“Discretion runs both ways, sir. What’s the name of Kilic’s business?”
“Nonpareil Elite Jewelers.” Saroyan huffed. “You see what I mean.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Overdoing it.” Saroyan tugged his tie knot tighter. “Like your woman victim.”
We found Clifford and Officer Salazar in the snack room eating chocolate chip cookies and drinking Coke. Chatting about something and ceasing when they saw us. Clifford sported brown stains where he might one day grow a mustache.
Salazar said, “We were just finishing. I was about to ask Cliff here if he wanted to be a cop.”
Clifford nodded.
Saroyan said, “Interesting.” He handed the boy a napkin and pointed to his own upper lip. “Let’s go back to Glendale, we will talk in the car.”
Milo settled back at his desk. “That thing about Turks and Armenians. Maybe Saroyan wants to get even but let’s check out this Kilic.”
“That thing” was genocide. A million Armenians slaughtered by the Ottomans less than thirty years before the Holocaust. The world doing nothing, giving Hitler confidence.
I said, “That would be pretty low-level revenge.”
“Yeah, you’re right, the old guy’s been right on, so far. Speaking of old, when he turned ninety? Wonder how far past that he is. I was figuring eighties.”
“Me, too.”
He logged on. “Nonpareil Elite Jewelers — okay, here he is with a bunch of Hollywood types... looks like that’s all he posts, kissy-face selfies, no actual jewelry.”
We studied a dozen shots of a grinning improbably blond man in his forties with matching stubble and a pair of small gold hoops glinting from his left ear. Broadly smiling, setting off competing glimmer from his teeth.
Bobby Kilic, always in a slim-cut black suit and white T-shirt, looked chummy with a host of familiar faces. Maybe the celebs figured they’d gotten deep discounts. Or their business managers got billed and they could pretend they’d scored free bling.
Milo said, “Let’s try to surprise this entrepreneur.”
Chapter 27
Burton Way, named for Burton Green, the developer largely responsible for creating Beverly Hills, had become South Santa Monica Boulevard decades ago. Now referred to as Little Santa Monica by the locals, it’s a commercial street barely wide enough for the four lanes allocated by the city, paralleling its larger northern sibling and confusing tourists.
Bistros, cafés, indie boutiques, and a few mono-brands predominate, visits to the latter requiring net worth well short of that required for the Rodeo Drive excursions Meagin March had enjoyed. The street throbs with all-day bustle despite the low probability of finding a parking space.
At the western end of Little Santa Monica, once you get past the Peninsula hotel, the action slows, vacant storefronts begin popping up, and the B.H. — L.A. border is heralded by the black-glass towers of Century City looming with unmistakable malice.
Watch out or we’ll eat you then spit out the bones.
Nonpareil Elite Jewelers sat at the end of the block, bordered by a service alley in need of paving.
No self-promotion, just a narrow, iron-grated window in an older brick building devoid of architectural intent. Small-letter signage in gilt near the top of the window. Illegible from the street.
I said, “Maybe one of those if-you-have-to-ask deals.”
Milo said, “With Bobby’s hoohah connections, maybe it doesn’t matter.” He pulled into a loading zone half a dozen slots west, put his LAPD placard on the dash, and got out.
Up close, the window gilt was chipped and the grates implied not open for business. So did the locked front door and the lack of response to Milo’s bell-push.
“Okay, I’ll have to call him.”
I said, “Tell him you’re on the Oscars fashion committee and need adornment.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s me, fashion.”
We headed back to the car. Instead of continuing, I stopped and pointed to the alley.
He said, “Why not.”
Grubby asphalt, weeds poking from fissures. No windows on the west side of the building. Not a bad idea for a place selling big-ticket gems.
Behind the building, a three-slot parking area backed by a dumpster was one-third occupied.
Black Mercedes S coupe, wheels the same color, interior blood red. A man leaned against the car, facing away from us, smoking a joint, oblivious to our approach.
A level of awareness not recommended for a guy selling big-ticket gems.
Bobby Kilic had dispensed with his black suit jacket, wore a white V-necked tee over black jeans. His torso was narrow and soft-looking. Older-looking than his photos had suggested, with a Mediterranean complexion further browned by the sun, looseness under sagging eyes, and relenting jowls.
He took a deep drag of cannabis, held the smoke in for a long time, looked up at the sky and exhaled. Nothing emerged. As he raised the cigarette to his lips, Milo said, “Good afternoon.”
Kilic startled, dropped the joint, turned sharply and put his hand in his pocket.
From what I could see, the pants were too tight to hide a gun bulge. But you never know what can happen when people get surprised and Milo’s own hand had slipped into his jacket.
We didn’t move.
Kilic stared at us, removed his hand, and backed away. Then he took a second to stare ruefully at wasted weed smoldering on the ground.
Milo flashed his badge. “L.A. police, Mr. Kilic, didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“Alarm me? You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack.” Hoarse voice. Levantine features but an Irish brogue.
“We had no idea we’d actually find you back here,” said Milo. “You’re not in any sort of trouble, we’d just like a few minutes of your time.”
Bobby Kilic drew himself up. Stooped low, picked up the still-active joint, studied it, said, “What the ef,” and dropped it back down. “Don’t think about a littering ticket, guys, this is private property. What do you want to talk about?”
“Meagin March.”
“Meg? What about her?”
“She’s been murdered.”
Splotches of pallor rose to the surface of Kilic’s solar-enhanced skin. “No way. You’re shitting me. Can’t be.”
“I’m afraid it can be, sir.”
“Meg? How the — who the — you’re telling me this just happened? I didn’t hear about it, I hear about things, I always hear.”
“Last Sunday,” said Milo.
“Who the fuck did it?” Clenching both hands. “Some homeless lowlife? Some gang-banging home invader? Don’t tell me it was at her house, she said she was über-protected there, felt safe even though her husband was gone all the time.”
“Can’t get into the details, sir, but it didn’t happen at her house.”
“Where, then? Where?” said Bobby Kilic. “Where, c’mon? I live in the hills, if it’s the hills I need to know.”
“At the home of a friend. Gio Aggiunta.”
Blank look. That told me plenty about the purple diamond transaction.
Kilic said, “He — whoever the fuck he is — he killed her?”
“No, he was also killed.”
“A double homicide? Here in Beverly Hills?”
“In Bel Air,” said Milo. “We’re L.A. police.”
“Oh,” said Kilic. “Yeah, you said, I wasn’t focusing.” Crooked smile. “Taking a relax break, you know? Trying to think positive thoughts. Murder. Now, that’s fucked up.”
Another look at the joint. He winked and smiled. “Got to say it’s weird, being able to smoke up in front of the cops. Long time coming. Bet you guys indulge yourselves.”
We said nothing.
Kilic’s smile crumbled. “Meg. Dead. Fucking obscene. So what do you want from me?”