Guilt

CHAPTER 5

Seconds after Liz Wilkinson left with the bones, Moe Reed beeped in.

Milo muttered, “Two ships passing,” clicked his cell on conference.

Reed said, “Got all the deed holders, El Tee, should have a list for you by the time you get back. Anything else?”

“That’ll do it for now, Moses. Regards from your inamorata.”

“My what?”

“Your true love. She was just here.”

“Oh,” said Reed. “Yeah, of course, bones. She have anything to say?”

“Just that she thinks you’re dreamy.”

Reed laughed. “Let’s hope she holds that thought ’cause we’re going out tonight. Unless you need me to work late or something.”

“Not a chance,” said Milo. “This one won’t earn overtime for anyone.”

Reed was waiting outside Milo’s office, holding a sheaf of paper and sipping from a water bottle. His blond hair had grown out a couple of inches from the usual crew cut, his young face was pink and unlined, belying his old-soul approach to life. Massive muscles strained the sleeves of his blue blazer. His pants were creased, his shoes spit-shined. I’d never seen him dress any other way.

“Just got a call, El Tee, got to run. Blunt force trauma DB in a bar on Washington not far from Sony Studios.”

“Go detect.”

“Doesn’t sound like much detection,” said Reed. “Offender’s still at the scene, patrol found him standing on top of the bar yelling space demons made him do it. More like your department, Doc.”

“Not unless I’ve offended someone.”

He laughed, hurried off. Milo unlocked his door.

One of Milo’s lieutenant perks, negotiated years ago in a trade-off deal with a criminally vulnerable former chief of police, is his own space, separate from the big detective room. Another’s the ability to continue working cases, rather than push paper like most lieutenants do. The new chief could’ve abrogated the deal but he was smart enough to check out Milo’s solve stats and though he amuses himself with chronic abuse of “Mr. So-Called Hotshot” he doesn’t fix what isn’t broken.

The downside is a windowless work space the size of a closet. Milo is long-limbed and bulky and when he stretches he often touches plaster. When he’s in a certain mood the place has the feel of an old-fashioned zoo cage, one of those claustrophobic confinements utilized before people started thinking of animals as having souls.

He sank down into his desk chair, setting off a tirade of squeaks, read the list, passed it over.

Holly Ruche’s dream abode was a thirty-one-hundred-square-foot single-family residence situated in what was then the Monte Mar-Vista Tract, completed on January 5, 1927, and sold three months later to Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Thornton. After ten years, possession passed to the Thorntons’ daughter, Marjorie, who unloaded the property thirteen months later to Dr. and Mrs. Malcolm Crowell Larner.

The Larners lived there until 1943, when the deed was transferred to Dr. and Mrs. George J. Del Rios. The Del Rioses resided at the property until 1955, after which possession shifted to the Del Rios Family Trust. In 1961, ownership passed to the Robert and Alice Hannah Family Trust and in ’74 Alice Hannah, newly widowed, took sole possession, a status that had endured until sixty days ago when her heirs sold to Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Ruche.

Initial purchase price: forty-eight hundred dollars. Holly and Matt had gotten a recession bargain at nine hundred forty thousand dollars, with a down payment of a hundred seventy-five thousand and the remainder financed by a low-interest loan.

Milo jabbed the list twice. “Dr. Larner to Dr. Del Rios. The time frame works, that box came from a hospital, and a shady white-coat fits with swiping medical equipment for personal use.”

I said, “I’d start with the period of those newspaper clippings-post-’51. That narrows it to the Del Rioses’ ownership.”

“Agreed. Let’s see what we can learn about these folk.”

He plugged in his department password and typed away, chewing a cold cigar to pulp. Official databases yielded nothing on Dr. George Del Rios other than a death certificate in 1947, age sixty-three, natural causes. A search for other decedents with the same surname pulled up Del Rios, Ethel A., DOD 1954, age sixty-four, cancer, and Del Rios, Edward A., DOD 1960, age forty-five, vehicular accident.

“I like Edward A. as a starting point,” he said. “The trust sold the house a year after he died, so there’s a decent chance he was George and Ethel’s boy and inherited the place.”

I said, “A boy in his thirties who George and Ethel might’ve worried about, so they left the house in trust rather than bequeathed it to him outright. And even though the trustee didn’t get it until ’55, a son could have had access to the property before then, when Mama was living there alone.”

“She goes to bridge club, he digs a little hole.”

“Maybe their lack of faith was due to lifestyle issues.”

“Eddie’s a miscreant.”

“Back then a well-heeled miscreant could avoid stigma, so ‘vehicular accident’ might’ve been code for a one-car DUI. But some stigmas you’d need to take care of yourself. Like a socially embarrassing out-of-wedlock birth.”

He said, “Eddie’s married and the mother’s someone other than wifey? Yeah, that would be blush-inducing at the country club.”

“Even if Eddie was a bachelor playboy, burying a social inconvenience could’ve seemed like a grand idea.”

He thought. “I like it, Alex, let’s dig dirt on this charmer. Pun intended.”

He searched for obituaries on all three family members. Dr. George J. Del Rios’s was featured in the Times and the Examiner. He’d been an esteemed, certain-to-be-missed cardiologist on staff at St. Vincent Hospital as well as a faculty member at the med school where I sometimes taught. No final bio for his widow. Nothing on her at all.

Father Edward Del Rios, director of the Good Shepherd Orphanage of Santa Barbara, had perished when a bus ferrying children from that institution to the local zoo had veered off Cabrillo Boulevard on July 6, 1960. Several of the children had been injured, a few seriously, but all had recovered. The priest and the bus driver hadn’t been so lucky.

The Santa Barbara News-Press covered the crash on its front page, reporting that “several of the terrified youngsters describe the driver, Meldrom Perry, suddenly slumping over the wheel leading to the bus going out of control. The children also report that ‘Father Eddie’ made an heroic attempt to gain control of the vehicle. Both Perry, 54, of Vista, and Father Del Rios, just days from his 46^th birthday, perished after being thrown free of the bus. But the man of God’s valiant attempts may have prevented an even worse disaster. An investigation has begun into allegations that Perry suffered from a prior heart condition, a fact known to the bus charter company, an outfit with previous violations on record.”

“Some playboy,” said Milo. “Poor guy was a damn hero.”

I said, “He lived in Santa Barbara so the house was probably rented out during his ownership.”

“And try finding a tenant. Okay, time to canvass the neighborhood, maybe some old-timer will remember that far back.”

“There’s another reason the house could’ve been left in trust: Father Eddie was in charge but he had siblings.”

“Seeing as he was Catholic?”

“Seeing as most people have siblings. If you can access any trust documents, they’ll list who else benefited.”

It took a while, but an appendix stashed in the bowels of the tax rolls finally yielded the data.

Two brothers, one sister, all younger than Father Eddie. Ferdinand and Mary Alice had passed away decades ago in their sixties, consistent with the genetic endowment bestowed by their parents.

The baby of the family, John Jacob Del Rios, was listed as residing in Burbank. Age eighty-nine.

Milo looked up his number and called. Generally, he switches to speaker so I can listen in. This time, he forgot or chose not to do so and I sat there as he introduced himself, explained the reason for calling as an “occurrence” at John J. Del Rios’s old family home, listened for a while, said, “Thank you, sir,” and hung up.

“Sounds young for his age, more than happy to talk about the good old days. But it needs to be tomorrow, he’s entertaining a ‘lady friend.’ He also let me know he’d been on the job.”

“LAPD?”

“Sheriff.”

He typed some more. Commander John J. Del Rios had run the Sheriff’s Correctional Division from 1967 through 1974, retired with pension, and received a citation from his boss for distinguished service. Further cyber-snooping pulled up a ten-year stretch at a private security firm. After that, nothing.

Milo made a few calls to contacts at the tan-shirts. No one remembered Del Rios.

I said, “Entertaining a lady friend? Maybe he’s our playboy. He’d have been in his twenties, prime time for an active sexual life.”

“We’ll check him out tomorrow. Eleven a.m. After his golf game.”

“Golf, women, the good life,” I said. “A good long life.”

“The priest dies young, the hedonist thrives? Yeah, I love when justice prevails.”