Guilt

CHAPTER 52

The plan was logical, meticulous, elegant in its simplicity.

Even in the chief’s grudging appraisal. “Assuming you’re lucky, Sturgis.”

At eight thirty a.m., two days after my session with Prema Moon, the tutors from Oxford Educational Services drove through the stout wooden gate of her estate.

Newly scheduled all-day trip to SeaWorld, in San Diego, the kids had visited last year, begged to return. Prema had punted with the classic parental “Soon, one day.”

At seven thirty she announced, “Surprise!” to a quartet of sleepy young faces.

“How come, Mom?”

“Because Sam and Julie say you’ve all been great with your studies.”

“Oh.”

“Whoa. Cool.”

“When are we going?”

“Right now, everyone get dressed. Afterward, Sam and Julie will take you to a great Mexican restaurant and you can all stay up late.”

Mumbled thanks. Big smile from Boo.

At ten fourteen a.m. a brown, dust-caked, kidney-punishing Dodge van rolled through that same gate. Entering Prema’s spread required a thousand feet of climbing past the wrought-iron barrier that blocked access to the tree-shrouded private road. At the top were three identical barriers of weathered oak inlaid with oversized black nail-heads, each equipped with a call box.

Per directions, Milo drove up to the left-hand box. As we waited to enter, I spotted a black glass eye peering from the boughs of a pine. Closed-circuit lens focused on Prema’s gate. Then another, aimed at Donny Rader’s. Maybe he’d installed his own security system. Or Prema cared more about his comings and goings than she’d let on.

I pointed the cameras out to Milo. His placid nod said he’d already seen them.

Four beeps from the call box, the gate swung open smoothly, we rattled through. The brown van had been borrowed from the Westside LAPD impound yard. Cheap stick-on signs on each flank read Adaptive Plumbers. The 213 number below was printed in numerals too small to read from a distance. If someone actually called it, they’d get a disconnect.

I sat up front in the shotgun seat. Behind me was a tech sergeant named Morry Burns who occupied himself playing Sudoku online. The slew of equipment he’d brought, including a portable dolly, occupied the van’s rear storage area. Behind Burns sat K-9 specialist Tyler O’Shea and a panting retriever mix named Sally.

Milo said, “Pooch okay?”

O’Shea said, “She’s awesome. Lives to do the job.”

“All-American work ethic.”

“El Tee, I’ll take her any day over your garden-variety so-called human.”

Prema Moon was waiting for us in the parking lot west of her mansion. The area was an easy acre, paved beautifully, ringed by river rock, cordoned by low privet hedges. Space for dozens of cars but only four today, all compact sedans. Three bore the bumper sticker of a Spanish-language Christian station. The fourth had customized plates reading TRFFLES.

The mansion hovered in the distance, a frothy, pink-beige Mediterranean that almost succeeded in looking old, perched assertively on the property’s highest knoll. Windows gleamed like zircons. Red bougainvillea climbed the walls like gravity-defying rivulets of blood. The hue of the stucco was a perfect foil for an uncommonly blue sky.

Several smaller outbuildings dotted the property, same color, same genre, as if the mansion had dropped pups. North of the structures, walls of cypress surrounded something unseen. To the rear of the property was a black-green cloud of untamed conifer, sycamore, eucalyptus, and oak.

As we got out of the van, Prema strode toward us, holding a sheaf of papers. She wore form-fitted black jeans, a black mock turtle, red suede flats. Her hair was combed out and shiny, held in place by a thin black band. She’d put on lipstick and eye shadow and mascara.

New take on gorgeous.

Milo said, “Morning.”

“Morning, Lieutenant. I just called the tribe, they’re halfway to San Diego, should be gone until eight or even nine. Is that enough time?”

Milo said, “We’ll do our best.” He introduced her to Morry Burns.

She said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Without answering, Burns laid down a pair of metal carrying cases, returned to the van, brought out the dolly. A third trip produced the flat sides of several unassembled cardboard boxes. He walked up to Prema. “Is there some hub where all your computers feed?”

“Like command central? I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think or you don’t know?”

Prema blinked. “No, there’s nothing like that.”

“How many computers on the premises?”

“Don’t know that, either. Sorry.”

“You have a smart-house setup? Crestron running the lights, the utilities, your home theater, all your toys?”

“We do have a system, but I’m not sure the computers go through it.”

“Show me your personal machine. We’ll work backward from there.”

“Right now?”

“You got something better to do?” Burns began stacking his dolly.

Milo pointed to the papers in Prema’s hand.

She said, “I pulled phone records for the last six months. Every line that goes through this property.”

Without looking back, Burns said, “Landlines and cells?”

“Yes.”

“Your employees have personal cell accounts?”

“I’m sure they do-”

“Then that’s not every line.” He made another trip to the van.

“Well … yes,” said Prema. “I just wanted to help.”

Tyler O’Shea appeared with Sally in tow.

Prema said, “A dog?”

Milo said, “While you work with Detective Burns on the hardware, Officer O’Shea will be exploring the property with Sally.”

O’Shea, young, virile, muscular, gawked at Prema. When he managed to engage eye contact, he beamed.

She smiled back. O’Shea blushed.

“Hi, Sally, aren’t you a pretty girl?” She reached to pet the dog. O’Shea blocked her with his arm. “Sorry, ma’am, she needs to concentrate.”

“Oh, of course-concentrate on what?”

Milo said, “Finding anything interesting.”

“You think you’ll find evidence here?”

“We need to be thorough, Ms. Moon.”

Sally’s leash strained as she oriented herself toward the forest. Her nose twitched. She panted faster.

Prema said, “Sally’s one of those … dogs that look for bodies?”

O’Shea said, “That’s part of her repertoire, ma’am.”

“Oh, my.” Head shake.

“What’s back there in the trees, ma’am?”

“Just trees. Honestly, you’re not going to find anything.”

“Hope you’re right, ma’am.” O’Shea clicked his tongue twice. He and Sally headed out at a quick trot.

Morry Burns returned. Tapped his foot. Checked his watch.

Milo said, “Who’s working on the premises today, ma’am?”

“Just the core staff,” she said. “The maids and the cook. Do you need to talk to them?”

“Eventually. Meanwhile, go with Detective Burns. Dr. Delaware and I will stroll around a bit.”

Prema forced a half smile. “Of course. He’s a psychologist, anything can be interesting.”

First stop: the four walls of cypress. An opening on the east side led us into a flat area the size of two football fields. One corner was devoted to a safety-fenced half-Olympic pool with a padlocked, alarmed gate. The opposing corner housed a sunken tennis court. Diagonal to that were a regulation basketball court, a rubber-matted area set up with four trampolines, a moon-bounce, a tetherball pole, two Ping-Pong tables, and a sand pit that hosted a plastic slide, a swing-set, a seesaw, and a yellow vinyl tunnel-maze.

Milo said, “Kid-Heaven, courtesy Super Mom. What’s that, making up for her own shitty childhood?”

“Could be, if you’re in an analytical mood.”

“You’re not?”

“Let’s find the maids and the cook.”

The interior of the house was what you’d expect: the requisite vaulted rooms, quarry-emptying expanses of marble, enough polished wood to threaten a rain forest. The art on the walls was professionally spaced, perfectly framed and lit: oil paintings biased toward women and children as subjects and the kind of pastel landscape that combats insomnia.

The maids were easy to find. Imelda Rojas polished silver in the dining room, Lupe Soto folded laundry in a white-tiled utility room the size of some New York apartments, Maria Elena Miramonte tidied up a playroom that would thrill a preschool class. All three women were in their sixties, solidly built and well groomed, wearing impeccable powder-blue uniforms.

Milo spoke to them individually.

Easy consensus: Senora Prema was wonderful.

Senor Donny was never here.

Despite that, Rader’s name elicited tension but when Milo asked Imelda Rojas what she thought of him she insisted she didn’t know. He kept up the questioning but stepped aside early on and punted to me. My doctorate wasn’t any help, at first; Maria and Imelda were unable, or unwilling, to articulate their feelings about Rader. Then Lupe Soto opined that he was “a sinner,” and when pressed, specified the nature of Rader’s iniquities.

“Putas, always.”

“Lots of girls.”

“No girls, senor, putas. Is good he no live here. Better for the chillin they no see that.”

“He used to bring putas here?”

Lupe said, “You kidding? Always there.”

“His place.”

“Yeah, but we know.”

“How?”

“The TV in the kitchen.”

“Could you show me, please?”

She led us down a double staircase too grand for Tara through a succession of big bright sitting rooms and into a tin-ceilinged, maple-and-steel kitchen easily forty feet long. Mounted on the far wall were a dozen small screens.

Lupe Soto pointed to one. The image was inert. One of the wooden gates.

“See?”

I said, “He didn’t try to hide what he was doing.”

“Nah.”

I showed her the well-worn mug shot of Charlene Chambers aka Qeesha D’Embo aka Simone Chambord.

“La negra?” said Lupe Soto. “Yeah, she, too.”

“She went over to Senor Donny’s place?”

“All the time. But I don tell Senora Prema.”

“Why not?”

“Not my business.” She placed a hand over her heart.

“No one wanted to hurt her feelings.”

“Yeh.”

“What’s Simone-this woman-like?”

“Who she like? Him.” She sneered. “Puta.”

“What kind of person is she?”

“Smile a lot, move a lot hoo hoo hoo.” Illustrating with a brief shake of ample hips. “Then she have the baby and she go way.”

“When did she have a baby?”

“Mebbe … four, fie month ago?”

“And when did she leave?”

“I don remember, senor.”

“Where’d she go after she left?”

“Dunno. Now, I gotta work.”

We revisited the other two maids, repeated the same questions. More of the original reticence. But Imelda Rojas’s eyes were jumpy.

I said, “You’re sure you have no idea where Simone went?”

“Nup.”

“What kind of car did she drive?”

“Car? Red.” Giggle. “Rojo. Like mi nombre-my name.” More amusement. “My car is white.”

“Thought the red car was Mel Wedd’s.”

“Him? No.”

“You never saw him drive the red car?”

“Nup, I see a black one. Big.” She shaped a circle with her hands. “Like Senor Donny car.”

“Mel and Senor Donny drove the same type of car?”

“Zactly the same,” she said. “Senor Donny got a lot of cars.” She thought. “Mebbe he give one to Senor Mel.”

“He likes Senor Mel?”

“Dunno.” No objection to my usage of present tense. No idea Wedd had been murdered.

“Is Senor Mel a nice person?”

“I gue-ess.”

“He treats you well?”

“I don work with him.”

“Was he friendly with Simone Chambord?”

“Everyone here friendly. Senora Prema the more friendly.”

“More than-”

“All peoples. She for the kids.”

“Senor Donny-”

Head shake. “I gotta work.”

“What about Adriana?”

Sudden flash of smile. “She nice. Read the Bible.”

“Have you seen her recently?”

“No.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“You know?”

I shook my head.

She said, “Nice lady. She go away?”

“Looks like it.”

She shrugged.

I said, “People come and go, all the time?”

“Not me.”

“You like it here.”

“I like to work.”

“Could you show us where Senor Mel lives?”

“Building Two, we all there.”

“Could you show us?”

Prolonged sigh. “Then I got to work.”

Building Two was a pleasantly landscaped single-story structure due north of the mansion. An eight-by-eight lobby set up with dried flowers in big copper vases opened to hallways on two sides. Like a nice boutique hotel. Four doors lined each corridor. Lupe Soto said, “Okay?” and started to leave.

Evoking additional sighs, I got her to show us her quarters, a spotless, daylit bedroom with a small sitting area and an en-suite bathroom. Imelda and Maria slept in the flanking rooms.

“Same as me. Zactly.”

The farthest room was occupied by the cook, a stick-like woman in her late twenties wearing mini-check chef’s pants and a white smock. She answered our knock, filing her nails.

The layout behind her was identical to Lupe’s, but festooned with rock posters and oversized illustrations of food. The bed was unmade. The smell of gym sweat and perfume blew out into the hallway.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Her hair was short, yellow, textured like fleece. Bruise-colored tattoos coiled up the side of her neck. I wondered if avoiding the carotid and the jugular had been a challenge.

Milo’s badge caused the skin around the illustration to pale. She lowered the nail file. “Police? What’s going on?”

“Nothing serious, we’re just here to check a few things out at Ms. Moon’s request.”

“About what?”

“An employee who worked here seems to have gone missing.”

“Who’s that?”

“Simone Chambord.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Must be before my time.”

“How long have you been working here, Ms.…?”

“Georgie,” she said. “Georgette Weiss. How long? Like a month. Make that thirty … eight days. She okay? That woman? I mean did something happen to her?”

“Don’t know yet, Ms. Weiss. You like working here?”

“Like it? You kidding?” said Georgie Weiss. “This is like a dream gig.”

“Easy.”

“Cook healthy for her and the kids? No maniac E.C.-executive chef-going nuclear on me, no asshole customers trying to prove they’re important by sending perfectly good plates back? Yeah, it’s easy. Plus she pays me great. More than I made working twice as hard at restaurants.”

“She’s a nice lady.”

“You bet. Especially,” said Georgie Weiss.

“Especially, what?”

“Especially considering.”

“Who she is.”

“I mean face it, she could get away with anything, right? But she’s like a real person.”

“What about him?”

“Who?”

“Donny Rader?”

“Never seen him, actually.” She looked to the side. “They don’t live together-don’t quote me, I need to be whatyacallit-discreet.”

“Of course. They live separately?”

“He’s like next door so I’m not sure what that is. I mean, it’s not far, there’s like an empty property and then his place.” She shrugged.

“You ever cook for him?”

“Never. That’s all I know, don’t quote me, okay?”

“No prob,” said Milo. “What about Mel Wedd?”

“What about him what?”

“He easy to work for?”

“I work for Prema, he does his thing, we really don’t interact.” Another sideward glance. “Can I tell you something but really please I mean it don’t quote me.”

“Sure.”

“Seriously,” said Georgie Weiss.

“Seriously.”

She scratched her head. “Mel. He’s not the friendliest guy but that’s not what I’m talking about. Officially, I think he works for Prema. At least he seems to, he’s like here all the time. But … I think he could also be hanging with him. Donny, I mean. Because I’ve seen him drive over there. At night.”

“After hours.”

Nod. “That’s another thing. About Prema. When the day’s over, it’s over. Some of them, they think they own you, it’s like slavery, you know? Do for me twenty-four-seven?”

“Not Prema.”

“Prema makes the rules and you’re expected to keep them but she keeps them, too.”

“She doesn’t exploit the help.”

“Trust me, that’s rare,” said Georgie Weiss. She rattled off the names of two other actresses and a male star. “Spent some time P.C.ing-private chefing-for them. Slavery.”

“Nice to know someone’s different.”

“You bet. Maybe it’s ’cause she has kids. She’s totally into them.”

“Eating healthy?”

“She’s like … an involved mom. But not crazy-healthy like every anorexic Westside bitch, they see a glass of juice they have a seizure. It’s reasonable stuff, just watch out for too much sugar and fat. That’s my food, anyway.”

“Good deal.”

“The best. I love it. Hope you find that woman.” She began to close the door.

Milo didn’t try to stop her physically. His voice was enough. “So you think Mel Wedd is going behind Prema’s back after hours?”

She studied him. “You’re trying to say he did something to that woman?”

“Not at all,” said Milo. “Just checking everyone out.”

“I just thought it was weird, Mel going over there. Because he works for Prema and obviously they’re not-it’s not like they’re a couple-so what could he be doing over there?”

“Mel’s the estate manager,” I said. “Maybe the entire property’s considered the estate.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Guess so.” Nervous smile. “Whatever, keep me out of it, okay? I just want to cook my food.”

The second hallway contained three rooms, instead of four. A utility closet at the rear housed the water heater and the A.C. unit.

The first door was unlocked. Bare mattress, empty nightstand and dresser. A portable crib stood folded in the corner.

Milo gloved up, had me wait as he went in, emerged shaking his head. “Nothing and it’s obviously been cleaned. But I’ll have it processed, anyway.”

The second room was locked. He said, “Stay here, make sure no one goes into Simone’s,” and left the building. Ten minutes later, he returned with a large ring of keys.

“Stored in the laundry room but none of the maids would tell me that, so I had to bring Prema down.”

“She inspires loyalty,” I said. “How’s it going with the computers?”

“Hard to tell with Burns, he’s so damn grumpy.”

“How come?”

“You’re the shrink.” Selecting a key, he unlocked the second room.

Tightly made bed, Bible on the nightstand. Framed pictures on the dresser.

Regloving, he ran through the same solo search. Opened a closet door wide enough for me to view the contents from the corridor.

Sparse supply of bland-looking garments.

He went into the bathroom, called out, “Nothing sexy here, either.”

Returning to the dresser, he opened drawers, inspected the framed pictures. Stepped closer and held them out for my inspection.

Adriana and her church group, including the woman she’d known as Qeesha D’Embo but had come to accept as Simone Chambord because friends in need did what was expected of them.

The two women stood heads together, beaming.

Qeesha cradled a tiny brown infant.

The baby had a round face, inquisitive black eyes, a sweet mouth, graceful, long-fingered hands, a full head of dark hair.

Beautiful child.

Finally, the bones had a face.

Cordelia.

My throat clogged.

Milo raced out of the room.

Melvin Jaron Wedd’s quarters veered toward messy but smelled okay. Probably the Armani cologne in his medicine cabinet.

The fragrance shared space with Viagra for fun, Lunesta for sleep, five varieties of caffeine pills for energy. Tube of lube in the top nightstand drawer. In the second, a short stack of gay porn.

Nothing interesting in the dresser until Milo kneeled low and pulled a small blue leatherette spiral notebook out of the bottom, right-hand drawer. Stashed under a stack of beefy sweaters too warm for L.A.

The book bore the gold-imprinted legend of an insurance broker with an office in Beverly Hills. Probably one of those Christmas giveaways.

Inside was an appointment calendar, complete with holiday notations, dated the previous year. Wedd hadn’t used it to organize his schedule; the pages were unmarked.

Milo leafed through. Toward the end, several blank pages headed Notes contained just that.

Mel Wedd’s penmanship was impressive. Nice straight columns, too. Two side by side per page.

Cheryl, Jan 3–7: 1000.00

Melissa, Jan 6–7: 750.00

Shayanne Jan 23: 750.00

Forty-nine women’s names, fifteen of them occurring twice or more. Monthly totals approached ten thousand dollars but always fell slightly short.

“Simone” showed up sixteen times over a two-year period.

First payment: three hundred dollars. An increase to six hundred, then six notations of eight fifty.

Milo said, “Merit raise-whoa, look at this.”

Sudden boost on the eighth payment: $4,999.99. Seven more of those, each dated the first of the month.

Milo said, “She takes up a whole bunch of the ten-grand limit, leaving less for other girls. Guy’s a superstar, would have to come begging for dough, talk about demeaning.”

I said, “He’s Prema’s bad child.”

He looked at me. “Been carrying around that insight for a while?”

“Just thought of it.”

“She couldn’t raise him properly, moved on to real kids?”

“She’s invented her own world.” I took a longer look at the log. “Eight big payments conforms to the final months of Qeesha’s pregnancy. Up to that point, she was figuring out what to do, by the fourth month she couldn’t hide it any longer, decided to take action. Donny told her to abort, she strung him along, kept delaying as he kept paying. Then it was too late and she had the baby and her hold over him was telling Prema. She continued to live here, got Prema to hire Adriana for backup. To serve as an insurance policy if things got ugly.”

“Adriana didn’t turn out to be much insurance.”

“When Qeesha and the baby disappeared, Adriana suspected the worst. But going to the police wasn’t an option. Child-care aide makes accusations against mega-celebs, no evidence to back it up, how far would that get? So Adriana decided to stick around and snoop. Then the baby skeleton showed up under Holly Ruche’s tree and it made the news and someone heard about it and thought it would be a grand idea to ditch a second set of bones not far from there so the police would think some sort of serial ghoul was at work.”

“Fifty years between dumps is a serial?”

“Not well thought out,” I said.

“Not a genius,” he said. “Aka Donny.”

“He’s the one with the wax and the knives and the bugs. And the guns.”

“According to Prema.”

“All verifiable accusations.”

“And I’m the verifier.”

We left Wedd’s room. Milo carried the appointment book away from his body. “Gotta get an evidence bag for this … Here’s something else to chew on, Alex: Donny dumping his own kid’s bones and doing Adriana the same night seems like a challenge for someone supposedly that dumb.”

I said, “Agreed. Had to be a two-person job. Donny and Wedd. That way there’d be no need to schlep Adriana across the park. Wedd was Prema’s guy by day, but Donny’s pimp and paymaster and who-knows-what-else by night. The maids knew about it, everyone knew about it except Prema. Wedd was a wannabe actor, wanted to emulate the star-drove the same kind of car as the star. He wasn’t ridiculing Donny when he imitated him over the phone. He was pretending to be him.”

“Hell, Alex, maybe it was more than that: What if Wedd had a crush on Donny? So when Donny asks him to take care of nasty business, he’s fine with it. Unfortunately, Donny grew uncomfortable with his knowing too much and took care of him.”

I said, “Nighttime drive, weed and a bong. Sure, it fits. Wedd probably figured he’d be partying with his idol.”

“Power of celebrity,” he said.

“It even got the best of a wily, manipulative woman like Qeesha. If her head had been clear, she’d have known from the way Donny shut out four kids that he wouldn’t take well to fatherhood. To being pressured.”

“Playing her usual game,” he said. “But out of her league.”

Footsteps at the mouth of the corridor made us turn.

Tyler O’Shea held a tired-looking Sally at the end of a slack leash.

Milo said, “Anything?”

O’Shea gave a thumbs-down. “Only dead thing in that forest was a really gross, rotting squirrel way at the back, that’s what was attracting her. Sorry, El Tee.”

“No big deal,” said Milo.

“You knew already?”

“I never know, kid. That’s what makes the job fun.”

“Oh. Okay. So we’re finished?”

“Not even close.”