it to — you have? I love you.”
Clicking off, he doubled his pace, long legs chewing up distance like a relentless mass of farming apparatus.
I said, “Basia.”
“She ever quits, I’ll need Prozac.”
Within an hour of hearing Milo’s plea, Basia had examined the body externally and confirmed the absence of wounds, x-rayed it anyway, and found no bullets or foreign objects internally. A blood draw submitted for a tox screen was followed by inking and printing ten fingertips and two palms.
The prints paid off.
Chapter 3
Marissa Adrianne French, twenty-five years old, five-five, one seventeen, brown and blue, driver of a six-year-old white Accord.
DMV photos typically bring out the worst in faces but this face had managed to dodge the indignity.
Beautiful young woman with wide, sparkling eyes, the blue of her irises so deep they came across indigo. Broad, white smile, rosy cheekbones, dimple on the right. “Brown” was chestnut laced with strands of ice blue, worn long and side-parted, with a flap that half concealed her left eye.
The address on her driver’s license was a three-digit apartment number on Coldwater Canyon Avenue in Sherman Oaks. Milo pulled up a street view. Massive gray mega-unit between Magnolia and Riverside.
Her prints were on file because Beverly Elms Gardens, where she worked as a Caregiver Level I, had required a background check. Milo looked up the facility. Olympic just east of La Brea, specializing in “Eldercare and Memory Rehabilitation.”
He called and got put on hold. Switched his phone to speaker and muttered, “Wonderful,” when too-soft rock began streaming. Returning to his keyboard, he entered his LAPD user I.D. and began searching databases.
Since the background check nineteen months ago, Marissa French hadn’t accrued any criminal charges. Nor was she listed as a crime victim or a party to a civil suit.
Milo had just logged onto NCIC when the phone said, “Can I help you?”
Female voice, flat with boredom.
Marissa French’s name elicited “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Your facility fingerprinted her.”
“If you say so.”
“She no longer works there?”
“That I couldn’t tell you.”
“Ma’am,” said Milo. “She’s dead and she listed you as her place of employment.”
A beat. “Dead.”
“Could you see if she ever worked there and if she left, is there a forwarding to a new job?”
“We don’t keep that type of information... dead... an accident?”
“I’m a homicide detective, Ms. ...”
“Julie. You’re saying murder.”
“It’s not a pretty situation, Julie.”
Silence.
“Julie?”
“Okay... could she be a temp?”
He rolled his eyes. “Good question.”
“I’m only saying because if she was a temp you need to talk to HR and they’re over at corporate in Buena Park. Would you like the number?”
“I would, Julie, but if you could be a doll and just check your records that would be super-helpful.”
“Not pretty, how?”
“You really don’t want to know, Julie.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
We endured several more minutes of music beaten to a sodden pulp before a new voice came on. Male, deep.
“This is Truc. Marissa A. French worked here but as a float.”
“Meaning?”
“She had no contract but agreed to be available when someone was needed to fill in on a shift.”
“On-call.”
“Yes.”
“How often did that turn out to be?”
“No idea, sir. That would require going through like a year and a half of data.”
“Giant hassle, huh?”
Truc said, “Let me see what I find.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Julie told me she got killed, I want to do what I can.”
“Thanks, Truc. Here’s my number.”
When the line went dead, he turned to me. “A float. Okay, let’s look at her social media.”
I’d been working my phone and showed him the results.
He said, “Thank you, Oracle of Delphi.”