Chapter 4
I followed his unmarked Impala to the West L.A. station on Butler, where he key-carded both of us into the staff lot. We crossed the street, entered the building, took the stairs up to the second floor where he’d been banished years ago by a corrupt police chief about to retire.
The exile had followed his work on an old case murder that unearthed pension-jeopardizing dirt on the chief. Off-the-record negotiation had led to his promotion to lieutenant sweetened by the ability to keep working murders and avoid the paper-shuffling obligations of rank.
The downside would be isolation.
Sequestered above the big detective room in a windowless office the size of a broom closet, he’d have no authority over anyone and lack the ability to assemble a team without permission from his captain. Every single time.
The chief, known to be petty, had figured he’d stuck it to Milo but he’d failed to do his homework and had no idea he’d handed my friend a gift. Closet notwithstanding, the ability to come and go as he pleased was a boon. Who needs a view and square footage when you’re free to do your own thing?
Subsequent chiefs bristled when they learned of the arrangement because police departments are paramilitary and crave regulation. But Milo’s solve rate, the highest in the department, to the chagrin of the hotshots at Parker Center, had prevented any change.
Barely able to accommodate Milo’s bulk, the space shrank to a claustrophobic box when anyone else entered. Anyone else usually meant me and I’d accommodated myself to a small, hard chair in the corner facing Milo’s back as he hunched over his undersized, cluttered desk.
He plopped down, rolled back just short of impact with my toes, pushed himself back and swept a stack of papers into a wastebasket. Wheeling around sharply, he faced me. A cellphone in a fuzzy black case had materialized in his hand.
“No prints so I got to take it. Let’s have a look at what’s in plain sight.” He began scrolling. “Everything older than two weeks has been deleted... most recent calls are a ton of numbers, gotta be international... code 39.”
He swiveled to his keyboard, typed, swung back. “No surprise, Italy. I’ll check that out later, let’s see who he communicated with on this continent.”
Giovanni Aggiunta’s domestic communications were limited to outgoing calls to a Whole Foods and a sushi bar in Santa Monica, an Indian restaurant in Brentwood, a Spanish restaurant in Midtown, a Moroccan restaurant, a florist, and a dry cleaner in Westwood, the Beverly Hills Tennis Spa, and the cocktail lounges at three luxury hotels: the Peninsula and the Waldorf in B.H., and the Bel-Air.
“You and Robin go there. Ever see him?”
I smiled.
He said, “Even if he was there, I’m sure you two had eyes only for each other.”
He returned to the phone. “Everything’s outgoing and non-personal. So he deleted his incomings. That feels like something to hide.”
I said, “Affair with a married woman, be careful. Didn’t see any booze in the house. Did I miss it?”
The question threw him. “Why would that be relevant?”
“Trying to get a feel for him. There was tennis stuff in his car. It’s shaping up like days devoted to recreation and nights to drinking in five-star lounges.”
“Fine dining and a tennis spa,” he said. “Nope, there wasn’t much juice in the house and no flashy bachelor wet bar. Another Campari, coupla bottles of wine, some vodka, all in a kitchen cabinet.”
I said, “Maybe no need to pretend the house was used for anything but sex.”
“Party hardy, meet up for some illicit amore, take a dip, sleep late? Yeah, the place does have that self-indulgent feel to it.”
I said, “Didn’t see flowers in the house so his calls to the florist mean someone else got blooms.”
“The old charm offensive? You’re thinking I’ve got myself a playboy victim?”
“I was thinking gigolo financed by his clients. The house is no palace but it is secluded and a Bel Air address might’ve made wealthy women feel at ease. And in Ms. March’s case, close enough for convenience.”
“It’s no palace, Alex, but the rental was eight grand a month.”
“Doesn’t mean he paid it,” I said. “Or I’m wrong and he was just a young guy with an independent income.”
“Don Giovanni,” he said. “Enjoying the good life and never imagining.” He shook his head. “Okay, let’s see what the cyber-gods have to say about poor Meagin. Creative spelling should make it easier.”
The data-gods held back, meagin march pulling up only two hits: a Planned Parenthood silent auction and a 5K run for a group that fostered and homed stray dogs called The Paws That Refresh.
On the donor list of both, Meagin and Douglass March. Five grand a pop.
“Another inventive speller,” said Milo. “Maybe that’s what the two of them bonded over.”
A search for douglass march produced six small-print legal postings related to real estate syndications organized by Venture Quest Properties.
B. Douglass March, MBA, CEO and Primary Operating Partner. Corporate headquarters in Elko, Nevada.
The company had invested in large-scale residential complexes. Memphis, Orlando, Reno, Spokane.
Milo said, “Guy doesn’t believe in keeping it local.”
I said, “They’re all in places with no state income tax. If March is hands-on, we could be talking a frequent flier and another layer of convenience for her.”
“Feline’s on the jet, the rodents pet? Makes sense. Maybe her phone will be more productive. I get freakishly lucky, there’ll be deceptive calls to hubby on the same day she’s setting up trysts with Giovanni and a tower ping that puts Dougie-with-two-esses near the scene last night. Though if he was home, we could be talking the same tower.”
“Why were there no prints on Aggiunta’s phone?”
“The more fibrous the surface, the worse for lifting.” He produced the black case. “Cashmere. And whatever was on the face had smudged. Maybe due to hot hands.”
He pushed hair from his forehead, sat back nearly bumping into his monitor. “Those Italian numbers could include his parents. Notification’s bad enough but long distance is the worst. And what if they don’t speak English — hey, do you know Italian?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Just that spezzato thing, huh? I’ll have to remember that and tell Rick. He’ll be stunned into silence. Anything else come to mind?”
I said, “Who cleans the house?”
“Pool guy said he’d seen a service a few times but didn’t know how often they come. No paperwork in the house. Nothing in the house but the lease so maybe you’re right and someone else pays the bills. He does have three credit cards, hopefully they’ll teach me something.”
He stood, stretched upward, hands nearly brushing the oppressive ceiling. “Ready for some lunch? I’d say Italian but that feels wrong. Like we’re minimizing the poor guy.”
Chapter 5
By the time we’d walked to Santa Monica Boulevard and covered a block, he said, “Changed my mind, I’m thinking Italian will be an homage.”
That epiphany had occurred a few feet from a small Italian-deli-cum-café. Aromas spilled out to the sidewalk. Strong cheese, fresh tomatoes, followed by the earthy perfume of truffles.
In most of the eateries Milo frequents he’s treated like a homecoming hero. Payoff for a police presence proprietors view as a deterrent to problems.
More important: huge tips.
The proprietors of Mangiamo were a husband and wife in their sixties. He ran the counter and she made pasta from scratch. A long-haired guy in his twenties who looked like an actor in a soap opera served and bused. All three beamed and shouted “Buongiorno!” as we stepped in. The older man raced from behind the counter, seated us, and endowed Milo with instant promotion.