Krug nodded at her and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Nice to meet you guys. Tell Elise what you’re having.”
We ordered burgers. The waitress said, “Phil orders his with blue cheese.”
Krug said, “That’s ‘the usual.’ ”
Milo said, “Sure.”
Nonconformity seemed impolitic. I said, “Ditto.”
In between bites of cheese-slathered ground chuck on an undistinguished bun, Krug discussed the little he’d learned about Nestor Almedeira’s murder. Unknown assailant, no leads, granules of heroin on the dirt near the body.
A single head-shot, close proximity, through-and-through temple wound, coroner’s guess was a.38, no bullet recovered and no casing, so the killer had picked up or used a revolver.
I side-glanced at Milo. Expressionless.
“Lafayette Park,” he said.
Krug wiped cheese from his mustache. “Let me tell you about Lafayette Park. Coupla months ago I got called for jury duty, civil case, they hear them over at the courthouse on Commonwealth, which is right near the park. I knew I’d be disqualified but I had to show up and wait and do all that good citizen stuff. Lunch break comes and the clerk reads off this prepared statement telling all the jurors where to eat. Then she goes into this speech about never going into Lafayette Park, even during the day. We’re talking a courthouse yards away swarming with law enforcement, and they’re saying don’t step foot inside.”
“That bad,” I said.
“It sure was for our boy Nestor,” said Krug. “So what’s the connection to West L.A.?”
Milo told him about Rand Duchay and Troy Turner’s murders, but left out Lara Malley’s suicide and the similarities between the shootings.
“I remember that one, snatched little baby,” said Krug. “Depressing, glad it wasn’t mine. So maybe Nestor was the hit boy on Turner, huh?”
“He claimed he was to his sister.”
“She never mentioned that to me.”
“She told C.Y.A. right after Nestor bragged about it, got no interest, phoned Ramparts, same deal.”
“She probably talked to some clerk,” said Krug. “We don’t always get the sharpest knives in the drawer… they do that, the idiots. Brag. How many you solve that way? Plenty, right?”
“Plenty,” said Milo.
“So what are you thinking, someone went on a revenge kick and hit the other baby killer? With all those years in between? What’s it been, ten?”
“Eight,” said Milo.
“Long time,” said Krug.
“It’s a problem, Phil, but there’re no other leads.”
“I’ve been figuring Nestor as your basic dope thing. Patrol officers I.D.’d him as a bottom-feeder with a bad disposition, he was working Lafayette and MacArthur and the streets.”
“Bottom-feeder user?”
Krug pantomimed a bellpull. “Bingo. His arms and legs were full of tracks and there was dope in his blood. You know what it’s like when they get to that point. They’re just selling to stay healthy.”
Milo nodded. “How much heroin was in him?”
Krug said, “Don’t remember the numbers, but it was enough to get him high. The way I figure, being numbed out made him easier to kill. They found a knife on him but it never got out of his pocket.”
“The killer feeds him, then does him?” said Milo.
“Or Nestor fed himself and ran into bad luck. If I was out to get a guy like Nestor, that’s how I’d do it. And a guy like Nestor would have enemies.”
“Bad disposition.”
“The worst,” said Krug, “but we never picked up any specific street talk on who he pissed off.”
“Where was he living?” said Milo.
“Dump on Shatto, pay by the week. You could go there but you’d find nothing. Nestor’s total belongings fit into one box and there was nothing interesting. Maybe the coroner still has it but you know the storage problems at the crypt. My guess is it got tossed.”
“Nestor’s sister said he showed her Turner’s I.D.”
“It wasn’t in his stuff.”
“What was?”
“Clothes, needles, spoons, crappy clothing.”
“Anyone at his crib have anything to say?”
“You’re kidding, right?” said Krug. “We’re talking transients and a clerk who does the blind-dumb-deaf bit.”
Krug took a bite of his burger. “Excellent, huh? One thing the French are good for is cheese… anyway, whatever bragging Nestor might’ve done in the past, his crowing days were over.”
He reached in his pocket and brought out a postmortem shot of a hollow-cheeked visage. Matted hair, sallow complexion, death-glazed eyes bottomed by gray pouches. Patchy facial hair came across as a gray skin rash.
Like his sister, Nestor Almedeira had a round face. Bad living had wiped out any other resemblance to her.
I motioned for the picture and took a closer look. Nestor had been the baby of the family, but he looked ten years older than Anita. His head had been tilted by the morgue photographer to give a view of the entrance wound. Left temple, black-and-ruby hole sharpened by stellate skin shredding and framed by a pointillist ring of powder.
Milo said, “Was he sitting when he was shot?”
“Right on the park bench,” said Krug. “Your kiddie killer was sitting, too?”
“Maybe in a car. Anything happening on the case, Phil?”
“You’re about it,” said Krug, finishing his burger and wiping his lips. “Be sure to let me know if you learn anything. Be nice to close this one, even if no one else gives a shit.”
“No family agitation,” said Milo.
“You met the sister. She thinks Nestor was scum. Family wasn’t making any moves to claim the body, coroner had to keep bugging them. Finally, one of the brothers paid for the mortuary to pick it up.”
Krug waved and the waitress brought the check and placed it in the center of the table. He took some time cleaning his mustache, pulled a steel toothpick from his shirt pocket and worked it around his gum line.
“So.” He smiled.
Milo picked up the check.
Krug said, “You made my day,” and sauntered out.
When the waitress came by for payment, Milo said, “We’ll have coffee.”
She glanced disapprovingly at the completed bill. “I’ll have to retotal.”
Milo handed her a wad of bills. “Keep it.” She flipped through the money and winked. “On the house.”
As she returned to the counter, he said, “If Malley was the white man who paid Nestor to hit Troy Turner, Nestor was an obstacle that had to be cleared up. On the other hand, Nestor had a big mouth, and for all those years at C.Y.A. he never gave Malley up.”
“Because he wanted to get out,” I said. “But once he was free- and stoned- his inhibitions dropped. He bragged to Anita, so there’s a good chance he talked to other people. The problem is, they were probably people who didn’t care.”
“Other junkies and losers,” he said. “To them he’d be just another fool shooting off his mouth. Anita did care and tried to report it and everyone shined her on.”
Milo pulled on his upper lip. “Another proud moment for the department… Nestor’s crime scene sounds a lot like Rand’s. And Lara’s. Okay, that makes Malley suspect-of-the-week.”
“There’s another unnatural death we should think about. Jane Hannabee was killed a few months after Troy. When I interviewed her she predicted Troy’s death. Said his notoriety would make him a desirable target. From what Anita said, that’s exactly how Nestor saw him.”
“You think Hannabee figured out who paid to kill Troy?”
“Or she was eliminated out of revenge because she spawned Troy,” I said.
“You destroy my family, I destroy you. Man, that’s cold.”
“So is shooting your own wife six months after she’s lost her only child and faking it as suicide.”
His forehead creased. “Hannabee wasn’t shot.”