“Neither was Troy,” I said. “Because Troy was behind bars and with all of C.Y.A.’s problems, they keep firearms out. Shooting someone in a homeless encampment in the middle of the night would be possible but extremely reckless. Hannabee’s murder was so stealthy it wasn’t discovered for hours. She was pulled out of her sleeping bag, cut, slid back in, rewrapped in plastic.”
“You’re saying signature doesn’t matter to Malley.”
“He’s not governed by a structured compulsion because his goal isn’t sexual satisfaction. His goal is housecleaning. Whatever gets the job done.”
“Alex, if Malley’s really done all these people, he’s still a serial killer. Guess Rand’s grandmother’s the lucky one, dying of disease.”
The coffee arrived. The waitress set Milo’s mug down with exquisite caution, leaned over and flashed a triangle of freckled chest. Tight wrinkles tugged at her cleavage. She lingered for a second before straightening.
“Anything else?” she said with a song in her voice.
“Nope, we’re fine, Elise.”
“You’re very kind,” she said.
“So they tell me.”
We headed back to West L.A., taking Sixth again. Milo slowed to glance at Lafayette Park. Trees, lawns, benches, a few men sitting, a couple of others walking. The courthouse on Commonwealth loomed. Who’d have thought so much threat resided in empty, green space.
He said, “Anyone approaching the campgrounds where Malley lives from either direction on Soledad would be spotted easily. There’s nowhere to hide on the road, so forget surveillance. Not that surveillance would tell me anything. Doesn’t sound as if Malley’s gonna go pub-crawling and blab to lowlife friends.”
He rubbed his face and made an abrupt lane shift that evoked frenzied honks. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.
The honker’s Toyota whipped in front of us. On the rear bumper was a War Is Not the Answer sticker.
Milo growled. “It got rid of slavery in America and Nazis in Germany.”
I said, “If Malley’s still active in the drug trade, he might leave the campsite periodically.”
“Unless I can watch him, how the hell do I find that out?”
“Maybe his boss is more aware of his comings and goings than she let on.”
“Bunny the stuntwoman? Think there’s more than a work relationship, there? I sensed something personal going on.”
“Maybe. She made a point about not keeping tabs on Malley. Which was an answer to a question you didn’t ask.”
“The lady protesting too much?” he said. “If she is Barnett’s love-interest, questioning her further is only going to alert him. I’m gonna call the coroner about Nestor’s belongings, check out his dump on Shatto despite what Krug said. Anita was right about Krug. He doesn’t give a shit. I also know a Ramparts uniform who might be able to turn me on to some street junkies, maybe I’ll get lucky and find out Nestor blabbed to someone else. Better check into Jane Hannabee’s death, too. Big-time fun, huh?”
“Can you handle more complication?”
“What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”
“If Malley’s anger extends to everyone he perceives as having been on the boys’ side, and killing Rand rekindled his rage, the Daneys could be in jeopardy. If Malley was outside Rand’s window that night, he could’ve been spying on them as well.”
He thought about that. “Yeah, they should probably be warned, but it’s tricky. What if they go over to Malley’s place and try to talk things out? Being all spiritual and positive about basic human goodness and all that. If we’re right about what happened to Rand, heartfelt discussion with Cowboy Barnett is not a prescription for longevity.”
“Warn them not to have contact with him,” I said.
“Think I can compete with God?”
“Good point,” I said. “Cherish, especially, might try to talk things out. She fancies herself a therapist.”
“God bless the God-pushers. You like feel-good religion, Alex? Inherent blessedness of the human spirit, eternal forgiveness, the certainty of an afterlife where all is bright and airy?”
“Everyone needs comfort.”
He laughed angrily. “Give me that old-time religion, bro. And I ain’t talking rousing hymns and babbling in tongues. My childhood was nuns who smacked my hands raw and priests stoked by guilt and hellfire and blood sacrifice.”
“Blood sacrifice sells movies,” I said.
“Sells entire civilizations.”
“Optimism’s for wimps?”
“Hey, it’s great if you can swallow it,” he said. “Blind Faith 101.”
After dropping me back at my place, Milo leaned out the passenger window. “Has my resolute negativity brought you down? Because there’s something you can do for me while I’m up to my neck in Nestorania.”
“Sure.
“How about you warn the Daneys? Be psychologically sensitive and hold back if you sense they’re gonna do something stupid. And as long as we’re putting out warnings, what about the boys’ lawyers- talk about getting on Malley’s wrong side. Remember their names?”
“Sydney Weider for Troy, Lauritz Montez for Rand.”
“That just rolled off your tongue. The case stayed with you.”
“Until Rand called, I thought I’d forgotten about it.”
“So much for optimism, pal. Anyway, feel free to schmooze with them, too. I hate talking to lawyers.”
CHAPTER 24
Monday, I called the Daneys’ home. No one answered, so I turned to Sydney Weider and Lauritz Montez.
Weider was no longer at the Public Defender’s and I found no home or office listing for her. Lauritz Montez was still a P.D. but he’d moved uptown to the Beverly Hills office.
He answered his own extension, just the way he’d done years ago. This time, my name evoked silence. When I asked him if he’d heard about Rand, he said, “Oh… you’re the psychologist. No, what about him?”
“He was murdered.”
“Shit,” he said. “When?”
“Nine days ago.”
His voice went flat as lawyer’s wariness took over: “You didn’t call just to inform me.”
“I’d like to talk to you. Could we meet?”
“What about?”
“It would be better in person,” I said.
“I see… when were you thinking?”
“Sooner’s better than later.”
“Okay… what is it now, four-thirty, I’ve got paperwork but I need to eat. Know where the Bagel Bin is on Little Santa Monica?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Bet you will. Five sharp.”
The place was New Age Deli: glass cases of smoked fish and meat and all the right salads, but the stainless-steel/vinyl ambience was autopsy room. Maybe that was honest; lots of creatures had died to feed the early-dinner throng.
I arrived on time but Lauritz Montez was already at the counter ordering. I hung back and let him finish.
His hair was now completely gray but remained long and ponytailed. The same waxed mustache fanned across his bony face; the chin fuzz was gone. He wore a wrinkled cream linen suit, a pink button-down shirt, and a bottle-green bow tie. Two-tone olive suede and brown leather wingtips graced narrow feet; the left shoe tapped the floor rapidly.
He paid, got an order slip, turned, nodded.
“You look pretty much the same,” he said, motioning me toward the single open table.
“So do you.”
“Thanks for lying.”
We sat and he began arranging the salt and pepper shakers and the sugar bowl into a tight little triangle. “I did some checking and found out Rand’s a West L.A. homicide case but no one will tell me anything. You must be wired right into the cops.”
“I’m consulting on the case.”
“Who’s the detective?”
“Milo Sturgis.”
“Don’t know him.” He studied me. “Still a prosecution groupie, huh? How long was Rand out of custody before he got killed?”