Compulsion

CHAPTER 30

A call to the company that had leased the house to Nicholas Heubel firmed up the details.

A-List Leading Man had owned the property for five years, purchasing it as part of a divorce settlement with his fourth wife. The plan had been for her to live there, but she’d changed her mind and moved to Colorado with a younger actor, where A-List bought her a ranch. Upon the advice of his business manager, the house had been converted to a rental.

Since then, three tenants had been in residence.

Two young families with “industry connections” and, for the past twenty-two months, Nicholas Heubel.

Heubel had cold-called the company, representing himself as a freelance investor, produced a bank account “more than substantial enough to qualify.” He’d paid first and last months’ rent plus a damage deposit with a twenty-four-thousand-dollar money order.

The leasing agent, still miffed about being fired, promised to fax over Heubel’s rental application and any other paperwork in the file.

Milo said, “Time to talk to Tony Mancusi.”

As we set out on the drive to Hollywood, he phoned Sean Binchy. “Forget the paint-and-chrome stuff. Here’s something real you can do.”

Spelling out the precise wording of a warrant for the vanilla house, he named a judge likely to speed things along. “See if you can get a current photo of Heubel. Asshole’s a shape-shifter but maybe we can get a decent likeness… Yeah, it is weird. And all your fault, Sean… I’m kidding. You did good.”

Tony Mancusi’s Toyota remained where we’d last seen it.

No answer to the bell ring.

We squeezed through a cramped walk-space narrowed further by ragged planting and made our way to the back of the building. A slim rear door looked out to a Dumpster-lined alley. Garbage overflowed the containers and specks of trash had blown up the asphalt.

I said, “This reminds me of something. The back of Leonora Bright’s salon.”

“That so.” He scrutinized the alley, stepped to the door.

Solid-core, hefty deadbolt.

Please Keep Locked at All Times sign affixed dead center.

The knob turned easily. The door swung open.

Mariachi music from somewhere upstairs was loud enough to soundtrack the hallway. Bright white hallway, carelessly painted blue doors.

As we reached Tony Mancusi’s apartment, a woman stepped out of another unit carrying two see-through plastic bags.

She shot us a look, continued toward the front door.

“Ma’am?”

She stopped.

The badge made her flinch. Fiftyish, short and solid, with nutmeg skin and black hair tied in a tight bun. The bags held party favors and bags of candy.

Milo pointed. “¿Señor esta aqui?”

She shook her head, left hurriedly.

Milo ’s knock on Mancusi’s door fought the beat of the music. No reply. Harder rapping followed by “Mr. Mancusi, it’s Lieutenant Sturgis,” had all the effect of a foam hammer.

He put his ear to the door. “If he’s in there, he’s keeping it quiet.”

The front door swung open and the woman with the bags came back in.

“¿Señora?” said Milo.

“I speak English,” she said. “Sorry for not answering, but you scared me. How’d you get in?”

“Back door was unlocked, ma’am.”

“Again. Just what we need.”

“You’ve had problems with break-ins?”

“Someone upstairs got robbed a few weeks ago. I think they were drug dealers because they never called the police and right after they moved out. Before that, there were a couple more incidents. Every time I see the door open, I lock it. But other people don’t bother.”

Milo asked her name.

“Irma Duran.”

“Looks like someone’s having a party.”

“My grandson’s class. Reward for reading accomplishment. I’m a teacher’s assistant at his school, on my way over there. Reason why I came back is someone else was looking for that guy. His mother, she seemed worried.”

“His mother,” said Milo. “When was she here?”

“When I came out to take my grandson to school – around six thirty. Raymond goes to a magnet in the Valley, we need to leave early. She asked the same thing you did – had I seen him. Said she was his mother and he hadn’t called when he was supposed to. I told her I hadn’t seen him and she looked concerned and left. Is he okay?”

“You know Mr. Mancusi?”

“I see him once in a while, we’ve said hello, that’s about it. Mostly he keeps to himself.”

“What did his mother look like, ma’am?”

“I really didn’t get a good look at her, because I was busy with Raymond and his backpack, getting him to eat his sweet roll and drink his milk. She sounded worried, I felt sorry for her. That’s why I came back. So you could contact her.”

“Appreciate it, Ms. Duran. She didn’t by any chance leave a number?”

“No, sorry.”

“Do you remember anything about her appearance?”

“Um… tall. And she had a nice car. White Lexus, I saw her driving away. That was a little surprising.”

“What was?”

“Her having money. Because he looks like he shops at a thrift store. Now that I think about it, she was just the opposite.”

“Well dressed.”

“Classy,” said Irma Duran. “In an old-fashioned way. Like one of those women you see in old movies, all put together. Suit, stockings, shoes, big leather handbag. Like that Agatha Christie detective?”

“Miss Marple,” he said.

“I love those books,” said Irma Duran. “Exactly like that, conservative – sensible. Except for her scarf, that was different – really colorful. Big like a shawl, all kinds of wild colors. Is the son a drug dealer?”

“Why would you suspect that?”

“He doesn’t do anything all day. Never had a visitor that I’ve seen – oh, I guess that means he isn’t a dealer. At least not out of his apartment.”

Milo said, “Mom’s his first visitor.”

“Moms care,” said Irma Duran. “She seemed so… as if she’d been putting up with him for a while.”

Milo kicked the door hard. The rip of splintering wood cut through trumpets and guitarrón but the panel remained shut. His second attempt broke it free of the frame.

We stood back.

Mancusi’s Murphy bed listed from the wall at an acute angle, propped in place by a nightstand. A pair of arms extended from the sides of the mattress.

Gray mattress except where it was reddish brown.

Most of it, reddish brown.

Splotches the same color topped the nightstand, ran down the drawers, spread on the carpet.

One of the hands was missing two fingers. The severed digits sat in their own pool of blood, shriveled and white, desiccated grubs. A blood trail led to the shabby kitchenette.

Milo got closer to the threshold, kept his feet in the hall but stuck his head inside the apartment.

I heard a sharp intake of breath. Peered around him.

On the counter, next to a box of Advil, sat an empty half gallon of diet tonic water. To the left of the bottle sat a spherical thing on a dinner plate.

Thing with droopy yellow hair.

Tony Mancusi’s eyes were open but his mouth was shut.

The plate made it worse. He’d been served up. A cannibal entrée.

Milo said, “Oh, Lord.”

I had nothing to add.