Evidence

CHAPTER 15

Reed and Binchy listened to their instructions out in the hall because four people can’t fit in Milo’s office.

“Sean, I need you to pay a personal visit to an outfit downtown called Beaudry Construction. The object is to get their employment list going five years back. I’m talking names of every single yahoo who worked for them, not just at the Borodi site. In a perfect world, you’ll find our boy Monte. Beaudry’s going to jerk you around because everyone connected to the job signed confidentiality forms, but Nguyen tells me that doesn’t hold water in a criminal case.”

“So we can subpoena them,” said Binchy.

“Once we have a case, we can. Problem is, we need the list for that. But threaten them with whatever you think will work, they still don’t budge, contact the state compensation board and back-reference the job for tax paper. You up for all that?”

Someone else might’ve taken offense.

Sean flexed a Doc Marten. “You bet, Loot.”

“You can go now, Sean.”

“On my way, Loot.”

Reed had watched the exchange, expressionless. His blond crew cut was fresh, he had on the usual blue blazer, khakis, white shirt, and rep tie.

Milo turned to him. “Moses, any theories about how we might break through that confidentiality bullshit and find out who these DSD yokels are? The general feeling is they’re Arabs but no one can say why. I’ve already tried the Internet. Zippo.”

Reed said, “I could cold-call all the Middle East consulates, ask to speak to someone associated with DSD, see if anyone reacts. If that doesn’t work, I move on to the embassies in D.C.”

“Why don’t you start with D.C., in case some consulate type sets off an alarm. See if you can find some old directories for when DSD was there, maybe the number’s listing’s been forwarded.”

“Will do, Loo. In terms of your Internet search, did you check oil-business sites?”

“No. Do it. Your time situation okay?”

“Got plenty of time,” said Reed. “Only one case pending, that stupid-guy shooting on Pico.”

“Two fools in a bar? Thought you closed it.”

“So did I, Loo. Turns out, it’s more complicated because they ran the thread and the bullet angles don’t fit exactly. I’m not such a big thread fan, but if it looks like science, juries love it, right? I got my confession all nailed, there’s no doubt whodunit, but the D.A. won’t proceed until everything’s buttoned down. I’m waiting for the autopsy to verify the flesh-troughs. My vic was supposed to be on the table last week but he’s still in the fridge. I drive down there this morning, thinking I’m going to pick up the autopsy report, all I leave with is excuses.”

“D.A.’s got you being an errand boy?”

Reed shrugged. “Whatever gets the case moving.”

“Crypt must be crazy busy,” said Milo. “I’m having trouble getting my female vic’s autopsy done.”

“They’re busy and it just got worse, Loo. One of their C.I.’s was murdered last night, few blocks away, while I was there. Sheriff’s Homicide was interviewing.”

“I know some of those guys. Who was it?”

“Someone named Bobby,” said Reed.

“Bob Norchow?”

“No, something Hispanic.”

Milo shook his head. “What happened?”

“From what I picked up, attempted robbery gone bad. It’s a tough neighborhood, guess no one’s immune… anyway, I’ve got time, Loo. Anything else?”

“Matter of fact, there is. I’m trying to trace a tip that came in from a pay phone on Venice Boulevard, your old turf. Who at Pacific should I call?”

“Sergeant Sunshine’s okay.”

“Sunshine,” said Milo. “Hope he brings a glow to my damn day.”

Sergeant Patrick Sunshine recommended Milo talk to the car covering that sector of Venice.

A patrolman named Thorpe answered. “That’s one of the last coiners still works, mostly transient dopers use it. Once in a while, street girls when they don’t want to run up their hours.”

Milo said, “My tipster was a male. Older, or trying to sound like it. Pointed me at someone named Monte.”

“Monte,” said Thorpe. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. What time did the tip come in?”

Milo checked the still-thin murder book. “Just after six p.m.”

“Could be anyone. Want me to ask around?”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“Phone booth,” said Thorpe. “Darn thing’s on its last legs, bet the phone company kills it like all the others.”