Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 15

The stay-behind LAPD homicide detective sergeant, Ovid Knox, reminded Partain of certain Special Forces types he had known in the Army. Not the dumb ones, who liked to boast of their membership in a chosen elite, but the smart ones, who scoffed at elitism even though they devoutly, if secretly, had believed in it since they were four years old or maybe even three.

After Millicent Altford’s 911 call, a swarm of plainclothes detectives, uniformed police and technical staff, most of them from the Westside Division, had quickly arrived and slowly departed, taking with them the late Dave Laney. But Ovid Knox had lingered on because of what he said were a couple of minor items he needed to check with Ms. Altford, her daughter and Mr. Partain.

Knox was closer to 40 than 30 and still had a lot of tousled sun-streaked blond hair that complemented his easy manner and lazy smile. Partain suspected the smile and manner of being a mask for the contempt that lay just behind a pair of sardonically amused blue eyes.

At 2:44 A.M., the four of them sat drinking coffee in the significant-money salon, which was how Partain now thought of Millicent Altford’s huge living room. She still wore the gray pants and sweater. Her daughter wore baggy dark green shorts, a white T-shirt and laceless white jogging shoes. Partain wore the blue suit, white shirt and the same carefully knotted tie. Of the four, Ovid Knox seemed most at ease, perhaps because he was the law and also the most elegantly dressed in his sand-colored suede jacket, chocolate-brown gabardine pants, tieless off-white shirt and the plain loafers whose leather resembled carefully polished black walnut. It was an outfit whose retail price, Partain guessed, would top $2,000. But Partain also guessed that Knox never paid retail for anything over $100.

The detective’s first question had dealt with what he called Jessica Carver’s “relationship” with the late David Laney (“We lived together for a year in Mexico”), and also with Laney’s futile attempt to meet with her yesterday morning (“Mr. Partain convinced Dave I didn’t want to talk to him, so he left”).

It was then that Partain asked Knox, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

If Knox minded, neither his voice nor his expression did. “Not at all.”

“What killed him?” Partain said. “There weren’t any obvious bullet or stab wounds, no signs of strangulation or massive blows. That leaves lots of other stuff of course — ice pick, hot shot injection, poison, even a heart attack.”

“Maybe he was smothered.”

Partain nodded and said, “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“Probably because big guys like Laney are hard to smother. But that’s why we do autopsies — to find out what killed our customers.” He examined Partain briefly, then added, “I assume you saw some dead folks in the service.”

Partain nodded.

“Where’d you serve — all over?”

“Pretty much,” Partain said. “First with the infantry in Vietnam, then the States, then Germany and then Central America.”

“Still with the infantry in Central America?”

“Army intelligence.”

“Was your Army intelligence experience why Ms. Altford hired you — or am I hopping to a conclusion?”

Millicent Altford supplied an answer. “He was recommended by an old friend of mine, a retired Army general.”

Knox looked only slightly interested. “To do what, Ms. Altford?”

“I’ve been told or warned — unofficially, of course — that I’m being considered for an appointive job in the new administration, one that’ll require a full field FBI investigation. I retained Mr. Partain to poke around in my past and see if there’s anything that’d upset anybody.”

Knox looked at Partain. “That the kind of stuff you did in the Army, Major?”

“Did I say I was a major?”

“No, but we live in the age of fax, phone and computerized files,” Knox said, smiled apologetically and then asked, “How long were you in?”

“Nineteen years.”

“If you’d stuck it another year, you’d’ve had your pension.”

“Plus PX privileges. I chose to resign instead.”

“Where were you in Central America?”

“El Salvador mostly.”

“Got a little hairy there, didn’t it?”

“Not for an observer — a cautious one.”

Knox had a sip of coffee, put his cup down and, without looking at her, asked, “How’s your health, Ms. Altford?”

“Just fine.”

Knox turned to look at her with that quick practiced gaze that both policemen and doctors use. “You were in the hospital for what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“For observation,” she said.

“No bad news, I hope.”

“None.”

“You checked out at a little past midnight this morning. Kind of an odd time to check out, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t check out. I simply left because I was fed up and my stay there was giving me nightmares. That’s why I called Mr. Partain and asked him to come fetch me.”

“You have any visitors last night?”

“None — except for those in my nightmare.”

“Mr. Partain drove you home in your car — a Lexus, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Like it?”

“Very much.”

“He got out first, went around the car and opened your door. Is that when you saw the brown van — after you got out?”

“I never saw the van,” she said. “Almost before I knew it, Mr. Partain had me down on my hands and knees beside the right front wheel.”

Knox looked at Partain. “Why’d you expect trouble?”

“A van stops on Wilshire, backs into the driveway and doesn’t have a rear license plate. I took routine precautionary measures, that’s all.”

“You saw its rear door open?”

“By then I was down beside Ms. Altford.”

“Then you didn’t see who threw Laney out?”

“No.”

“But you heard him land?”

Partain nodded.

“You know what a dead body sounds like when it hits concrete?”

Partain again nodded.

“Then what?”

“I heard the rear door close and the van drive off.”

“East or west?”

“West.”

“So it was your ears and not your eyes that told you it turned west?”

“My ears are pretty good.”

“What’d you do then?”

“I got up, saw the body and decided to take a closer look.”

“Could you tell it was Laney?”

“No. He was lying on his side, facing the street. As soon as we saw it was Laney, I asked Ms. Altford to call nine-one-one on her car phone.”

Knox smiled contentedly, leaned back in his chair and, still smiling, inspected Jessica Carver first, then Partain and, finally, Millicent Altford. He stopped smiling and asked, “Why d’you think Dave was all dressed up like a doctor, Millie?”

The use of the diminutive was a routine interrogative ploy that Partain had never cared for, especially in Latin America, where it was usually counterproductive. Still, he was curious how Altford would react.

She smiled sweetly at Knox and said, “No idea.”

The detective nodded, turned to Jessica Carver and, once again smiling a little, asked her, “Who wanted Dave dead, Jessie?”

“I did sometimes and don’t call me Jessie. Now then. Back to Dave. I sometimes wanted him dead because he was a liar and a cheat but much better at cheating than lying.”

“Then why’d you stay with him?”

Partain kept his eyes on the detective, waiting for his reaction to Carver’s reply. She cocked her head a little to one side, studied Knox for a moment or two, then said, “Because he was the best fuck in six states, maybe seven.”

Partain heard Millicent Altford’s sigh as he watched Knox give Jessica Carver a cold stare before he said, “But even so, you left him. Why?”

“I ran out of money.”

“Didn’t Laney have money?”

“At first he did, then he didn’t, then suddenly he did but claimed he didn’t and even though I knew he was lying, we spent mine. When that ran out after the first of the year, I told him I was going back to L.A. and find some work.”

“You were in Mexico then?”

“Guadalajara.”

“How’d Dave react when you told him you were splitting?”

“We had a long loud argument that didn’t change my mind. Then, the day before my plane left, he came home and dumped a whole bunch of money on the bed and begged me to stay.”

“How much is a whole bunch?” Knox said.

“Lots.”

“Twenty thousand? Fifty?”

“More.”

“What happened then?”

“We celebrated,” she said. “And after he passed out, I packed my bag, called a taxi, went to the airport and took the first flight I could get to L.A.”