Compulsion

CHAPTER 6

Tony Mancusi’s hands shook as he fought to get his key into the lock. When he dropped it the second time, I took over. Once we were inside the grimy little room he called home, he braced himself against a wall and wailed.

Milo watched him, impassive as a garden gnome.

Some detectives put a lot of stock in people’s initial reactions to bad news, suspecting the too-stoic loved one, as well as the scenery-chewing hysteric.

I reserve judgment because I’ve seen rape victims blasé to the point of flippancy, innocent bystanders twitching with what had to be guilt, psychopaths offering renditions of shock and grief so convincing you wanted to cuddle them and feed them soup.

But it was hard not to be impressed with the heaving of Mancusi’s rounded shoulders and the racking squalls that nearly lifted him off a threadbare ottoman. Behind him was a wall fitted with a Murphy bed.

Ella Mancusi had baked her own birthday cake. Maybe her son was remembering.

When he stopped for breath, Milo said, “We’re sorry for your loss, sir.”

Mancusi worked himself to his feet. The change in his complexion was sudden and convincing.

From indoor pallor to green around the edges.

He hurtled six feet to a shabby kitchenette and vomited into the sink.

When the heaves stopped, he splashed water onto his face, returned to the ottoman with raw eyes and strands of pale hair plastered to a greasy forehead. A fleck of vomit had landed on his shirt, just beneath a wrinkled collar.

Milo said, “I know this is a hard time to talk, but if there’s anything you can tell us-”

“What could I tell you!”

“Is there anyone – anyone at all – who’d want to hurt your mother?”

“Who?”

“That’s what we’re-”

“She was a teacher!” said Mancusi.

“She retired-”

“They gave her an award! She was tough, but fair, everyone loved her.” He wagged a finger. “Want the grade? Do your work! That was her motto.”

I wondered how that had meshed with a son who lived on disability and borrowed rent money.

C student, if he applied himself.

Milo said, “So there’s no one you can think of.”

“No. This is… this is insane.”

The vomit fleck fell to the carpet, inches from Milo’s desert boot.

“Insane nightmare.” Mancusi lowered his head. Gasped.

“You okay, sir?”

“Little short of breath.” He sat up, breathed slowly. “I get that way when I’m stressed.”

Milo said, “If you don’t mind, we’ve got a few more questions.”

Mancusi said, “What?”

“After your father passed, did your mother have any romantic relationships?”

“Romantic? She liked books. Watched a few soap operas. That was her romantic.” He flipped his hair, cocked his head, smoothed a peroxide strand from a sweat-soaked brow.

Effete symphony of movements that recalled the posturing Ed Moskow had observed.

“Any close friends, male or female?”

Mancusi shook his head, noticed the vomit fleck on the floor, and raised his eyebrows. The carpet was grease-stained, fuzzed by crumbs and dust bunnies. Some sort of beige, darkened to the hue of a smoker’s teeth.

“No social life at all?” said Milo.

“Nothing. After she retired, Mom liked to be by herself. All the L.A. Unified bullshit. She put up with it for thirty years.”

“So she became a private person.”

“She was always a private person. Now she could be herself.” Mancusi stifled a sob. “Oh, Mom…”

“It’s a tough thing to deal with,” said Milo.

Silence.

“Did your mother have any hobbies?”

“What?”

Milo repeated the question.

“Why?”

“I’m trying to know her.”

“Hobbies,” said Mancusi. “She liked puzzles – crosswords, Sudoku. Sudoku was her favorite, she liked numbers. She had a math certificate but they had her teaching social studies.”

“Any other games?”

“What do you mean? She was a teacher. She didn’t get… this didn’t happen because of her hobbies. This was a… a… a lunatic.”

“So no hobbies or interests that might have gotten her into debt?”

Mancusi’s watery brown eyes drifted to Milo’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“These are questions we need to ask, Mr. Mancusi. Did your mom buy lottery tickets, do online poker, anything of that nature?”

“She didn’t even own a computer. Neither do I.”

“Not into the Internet?”

“Why are you asking this? You said she wasn’t robbed.”

“Sorry,” said Milo. “We need to be thorough.”

“My mother did not gamble.”

“Was she a person of regular habits?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she have routines – like coming out the same time each morning to collect the paper.”

Mancusi sat there, eyes glazed, not moving.

“Sir?”

“She got up early.” He clutched his belly. “Ohh… here we go again.”

Another rush to the sink. This time, dry heaves left him coughing and panting. He opened a space-saver fridge, took out a bottle of something clear that he uncapped, and swigged. Returned with the liquid still in hand.

Diet tonic water.

Grabbing a section of his own gut, he squeezed hard, rolled the adipose. “Too fat. Used to drink G and T’s, now it’s just sugarless T.” He drank from the bottle, failed to suppress a belch. “Mom never gained a pound from the day she was married.”

“She watched her diet?” said Milo.

Mancusi smiled. “Never had to, she could eat pasta, sugar, anything. I get it from Dad. He died of a heart attack. I need to watch myself.”

“The old cholesterol.”

Mancusi shook his head. “Mom – did they hurt her?”

“They?”

“Whoever. Was it bad? Did she suffer? Tell me she didn’t.”

“It was quick,” said Milo.

“Oh, God.” More tears.

Milo handed him a tissue from the mini-pack he always brings to notifications. “Mr. Mancusi, the reason I asked about your mother’s social life is we do have an eyewitness who describes the assailant as around her age.”

Mancusi’s fingers flexed. The tissue dropped. “What?”

Milo repeated Edward Moskow’s description of the killer, including the blue plaid cap.

Mancusi said, “That’s nuts.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell?”

Mancusi flipped his hair again. “Of course not. Dad had a bunch of caps like that. After he went bald and didn’t want sun on his head. This is totally insane.”

Milo said, “What about a black Mercedes S600? That ring any bells?”

“Don’t know anything about cars,” said Mancusi.

“It’s a big four-door sedan,” said Milo. “Top-of-the-line model.”

“Mom wouldn’t know anyone with a car like that. She was a teacher, for God’s sake!”

“Please don’t be offended by this next question, Mr. Mancusi, but did your mother know anyone associated – even remotely – with organized crime?”

Mancusi laughed. Kicked the vomit fleck. “Because we’re Italian?”

“It’s something we need to look into-”

“Well, guess what, Lieutenant: Mom wasn’t Italian. She was German, her maiden name was Hochswelder. Italian was Dad’s side, he grew up in New York, claimed when he was a kid he knew all kinds of Mafia guys. Had all these stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Bodies tossed out of cars, guys getting shot in barber chairs. But no way, no, that’s nuts, those were just stories and Mom hated them, called them ‘coarse.’ Her idea of suspense was Murder, She Wrote, not The Sopranos.”

He returned to the kitchen, placed the tonic water bottle on a counter. “Gambling, gangsters – this is ridiculous.”

“I’m sure it seems that way, but-”

“There’s no reason for her to be dead, okay? No reason, no fucking reason. It’s stupid, insane, shouldn’t have happened – could you stand up?”

“Pardon?”

“Stand up,” said Mancusi. “Please.”

After Milo obliged, Mancusi slipped behind him and yanked down on the Murphy bed. Halfway through, he breathed in sharply, slammed a palm into the small of his back, and straightened. “Disk.”

Milo finished the job, revealing a wafer-thin mattress, gray sheets once white.

Mancusi began easing himself down toward the bed. Sweat rolled down his cheeks.

Milo reached out to help him.

“No, no, I’m fine.”

We watched as he lowered himself in stages. He ended up curled on the bed, knees drawn to his chest, still breathing hard. “I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”

Milo asked him about other family members.

Mancusi’s rapid head shake rocked the flimsy mattress. “Mom had a miscarriage after me and that was it.”

“What about aunts, uncles-”

“No one she’s close to.”

Milo waited.

Mancusi said, “Nobody.”

“No one to help you?”

“With what?”

“Getting through this.”

“G and T used to be a big help. Maybe I’ll get back into that. Think that’s okay?” Harsh laughter.

Milo didn’t answer.

Mancusi said, “Maybe fuck everything, I should eat and drink what I want. Maybe I should stop trying to impress anyone.” Tears flowed down his cheeks. “Who’s to impress?”

He turned onto his back. “Could you get me some Aleve – it’s in the cabinet by the stove.”

I found the bottle, shook out a pill, filled a water glass from the tap.

Mancusi said, “I need two.” When I returned, he snatched both tablets from my hand, waved away the water. “I swallow dry.” He demonstrated. “My big talent… I need to rest.”

He rolled away from us.

Milo said, “So sorry for your loss. If you think of anything, call.”

No answer.

As we made it to the door, Mancusi said, “Mom always hated those caps.”

Outside the building, Milo said, “Think that was a performance?”

“Moskow described him as theatrical, but who knows?”

“Theatrical how?”

I recounted the hand-on-hip hair toss.

He frowned. “Did a bit of that just now. But he did barf righteously.”

“People get sick for all sorts of reasons,” I said. “Including guilt.”

“Symbolic catharsis? Or whatever you guys call it.”

“I call it throwing up. He’s an only child with no close relatives. I’d really like to know if there was a will.”

“Agreed,” he said. “The question is how to find it.”

“Maybe those relatives she wasn’t close to can tell you.”

“Tony minimizing the relationships because he didn’t want me talking to them?”

“Family values,” I said. “It’s where it all starts.”

He drove three blocks, popped the unmarked’s trunk, gloved up, and rifled through the box of personal effects he’d taken from Ella Mancusi’s bedroom.

No mention of any relatives other than Tony, but an attorney’s card in a rubber-bound stack elicited a hand-pump.

Jean Barone, Esq. Wilshire Boulevard, Santa Monica.

The other cards were for plumbers, electricians, A.C. and heating repair, a grocery delivery service.

Men coming in and out of the house, maybe getting to know Ella Mancusi’s routine. If no other leads surfaced soon, they’d all need to be checked out.

Milo phoned Jean Barone and after she got over the shock, she said yes, she’d drawn up Mrs. Mancusi’s will, preferred not to discuss client matters over the phone.

As we headed for Santa Monica, Milo said, “Maybe it’s me, but she sounded eager.”

Jean Barone met us in the cramped, empty lobby of her building, a two-story structure just west of Yale. The space needed freshening. She looked as if she’d just renewed her makeup.

She was a middle-aged, wavy-haired brunette packed tightly into a peacock-blue knockoff Chanel suit. After checking Milo’s I.D., she took us up in the elevator to her two-room suite. No name on the plain white door but hers. Below her degree, supplementary credentials as a Notary Public and Certified Tax Preparer.

Her office smelled of Shalimar. She took a seat behind a dark, wood-like desk. “So horrible about Mrs. Mancusi. Any idea who did this?”

“Not yet. Is there anything you can tell us about her, ma’am?”

“Not really. The only thing I did for her was draw up the will, and that was five years ago.”

“Who referred her to you?”

“The yellow pages. I’d just graduated, had no referral base yet. She was one of my only clients in six months. It was easy, basically boilerplate.”

She opened a drawer and drew out a single sheet of paper. “Here’s your copy. No confidentiality for deceased individuals.”

“There was no copy in Mrs. Mancusi’s house.”

“She didn’t want one,” said Barone. “Said I should keep it.”

“How come?”

Barone shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t want anyone finding it.”

Milo scanned the will. “This is all of it?”

“Given her situation, there was no need to get fancy. The estate was her house, plus a pension, a little cash in the bank. No liens, no encumbrances, no attachments.”

“Only one heir listed.”

“Her son,” said Barone. “I did suggest there were steps she could take to reduce the estate tax burden on him. Like putting the house into a joint trust with a lifetime usage clause for her. She wasn’t interested.”

“Why not?”

“She wouldn’t tell me and I didn’t pry. She was more interested in my hourly rate, clearly didn’t want to spend an extra dime.”

Milo handed me the will. In the event of Anthony Mancusi Jr.’s pre-deceasing his mother, everything was willed to the Salvation Army.

Milo said, “She talk at all about the son?”

“Is he a suspect?”

“We’re looking into everyone close to her.”

“Bet that’s not a huge crowd.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She was polite,” said Jean Barone, “but a little… I got the feeling she wasn’t too sociable. No interest in small talk, cut to the chase. Or maybe she was just minimizing the billable hours. You know that generation. Careful with a buck.”

“Unlike today’s generation,” said Milo.

“My two kids have great jobs but they’re overdrawn on their credit cards.”

“Maybe Mrs. Mancusi thought her son was irresponsible and that’s why she didn’t want to give him the house.”

“She wouldn’t have actually been giving it to him, just – ” Barone smiled. “Functionally, it’s the same thing, so maybe you’ve got a point. But if she didn’t trust him, she didn’t tell me. I can’t overemphasize how reserved she was. But polite. Ladylike. It’s so strange to think of her being murdered. Was it a robbery?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“You’re thinking the son wanted to push things along?”

“We’re not thinking anything yet.”

“Whatever you say.” Barone batted her lashes.

Milo got up. “Thanks for the copy. And for the nonbillable time.”

“Sure,” she said, touching his hand. “You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.”

During the ride down I said, “Must be the uniform – oops, you’re not wearing one.”

He said, “Nah, my cologne. Eau de schmo.”

It was four p.m. by the time we headed for the Prestige Rent-A-Car lot in Beverly Hills. During the drive, Milo called the motor lab. A couple of errant hairs and various wool, cotton, and linen fibers had showed up in the Mercedes, but no blood or body fluids. The car had been vacuumed recently by someone who’d taken care not to leave prints. The lab would be removing the door panels tomorrow but the tech cautioned Milo not to expect too much.

He said, “Story of my life,” and drove faster. “Ella’s estate was mostly her house. What do you think it’s worth?”

I said, “That part of Westwood? Million three, minimum.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Nice windfall for a loser like Tony.”

I said, “Ella wasn’t interested in reducing his tax burden and she stood by as he lost the apartment on Olympic and ended up in that dive.”

“Mommy thinks he’s a loser and he knows it.”

“Nothing like self-loathing to stoke rage,” I said. “And this was a healthy, youthful seventy-three-year-old who planned to be around for a while. Meaning extended poverty for Tony.”

The unmarked’s radio kicked in with a message to call the station.

“Sturgis, I’m on my way to a… who? Okay, tell them… tomorrow. Afternoon. I’ll call them in the morning to set up a time… handle them with care.”

Click.

“Antoine Beverly’s parents dropped by the station. Downtown told them I’m on the case, they want to meet me. Feel like sitting in? It could turn out to be a situation where psychological sensitivity is called for.”

“Sure, just give me a couple hours’ notice.”

He said, “Thanks – oh, man, look at all that chrome.”

Prestige Automotive Executive Services amounted to a cracked concrete lot covered by a canvas awning. Small-print signage, two dozen vehicles crowded nose-to-bumper, and a shed-like office to one side.

“All that chrome” was a mass of Porsches, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, a mammoth Rolls-Royce Phantom, a pair of Bentley GT coupes – smaller cousins to Nicholas Heubel’s stately sedan. Up in front, three Mercedes S600s.

Two silver, one black. A vacant slot next to the black car.

Iron posts marked both edges of the driveway. Between them, a limp length of chain snaked across the cement. A key lock was looped to a ring that passed through the right-hand post. Shiny, but cheap.

Milo’s laughter lacked amusement. “A gazillion worth of wheels and they use drugstore crap. I could pick this under the influence of any number of mind-altering substances.”

In the office, a small man around thirty sat next to a folding card table and listened to reggaeton. The tag on his blue shirt said Gil. The tattoos brocading his neck and arms said his pain threshold was high. His black hair was perfectly combed, his soul patch squared to the size of a Scrabble tile. On the wall were a tool-company calendar and Playboy centerfolds that made me feel like a ten-year-old kid.

Milo flashed the badge. The man switched off the radio. “Yeah, they told me you were coming.”

Milo said, “You’re off the beaten path, Mr…”

“Gilbert Chacon.”

“How do customers find you, Mr. Chacon?”

“We don’t rent to no customers. The rental lot’s on La Cienega. This is the ultra-luxury lot. We do calls from hotels, it’s all delivery.”

“Guest wants a car, you bring it to them.”

“Yeah,” said Chacon, “but we don’t deal with no guests, just the hotels, everything goes on the hotel bill.”

“So not much traffic here.”

“Nobody comes here.”

“Someone came here last night.”

Chacon’s mouth screwed up. “Never happened before.”

“What’s your security setup?”

“Chain and a lock,” said Chacon.

“That’s it?”

Chacon shrugged. “The police is what, a minute away? Beverly Hills, you got cops all over the place.”

“Is there a night watchman?”

“Nope.”

“Alarm system?”

“Nope.”

“All those fancy wheels?” said Milo.

Chacon reached back. His fingers grazed a clapboard wall. He must’ve liked the feel because he began stroking the wood. “The cars got alarms.”

“Including the Mercedes that got lifted?”

“It come with a system,” said Chacon. “They all do.”

“Was the system activated?”

Chacon’s hand left the wall and rested on the desk. His eyes floated up to the low plasterboard ceiling. “Supposed to be.”

Milo smiled. “In a perfect world?”

Gilbert Chacon said, “I’m the day supervisor, come at nine, leave at four thirty. At night, it’s up to the main lot what happens.”

“On La Cienega.”

“Yup.”

“Who has the key to the lock?”

“Me.” Chacon reached into his pocket and brought out a keychain.

“Who else?”

“The main lot. Maybe other people, I dunno. I just started working here a couple months ago.”

“So there could be copies of the key floating around?”

“That would be stupid,” said Chacon.

I said, “The lock looks new.”

Chacon said, “So?”

Milo said, “Someone did manage to unlock the chain. Boosted the Benz, put forty-three miles on it, cleaned it up, brought it back before nine, and laid the chain back in place – if it was in place when you got here.”

“It was.”

“What time was that?”

“Like I said, they want me here at nine.” Chacon’s eyes rose to the ceiling again.

“Maybe you were a little late?”

“That would be stupid.”

“So you arrived on time.”

“Yeah.”

“When you got here at nine, nothing unusual made you look twice.”

“Nope.”

“Who’s responsible for locking the chain at four thirty?”

“Me.” Chacon licked his lips. “And I did it.”

“What if a car comes back after four thirty?”

“If it’s from the main lot, they unlock and put it in.”

“That happen often?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about last night?”

Chacon got up and opened a file cabinet next to a watercooler. Miss January smiled down as he leafed through folders.

“Yesterday was no bring-backs. Right now, we only got one car out, period. Black Phantom over to the L’Ermitage on Burton. Some Arab sheik and his driver are using it for three weeks.”

“Business is slow?”

“It comes and goes.” Chacon’s eyes took another ride, this time from side to side.

Milo said, “Anyone come by recently, show interest in the cars?”

“Nope.”

“Know why we’re asking these questions, sir?”

“Nope. Sir.”

“The car was used in a murder.”

Chacon blinked twice. “You’re kidding. Who got murdered?”

“A nice old lady.”

“That’s bad.”

“Real bad,” said Milo. “She mighta been killed by a not-so-nice old man.” He described the blue-capped killer.

“No way,” said Chacon, over the music.

“You think it’s impossible an old guy would do something like that?”

“No, what I’m saying is I never saw no one like that.”

“How about anyone walking around the lot, checking out the wheels?”

Chacon shook his head. “It’s real quiet here, the only time someone comes is when a car’s broke and the main lot sends a mechanic.”

Milo turned off the music. The silence made Chacon blink repeatedly.

“No one loitered. Or just hung around? Anyone, even a homeless guy?”

“For sure no.”

“For sure?”

“There was someone I’d tell you.” Chacon reached for the radio dial. Thought better of it.

Milo said, “’Cause you want to cooperate.”

“Yeah.”

We returned to the car. Running Chacon’s name through the system brought up a Boyle Heights address, no outstanding wants or warrants. Three arrests ten years ago.

Two gang-related assaults and a burglary pled down to petty theft, all in Rampart Division.

“Old gangbanger,” I said.

“That’s who they put in charge of hot wheels.”

“He moved to a new neighborhood, works a straight job.”

“Reformed?”

“It happens.”

“But you think not,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“That question about the new lock. You’re wondering if he forgot to bolt up, found the chain down this morning, bought a replacement.”

“Mind reader,” I said. “Also, his eyes moved a lot.”

“Goddamn pinball machine. Maybe it’s worse and someone paid him to leave the chain off last night.”

“Or the killer picked it,” I said. “Cheap drugstore crap.”

He looked over at the shack. “A guy with Chacon’s past is wise to the drill, he’s got no motivation to give anything up. I get closer to the bad guy, I can come back with leverage, offer him a break on aiding and abetting.”

Once, not if.

Nice to see him thinking about the future.