Dr. Death

CHAPTER 17

"Nor HALF BAD, but no Rembrandt," I said.

Milo ran his finger along the top of the canvas. We were in the Robbery-Homicide room, second story at West L.A. Half a dozen detectives hunched at their desks, a few sidelong stares as Milo propped the painting on his chair.

Zero Tollrance's masterpiece was all browns and blacks and muted light, just the merest wash of pink where the left arm of the man on the dissecting table had been reduced to tendons and ligaments.

Cadaver with the fussy, soft face of Eldon Mate. Even Tollrance's middling talent made that clear. Seven men, extravagantly robed and ruffed and goateed, surrounded the dissecting table, gazing down at the corpse with academic detachment. The dissector-another Mate-was clad in a black robe, white lace collar, tall black hat, probing the shredded arm with a scalpel, wearing a look of boredom.

In the original, the artist's genius had distracted from the cruelty of the scene. Tollrance's cartoon drove it home. Angry swirling brushstrokes, pigments laid on thickly to the point of impasto, sharp peaks of paint stabbing up from the surface of the canvas.

A smallish canvas-twenty-four by eighteen inches. I'd expected something far more grand.

Reducing Mate to size?

Milo lifted a stack of message slips, let them fall to the desk in disarray. "Kugler, the art dealer, has been bugging me all day. All of a sudden, he likes realism."

"Probably got an offer," I said. "Same guy who'll pay big bucks for a stained blue dress."

Phones rang, keys clicked, someone laughed. The room smelled of scorched coffee and gym sweat. "Got sleazeball talk shows wanting to interview me, too. And a six A.M. memo from the brass reminding me to keep my mouth shut."

"Tollrance has bought himself some celebrity, too," I said. "I wonder how long that'll satisfy him."

"Meaning he'll want true realism?"

I shrugged.

"Well," he said, "so far, he hasn't made any slipups." He tapped the upper edge of the painting. "Not a single print. Maybe you're right, a careful head case." He angled the painting toward me. "Does seeing this give you any other ideas?"

"Not really," I said. "Rage toward Mate. Ambivalence about Mate. You don't need me to tell you that."

His phone rang. "Sturgis-Oh yeah, hi." His expression brightened, as if an internal filament had ignited. "Really? Thanks. When?… Sure, that would be better than convenient. I've got Dr. D. with me- Yeah, sure, great.

"Talk about karma," he said, hanging up. "That was Petra. Seems she came up with some stuff on Donny. She's on her way to a trial at the Santa Monica courthouse, will stop by in ten minutes. We'll meet her out in front."

We waited by the curb. Milo paced and smoked a Tipar-illo and I thought about the Doss family. A few moments later, Petra Connor drove up in a black Accord, parked in the red zone, and got out with her usual economy of movement. I'd never seen her when she wasn't wearing a black pantsuit. This time it was a slim-cut thing with indigo overtones, some kind of slinky wool that flattered her long, lean frame and looked beyond a D-II's budget. On her feet were medium-heeled black lace-ups. Her black hair was cropped in the usual no-nonsense wedge cut, and slung across her shoulder was a black leather bag the texture of a wind-whipped motorcycle jacket. No gun visible beneath the tailored jacket, so she was probably toting it in the bag.

The bad September light was somehow kind to her ivory skin, setting off her tight jaw, pointed chin, ski-slope nose. Pretty, in a taut way, but something about her always warned, Keep Your Distance. The dedication with which she'd followed Billy Straight's recovery told me there was warmth tucked behind the searching brown eyes. But that was inference on my part; she was all business, never talked about herself. I figured she'd jumped high hurdles to get where she was.

"Hi," she said, flashing a cool smile, and I knew what I was supposed to ask. "How's our guy?"

"Doing great from what I can tell. Straight A's, and he tested out a full grade ahead-amazing, considering most of what he knows is self-taught. A true intellectual, just like you said at the beginning.

What about his ulcer?" I said. "Clearing up slowly. He fusses about taking his medicine, but for the most part he's compliant. He's also making some friends. Finally. Other 'creative' types, quoth the principal. Mrs. Adamson's big worry is he doesn't want to do much other than study and read and play with his computer."

"What would she prefer him to do?"

"I'm not sure there's anything specific-she just seems to be nervous. About doing everything right. I think she feels she needs to report to me. She calls me once a week."

"Hey, you're the long arm of the law," I said.

Small smile. "I know she really cares about him. I tell her not to worry, he'll be fine."

She blinked, wanting confirmation.

"Good advice," I said.

Rosy coins appeared on her cheeks. "All in all he's getting plenty of attention. Maybe too much, considering that he's basically a loner? Sam shows up like clockwork on Friday, takes him to Venice on weekends. San Marino all week, then the freak scene. How's that for contrast?"

"Multicultural experience. I'm sure he can handle it."

"Yes-good. If any problems come up, I assume it's okay to call you."

"Anytime."

"Thanks." She turned to Milo. "Sorry, I know you're waiting for this." Out of the leather bag came a folder. "Here's the info on your Mr. Salcido. Turns out he's a known quantity to us. Because of the Hollywood redevelopment thing, Councilwoman Goldstein's office ordered us to keep tabs on transients-the Bum Squad, we called it, lasted a month. Salcido's name came up in one Bum Squad file. No arrest, all they did was canvass squats, find out what the squatters were up to. If they saw drugs or any other crime, they could make an arrest, but basically it was to appease Councilwoman Goldstein."

Milo flipped the chart open. Petra said, "Salcido was living in an abandoned building near Western and Hollywood-the one with the big frieze in front, I think Louis B. Mayer or some other film type built it. Later, the Bummers found out he had a felony record and noted it accordingly."

"Our tax dollars at work." Milo thumbed the pages of the file. "Was he living alone?"

"Unless a known associate is noted, he probably was."

"Says they found him in 'a room full of garbage.'

As you see, he claimed to be gainfully employed but couldn't produce backup. The squad pegged him as mentally ill, probably a dope fiend, suggested he seek some help at a community MH center. He refused.

Why didn't the squad evict him?

Without a complaint from the owner, no grounds. I stopped off at the building this morning but he's gone, everyone is. Just construction workers, big remodeling project. Sorry it's not more."

"Hey, it's something-thanks for taking the time," said Milo. "Squatting by himself…"

I knew he was thinking about the abandoned building in Denver. He turned a page. "No mug shot?"

"The Bummers didn't carry cameras. But look at the back page, I got a booking photo faxed down from Marin County Jail, not terrific quality." Milo found the shot, studied it, showed it to me. Eldon Salcido Mate, freshly inducted to penal custody, numbered plaque dangling from a chain around his neck, the mandatory sullen stare leavened by a hard, hot light in the eyes that might've been madness, or just the glare of the room.

Long, stringy hair but clean-shaven. Light-complected, as Guillerma Salcido had said. Round face, weak around the jowls. Small, prissy features that could've made incarceration a greater-than-usual challenge. Premature wrinkles. A young man aging too fast.

Striking resemblance to a face on a dissecting table; Guillerma Salcido Mate had been right. Donny was his father's son.

Milo read some more. "Says here he claimed to be working in a tattoo parlor on the Boulevard, didn't remember which one."

"I tried a few places, no one knows him. But the jailer up in Marin said Salcido had done some skin work on other inmates, that was probably what kept him safe."

"Safe from what?" I said.

"The jail's organized along gang lines," she said. "Someone without affiliation is fair prey unless they've got something to offer. Salcido sold his art, but the jailer said no one wanted him in their group because he was seen as a mental case."

"Tattoos," said Milo. "The boy likes to draw."

Petra nodded. "I read about the painting. You're thinking it's him?"

"Seems like a good bet."

"What's the painting like?"

"Not what I'd want in my dining room." Milo shut the file. "You're an artist, aren't you?"

"Not hardly."

"Come on, I've seen your stuff."

"My past life," she insisted.

"Want to see it?"

She looked at her watch. "Sure, why not?"

She held it at arm's length. Squinted. Turned it around, inspected the sides. Placed it on the floor and backed away ten feet before returning to get another close look.

"He really slapped on the paint," she said. "Looks like he worked quickly here-probably a palette knife as well as a brush… here, too… fast but not sloppy, the composition's actually pretty good-he got the proportions just about right."

She turned away from the painting. "This is only a guess, but what I see here is someone alternating between careful draftsmanship and abandon-at some point he planned meticulously, but once he got into the groove he gave himself over to it."

Milo frowned, then glanced at me.

"Anyway," said Petra. "So much for art criticism."

"What does that mean?" Milo asked her. "Being careful and then cutting loose."

"That he's like most artists."

"You see any talent here?"

"Oh sure. Nothing staggering, but he can render. Plenty of ambition, too-redoing Rembrandt."

"Rembrandt and tattoos," said Milo.

"If Salcido did tattoos well enough to keep himself out of trouble in prison, he's got to be pretty good. Skin work's challenging, you have to get a feel for the changing density of the epidermis, movement, resistance to the needle."

Now she was flushed pink.

Milo smiled. "I'm not even going to ask."

She smiled back. "High school. Anyway, got to run. Hope it helps."

"I owe you, Petra."

"I'm sure I'll find a way to collect." Shifting her bag to her other shoulder, she moved toward the stairs. "I wish I could tell you we'll have our eyes peeled for Salcido, Milo, but you know how it is-sorry to run."

"Good luck in court," said Milo.

"Hopefully I won't need luck. No-brainer shooting that got transferred to SM because downtown's back-logged with potential three-strikers. Unattractive defendant, inexperienced public defender with a caseload as long as The English Patient. Today I will triumph! Nice to see you, Doctor-let's keep rooting for Billy."

Back to Milo's desk. During the time we'd spent with Petra, a new message slip had been added to the stack.

"Special Agent Fusco again. The painting probably heated up his attention-seeking blood." He tossed the slip, looked across the room.

Detectives Korn and Demetri were headed our way. They stopped at the desk, glaring, as if it were a barrier to freedom. Milo made the introductions. They nodded stiffly, didn't offer their hands. Demetri's eyeglasses were slightly askew and his bald head was sunburned and peeling.

"What's up, gentlemen?"

"Nothing," said Demetri. He had one of those voices so low it sounded electronically manipulated. "That's the problem."

Korn ran his finger under his collar. His blow-dried hair seemed an affront to his partner's tonsure. "Nothing with whipped cream and a cherry," he said. "We spent all morning at Haiselden's neighborhood. Found the gardener, big deal. Haiselden's paid up for the month, guy has no idea where senor is, couldn't give a shit where senor went. Haiselden's mail is piling up at the West-wood post office, but we can't get hold of it without a warrant. You want us to do that?"

"Yes," said Milo.

"Figures."

"Problem, Steve?"

"No. No problem at all." Korn played with his collar again. Demetri removed his glasses and wiped them on a corner of his sport coat.

"Don't lose heart, boys," said Milo. "Haiselden's mail stop shows he definitely rabbited. So keep on him-who knows, you might solve this one."

A glance passed between the two detectives. Demetri shifted his weight to his left leg. "That's assuming Haiselden has anything to do with Mate. We discussed it and we're not convinced he does."

"Why's that, Brad?"

"There's sure no evidence in that direction. Besides, it doesn't make sense. Haiselden made money from Mate. Why would he off his meal ticket? We figure he just went on a vacation-probably got depressed because he lost his meal ticket."

"Taking some time off to reflect," said Milo.

"Right."

"Diagnosis of depression, he decided to deal with his feelings on some sunny beach."

Demetri looked at Korn for support. Korn said, "Makes sense to me." His jaw tightened. "With all the publicity over Mate, maybe Haiselden wants time to sort things out. Face it, you've got nothing on his being dirty."

"Nothing at all," said Milo. "Except for the fact that he was a damn publicity hound who rabbited during what has to be the most public moment of his life."

Neither of the younger men spoke.

"Okay then," said Milo. "So how about you write up that warrant for his mail, see if you can get hold of his credit card bills, too. Maybe there'll be a travel agent charge somewhere in there and you can verify your vacation hypothesis."

Another passed glance. Demetri said, "Yeah, sure, whatever you say. We figured we'd hit the gym first. All the hours we've been puttin' in, we haven't had a chance to work out."

"Sure. Get yourselves a coupla Jamba Juices afterward-make sure they put plenty of enzymes in them."

"Something else," said Demetri. "That painting, we just saw it. Real piece of shit, if you ask me."

"Everyone's a critic," said Milo.