The arrow tip ended at the shaved head of a gaunt, hollow-cheeked, stubble-faced man, sitting cross-legged on cobblestones, hunched over a cheap round-hole guitar. The spidery fingers of his left hand pretended to form chords. The right dangled uselessly. At that point, six strings on the instrument.
An open cardboard case sat in front of Ignacy Skiwski. A group of young people sat and stood around him. Males, females, jeans and long hair.
Students or pretending to be.
None of them were Garrett Burdette.
Milo said, “A bargain-basement Manson?”
“The power of song.”
“You recognize any of them?”
“No.”
“Me, neither. On that cheerful note, it is time for you to be normal. Have a nice rest of the day.”
Nothing from him on Saturday. A full week had passed since the wedding murder.
A lot of noise has been made about a crucial, near-mystical forty-eight-hour period for closing homicides. Miss that deadline and the chances of a solve plummet.
The truth is, there’s nothing magical about two days. Most murders lack mystery because they’re committed by stupid, impulsive people who make no attempt to conceaclass="underline" domestics, bar fights, walk-ups and drive-bys in front of crowds of witnesses.
Toss in stupid impulsive bragging leading to anonymous tips and the detective’s job is to observe, make notes, obtain warrants, arrest and interview obvious perpetrators, all the while trying not to do anything that screws up the evidence chain.
But when a murder is preceded by thought and misdirection, actual detection is called for. Those are the ones that baffle, stretch past forty-eight and beyond, and often freeze up.
They’re the killings Milo loves, though he’d never admit it. Complaining all the way, he usually manages to slog through and attain clarity.
That and my basic makeup generally lead me to be optimistic. But this one, an entire week with possibilities widening rather than narrowing, a victim still defying identification...
By ten a.m., continued radio silence and Sunday was shaping up the same way as Saturday.
Robin and I are both designed for work so stepping away from obligation takes a conscious effort and a conversation.
Sunday, eleven a.m., she initiated both and I agreed and we set out for a drive up the coast highway, the glorious Pacific to the west, the fire-ravaged foothills of Santa Barbara County to the east.
The Thomas blaze of a few months ago, followed by mudslides churned by a worst-time rain, had been hellish for thousands of people, lives, livestock, the material accumulation of lifetimes demolished in vicious flashes. Months later, Nature had decided to reverse her curse, kissing the gently rising slopes and drawing forth greening and blooming. Still, it felt like a party hat at a funeral.
We drove half an hour beyond the Santa Barbara city limits and pulled over in Solvang, craving Danish pancakes at a touristy place that was always bustling. Hipster snobbery aside, there really is no difference between tourists and travelers and sometimes foot traffic is the ultimate vote.
The wait for a table was extended by holding out for a spot on the patio where Blanche was welcome. She’d enjoyed the drive from the cushy, leather perspective of the Seville’s backseat, serene and observant as ever.
While we feasted, she contented herself with a chlorophyll-laced treat that supposedly helps with dog breath. Plus the occasional “accidentally” fallen shred of hotcake.
The restaurant was situated in a too-cute shopping center that could’ve been designed by Hans Christian Andersen stoned on aquavit. Plenty of cellular interruption but Robin and I didn’t contribute; we’d agreed to switch off for the day.
I’d pretended to embrace the idea but wasn’t fooling Robin. As we got back in the car for a return trip, she grinned and said, “Go ahead.”
“With what?”
“Hey, Blanchie, he thinks he’s being subtle.”
Both of the females in my life grinned. I switched on my phone.
Nothing from Milo.
Good. Bad.
On the return trip we hit the inevitable jams on the 101 when underpowered cars confront the rising grade and start wheezing. Just past Ventura — the origin of the fire — Robin fell asleep and Blanche followed soon after.
I tuned the radio to KJazz. A blues show was on, some high-powered Chicago stuff that felt too upbeat this close to a disaster zone. But then on came Houston Boines’s “Crying in the Courthouse.” Boines had lived to ninety-nine but his wail sounded authentic.
This song, about losing everything, fit just fine.
When we got home, I looked at my phone.
Still nothing.
Crying in the police station.
He called at ten forty p.m.
“Been normal?” he said.
“Better.” I told him about the pancakes.
He growled. “Sadist. For two nights I’ve been eating crap while watching Denny Rapfogel’s house. Nothing happened the first night but on the second his car was gone so I tried Sliva Cardell’s place. No Denny, but another guy showed up, black Bentley convertible. Ran his plates, hotshot mortgage broker. He cruised through the gate just like Denny had, got the same welcome from La Sliva, this time in a filmy nightgown. Maybe even more groin calisthenics than with Denny. So much for true love making her a suspect. Wanna lay odds I keep watching her and other guys don’t show up?”
“Think she’s a pro?”
“Selling another type of real estate? Could be. Anyway, thought you’d want to know. Now I’m heading out for pancakes.”
Chapter 19
Monday at eight, just as I was gearing up for a run, my phone rang.
My most frequent caller. “Never got ’em.”
“What?”
“What do you think? Flapjackos con jarabe. The plan was to try this morning, that place near Rancho Park, but something just came up. I’m scanning the daily death list and one from last night caught my eye. Strathmore Drive in Westwood.”
“Amanda’s street.”
“Amanda’s address. DB’s a white male, forty-three years old, named Michael Lotz. No detectives were called so it wasn’t flagged as suspicious. But still. Waiting for a callback from the uniform sergeant who took charge. Figured I’d shortcut it with the coroner by going through our new buddy Lopatinski but she was out... one sec... okay, hold on, that’s her.”
I waited, stretching hamstrings and quads, followed by a couple of deep bends and some work on the hips and the heels. Blanche padded in and I bent again to pet her. She rubbed her head against my ankles. I sat down on the battered leather patient couch, Blanche jumped up beside me and curled close to my chest.
Several more minutes before Milo came back on. “Lotz was sent to the crypt tagged as an O.D. No signs of foul play, paraphernalia near the body. He’s currently stacked in one of those fridge closets they use, Dr. Basia went and had a look. Guy’s arms are a mess of old scars and newer punctures. If nothing iffy comes up, they’re not planning on an autopsy.”
“The same address as Amanda doesn’t qualify as iffy to them. But to you...”
“Maybe it’s nothing but I can’t ignore it. After I talk to Dobbs — the sergeant — I’m taking a look at the scene.”
Two hours and ten minutes later, a text: Going over there. Ten thirty work ok?
I sent him a See you there, got out of my running clothes, took a quick shower, gulped coffee, and left.