Brief stays in Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee were followed by a two-month return to Florida, this time in Miami. Then frequent back-and-forths between that state and Alabama followed by a stretch in Arkansas.
Each locale had been commemorated by at least one arrest, charges frequently pled down because that’s the way the system works. And Rooney’s nomadic life offered an additional fringe benefit: law enforcement tends to think locally so by shifting locales criminals avoid piling up too much iniquity in any one jurisdiction.
The youngest Gilmore’s most recent booking had been eighteen months ago, possession of methamphetamine and larceny. Back in the Sunshine State: Tampa.
This mugshot revealed a bloated, sagging face with tendrils of black ink scaling a stumpy neck and sweeping upward to a soft jawline. He’d grown progressively bald and now sported a skinned head. One constant: eyes that continued to lack depth or sparkle. His sentence after pleading to both charges: three weeks in county lockup.
One thing struck me: none of the states where he’d operated criminally matched any his sister had called home. If he’d been looking for her, he hadn’t come close.
Until...
I continued reading until something at the bottom of the Tampa bust caught my eye: his vehicle had been confiscated, no explanation offered.
I said, “His last ride of record was an eight-year-old black Honda Civic.”
Milo took the sheet. “Meth and larceny and he gets twenty days, unbelievable. Actually, believable. For all we know, official compassion included keeping his wheels safe while he enjoyed the local hospitality.”
He ran a search on the Honda, pulled up traffic fines stretching from Kansas to California. Unsafe lane changes, failures to stop, a couple of speeders, but mostly parking tickets.
Each one paid up promptly.
On that trip Rooney Gilmore had displayed clear geographic intention, taking an arrow-straight route that drew him across Missouri, Colorado, and Nevada. No way to know where he’d entered California but he’d been pulled over four months ago in Fresno for a broken taillight. That fine remained unpaid but it hadn’t been marked delinquent or stimulated any police action.
Milo said, “So we’ve got clear verification of his being here.” He scrawled in his pad.
I said, “Why no alert on the unpaid fine?”
“Penny ante. Paperwork’s probably stuck in some file, still unprocessed.”
“Or,” I said, “a taillight crack was too ticky-tacky for Fresno to bother with, seeing as he’d paid all his previous tickets.”
“Mr. Law-Abiding.” His laugh was bitter.
“At first glance,” I said. “But not because he reformed. When you’ve got a goal in mind, keep your head down. His was go west young man and kill your sister.”
“And brother.”
I said, “Yes but I think Meagin was his main target because in his mind, she’d destroyed his family. His entire life. Come to think of it, that could explain the kill shot: you broke my heart, I’m breaking yours. He’d looked for her for years but couldn’t find her. Spending chunks of his life behind bars didn’t help. But he did eventually locate Barlett because Barlett wasn’t under any deep cover and hadn’t done much of a name change. Rooney made his way to San Pietro and announced himself to his brother, made sure to come across nonthreatening, just the long-lost kid brother reaching out. Unfortunately for Meagin, she’d contacted Barlett before then, initiating her own attempt at reunion. That turned out to be a fatal error but given Barlett’s easygoing nature, she’d have had no reason to fear him.”
“Why would she reach out after all those years?”
“We may never know,” I said, “but one possibility is loneliness. The isolation of being in that big house day after day. Also, she’d built up her confidence, finally figured she had it made and could afford to reach out.”
“She tells Barlett where she’s living and he tells Rooney.”
“Maybe not intentionally. Rooney could’ve found the address in Barlett’s cabin. Either way, he had what he wanted, drove to L.A. and began stalking Meagin. Learned her habits and made his move. Unfortunately for Barlett, he’d become a liability and two days later, he paid for it in the worst way.”
He checked the page listing the Fresno ticket, placed a nationwide BOLO out on the car and its owner, tagging Rooney Gilmore as a suspect in three homicides, to be considered armed and dangerous. Any watchful cop anywhere in the country spotting the Honda would initiate a felony stop.
“For the cherry on top,” he said, “I contact the marshals tomorrow.”
He sent Reed, Alicia, and Binchy a one-sentence email informing them of a meeting tomorrow at eight a.m.
No if you can make it qualifier.
I said, “Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Now I can sleep peacefully.”
Chapter 45
Same room, coffee, tea, pastries, none of which had been touched. A single whiteboard sported a blowup of Rooney Gilmore’s most recent mugshot next to enlargements of a black Honda Civic matching Gilmore’s drive and the actual car’s Florida plates and VIN number.
Milo had summed up the revenge theory. A few questions had been asked, a pall had settled followed by glum discussion.
The dominant sentiment among the young D’s: disgust at the motive.
Sean said, “Anything on the New Orleans murder?”
Milo said, “I just talked to them, they’ll be asking questions at the bars, we’ll see if anything comes up. But it’s been years so I’m not expecting much.”
Alicia said, “Ugly bastard. Talk about a con face. Rich folk are security-obsessed, car like that, guy like that, you’d think more people would’ve called him in.”
Reed said, “If they noticed, sure. But no one’s ever out on the streets, there. Even the dog-walkers are mostly maids.”
She said, “No soccer moms or kids shooting hoops or selling lemonade.”
Sean said, “Plus these folk have multiple homes, so lots of vacants.”
Alicia shook her head. “Mausoleum, U.S.A.”
I said, “Committing the murders at night also helped him. Once he learned about Meagin’s after-dark runs and saw how easy it was to access Gio’s house, that likely clinched it.”
Sean said, “Poor people. Going for a swim and that walks in. Wonder if he said anything to them before he did it.”
Milo said, “Once we find him, we’ll ask.”
He sat down, giving them the chance to talk more. The goal, more therapy than problem solving. Bleeding off some of the gut-grip that arises when you finally develop a suspect but have no idea where to find him.
When silence ensued, he said, “Onward. I’m on shaky grounds making a strong case for your exclusive participation but as long as no one else demands your time, I could use help looking for the Honda. We talked about his exit route from Bel Air before. Now I’m motivated to do something about it. I’m guessing his most likely route woulda been south but it’s just that, a guess. I’m not bothering with Little Holmby, Westwood, or campus, because there are no places there where a transient lowlife would bunk down. We’ll start south of Pico, which is basically around here, and continue to Palms, Culver City, and beyond.”
Reed said, “Beyond is plenty of lowlife real estate. Imperial Highway, the bad part of Inglewood, those motels near the airport.”
Alicia said, “Hot-sheet Hiltons. You want us to cover the same area, do parallel searches?”
“Just you, kiddo,” said Milo. “The two of us will keep in touch on a tac line, make sure we’re not duplicating. I can’t neglect east — west so Sean, take east, Moses, west. Don’t read anything into that, it’s arbitrary.”