The Copeland of today was rated more violent than ninety-five percent of comparably populated U.S. communities but back then, things had been a lot quieter.
The closest thing to criminal violence in or near the former logging outpost had taken place twenty-two years ago, miles away at sea, when a commercial grouper fisherman had been stabbed to death by a deckhand. Other than that, published offenses were limited to vandalism, theft, and trespassing, the only other notable corpse that of a Florida panther. Cause of death of the rare creature undetermined because most of the body had been consumed by alligators.
Narrowing the time band to more recent events revealed only a couple of hikers lost in the preserve. Both had been suspected of illegal orchid poaching and when rescued, were suffering from severe malnutrition and dehydration.
A park ranger, unidentified, stated, “If they were up to no good, they got their punishment. If they weren’t, they just had bad luck.”
I searched a map of southwest Florida for nearby population centers, came up with the city of Naples, forty-four miles northwest and now known for its low crime rate. Directly west of the preserve and slightly closer was Marco Island, the most expensive beach destination in Florida and one of the state’s safest locales. Neither produced anything interesting.
After two hours, I logged off, figuring my search had been a quixotic thing to begin with, fueled by Three A.M. Syndrome.
The kind of iniquity I was looking for — the kind of crushing, inevitable oppression that led a girl to take to the road — flourished in secrecy.
When I returned to the bedroom, Robin, curled up, eyes closed, facing me, said, “Learn anything?”
I laughed.
“Did you, baby?”
“Nothing gets past you.”
She smiled. “Yeah, it’s a problem.”
Chapter 39
The next day, Judge Julie Beck’s clerk called to let me know Derek Ruffalo would be arriving in L.A. in a week for a “seven-day forensic evaluation.” I penciled the dates in, did some reading on rejected adoptees, learned nothing encouraging.
When I hadn’t heard from Milo by noon, I reached him at his desk and told him of last night’s futile search. It felt strangely like confession. If so, he was a compassionate priest.
“I like your thinking, kid, but with the time lapse and what you said about secrecy — not surprised. But thanks anyway.”
“Worth following up?”
“By me? What could I add?”
“You’ve got the contacts.”
“Guess I could try to find some cop who’d been working back then. Best case retired, worst case deceased.” He chuckled. “Like there’s a difference. Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up, nothing else is happening.”
Just under two hours later, he phoned back.
I said, “You found something.”
He said, “Not what we talked about. Got a call-me message from some lawyer named Porras. Before I phoned him, I looked him up. Personal injury practice in Pico Union. Didn’t recall slipping and falling or God forbid tripping a citizen, so I didn’t call back. But he did, insisted I’d want to talk to him about my murder case. I said c’mon by, there’ll be a welcome mat. He said he strongly preferred not to meet at the station, said let’s do coffee. Someone that persistent, I get curious. Appointment’s in forty, some designer java place he suggested in Brentwood.”
“Pico Union to the Westside. Serious drive.”
“I’m figuring he’s billing by the hour.”
Hava Lava Java sat on a block of Wilshire west of Bundy shared by single-floor storefronts, a quarter of them vacant, fronted by homeless people claiming the sidewalk.
Despite heady aromas and a staggering assortment of choices, the coffee joint was empty but for two thin women in jogging suits and baseball caps through which ponytails had been extruded. The hats bore the name of a local prep school, the suits designer logos.
Per usual, Milo and I arrived five minutes early for the meeting with Antonio Porras, eliciting upraised eyebrows from the women. The same kind of look a nerdy kid might get from the spoon-fed student council of the school on the hats.
We ordered tall black coffees, which stimulated puzzlement from the kid behind the counter, took the table farthest from the women, who stared a bit longer, then returned to animated conversation.
I said, “I also looked Porras up. His partner does immigration law. You’re hoping he’s got a message from Irma Ruiz.”
“Saw that, too, but I’d be here anyway because beggars are forbidden from exercising options — yeah, of course, I figured there might be immigration issues.”
He drank, grimaced, put his cup down. “Maybe they’ve got all those flavor options because the basic stuff tastes like wastewater.”
I said, “Gonna go back and ask for pumpkin spice?”
“Not unless they’re peddling pies.”
“Closest thing I saw was zucchini bread.”
He was about to reply when his eyes focused over my shoulder and toward the door.
The man who’d entered was forty or so, six-three, pencil-straight and thin with sparse gray-black hair and the watchful yet adventurous eyes of a raven contemplating a swoop into something nasty. He wore a beautifully cut navy-blue suit, an ecru shirt, and a confidently knotted wine-colored tie. Brown suede loafers with brass buckles propelled him toward us. He smiled faintly as he pushed a wheelie bag that matched the shoes.
“Lieutenant? Tony Porras.” Smallish, light-brown eyes shifted to me. “You’re his sergeant or just a detective?”
Milo said, “Dr. Alex Delaware is our consulting psychologist.”
Tony Porras blinked. Amusement fought wariness. That same avian ambivalence. I wondered if balancing his emotions exhausted him by day’s end.
“You thought I might be a nut-job?”
“Of course not, sir. Dr. Delaware works with us on certain cases.”
“Certain, being...”
“Cases we think a psychologist can help with.”
“And you think—”
Milo pointed to a chair. “Please. This has nothing to do with you, sir. I could be wrong about why you contacted me and if so, the doctor will be on his way. If I’m right, he’ll stay because he’s been working on the March/Aggiunta murders.”
Tony Porras’s head drew back. “Two victims?”
“Yes, sir. Though I’m sure Ms. Ruiz only knew about her employer.”
The attorney breathed in deeply. Grimaced as if air intake had been insufficient and sat down. He took in our barely touched cups. “Not decent?”
“Not to our trained palates.”
“Darn,” said Porras. “It got four stars on Yelp. Okay, fine, we’ll proceed. But you understand my caution.”
“Not sure I do but I respect it.”
“The people I tend to represent often have an unpleasant history with the police.”
Milo nodded. Tony Porras gave me a long look until I did the same.
The kind of silent Socratic approach a law professor might use. I wanted to say Where do you teach? But the question could do nothing but harm. If I was wrong, I’d look foolish. If correct, Porras would feel psychoanalyzed.
He said, “Okay, you’re right, this is about Mrs. Ruiz. She’s actually my partner’s client.”
Teresa Guzman. We both knew the name; we both kept our mouths shut.
Tony Porras said, “Terri — my partner — does immigration law.”
Milo said, “Got it. Please assure her we couldn’t care less about legal status.”
Porras smiled. “You’re murder snobs? That’s what my uncle calls homicide detectives. He did patrol in Hollenbeck for twenty-eight years.”