Killer

CHAPTER 19

Con-Bio Medical Testing was housed in a gray cube on Laurel Canyon Boulevard between Burbank and Magnolia.

Short drive to Rubin Rojo’s parking lot. Connie had been nothing but efficient. I imagined her date book the day of the meet with “George.”

1. Analyze a few specimens.

2. Fill out the billing slips.

3. Have a little chat to finalize a hit on that bastard.

Thinking about it made my jaw ache. Picturing her dead body helped a bit.

I’d claimed objectivity to Milo but it would be a while before I could sort out my feelings. The key was constructive denial: convincing myself that she was just another victim, a puzzle to be solved.

As I pulled into the lab’s parking lot, I caught Milo studying me. When I turned, he made a show of checking his notepad before exiting the car.

Ten-space lot. The dedicated slot marked Dr. Sykes Only. Violators Will Be Towed at Their Expense was unoccupied. The area comprised a nice size chunk of Valley real estate. Milo had phoned the assessor as I drove over the hill, learned that Connie had purchased the property six years ago for seven figures.

That along with the house in Westwood and the investments she’d bragged about added up to a sizable estate. What would Rambla’s life have been like growing up Westside-affluent? What would it be like with Ree?

Milo pushed the lab’s front door open and we stepped into a windowless waiting room. Four black hard plastic chairs sat on green-blue carpeting with all the give of Formica. A corner table was piled with dog-eared throwaway magazines. Overhead light was cold, buzzing, inadequate.

Facing the door was a sliding window of thick pebbled glass. To the right was a knobless door plastered with bold-typed instructions.

Arrivals were to knock only once then wait until called.

Payment prior to testing could be imposed “at Con-Bio’s discretion.”

No smoking, no eating or drinking, no loud conversation.

The premises had been certified by Cal/OSHA and a host of additional government watchdogs.

No one certifies friendliness.

Milo tried to slide open the glass. No give. Pressure on the door was no more successful.

Each of the four chairs was occupied and our entry caused the quartet of “arrivals” to stir. Nearest to me was a black man in his seventies with so little upper body that his belt rested just below his pectorals. Next to him sat a corpulent white man with frizzy red hair, wearing a stained orange tank top and greasy brown shorts that exposed pink limbs crusted with scabs. A muscular young black man in exercise togs had pushed himself as far as possible from those two, which wasn’t far at all. Tucked in the corner, a small, skinny white girl with jaundiced eyes and enough facial pierces to make a minimally empathic person wince, hunched tight, with both feet on her chair.

Milo rapped the glass twice.

When no one responded, he added a loud knuckle drumroll.

The older black man said, “They don’t like that.”

No answer from the other side of the glass but I could make out movement.

Milo knocked hard. His hand was only an inch from the glass when it slid open. A white-uniformed, pudding-faced brunette in her forties said, “Can’t you read—”

Milo’s badge turned her anger to reluctant civility. “How may I help you, Officer?”

“By buzzing us in.”

“Sir, we’re extremely busy—”

“So are we.”

“Sir, I’ll need authorization—”

“From your boss? Unfortunately, she’s not here.” Milo leaned in closer, lowered his voice just above whisper. Four heads behind us craned. “And how do I know that?”

The pudding-faced woman stared.

As he leaned forward, the quartet did the same. He whispered: “Matter of fact, we’re here about your boss.”

“Dr. Connie? I don’t—”

He showed her his card again, tapped his finger near Homicide. She gasped and slapped a hand over one breast and said, “Omigod. No!”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Oh, my God!”

The older black man said, “Look like someone up and tight.”

The pudding-faced woman said, “Everyone leave, your appointments are canceled.”

Face-Pierce said, “Hey, what the fuck?”

Pudding glared at her. “You heard me. We’ll call you to reschedule.”

The muscular black man said, “In case you don’t realize it, some of us work.”

Pudding shouted, “Go! Leave! Out!”

The waiting room emptied amid a chorus of curses. Face-Pierce was the last to exit and she gave the door a kick that caused it to rattle.

The pudding-faced woman—E. Broadbent, per her tag — jabbed the rim of her desk and set off a hiss. The internal door swung open.

Con-Bio’s nerve center was puny: Broadbent’s desk and a smaller workstation, unoccupied. A hallway that led to a door marked Laboratory and tagged with a hazardous material sticker. A metal chair and table were positioned against the corridor’s left wall. Atop the table sat a metal bin holding a phlebotomy kit: disposable syringes, amber rubber tourniquets, cotton swabs, bandages. Directly across from the puncture station was a door marked Lavatory/Urine and Stool Depository.

E. Broadbent said, “Now what are you trying to tell me?”

Milo said, “Unfortunately, Dr. Sykes is deceased.”

“Murdered?”

“Afraid so.”

“Dear God. When?”

“Last night. When did you last speak to her?”

“Yesterday. It was just another working day. I left at six, she was still here.”

“Were you curious when she didn’t show up this morning?”

“No,” said E. Broadbent. “That wasn’t unusual. Dr. Connie doesn’t see patients. We don’t have patients — do you understand what we’re about?”

I said, “You analyze biologic samples.”

“We test for diseases, including conditions other labs can’t handle. Exotic tropical things. Uncommon toxins. As well as sexually transmitted diseases.”

“If they’re not patients, what are they?”

“We refer to them as sample donors.”

Milo said, “Stains on a slide.”

“Well …”

“So Dr. Sykes’s hours were irregular.”

“Not really,” said E. Broadbent. “It’s not like she was gallivanting, for the most part she was here and she’s almost always the last to leave. What I’m trying to get at is she had her own schedule so if she didn’t come in it wasn’t something anyone would question.” She exhaled. “I can’t believe this. What happened?”

“How about we talk in her office? We’d like to see it, anyway.”

“There is no office.”

“Where does she do her thing?”

Frowning, she marched up the hall and unlocked the lab door.

That revealed the bulk of the building’s floor space, a wide, windowless area filled with stainless-steel tables, microscopes, centrifuges, a mass of things that bubbled and whirred and flashed digital readouts.

One person working, a white-coated, safety-goggled Indian man twirling dials in between gazes into a binocular microscope. Our presence didn’t stop him.

E. Broadbent said, “Sajit?”

He waved, continued analyzing.

She pointed to the nearest table. Cleared of medical gizmos, it bore a laptop and a pair of reading glasses.

“That’s where she works.”

I said, “She conducted all her business there?”

“You bet. Dr. Connie is — was—” She paused to suck in air. “This is so … I forgot what I was saying …”

“Dr. Connie was …”

“Okay, yes, she was efficient. There was no need for frills — who did this to her?”

Milo said, “We don’t know.”

“Well,” said E. Broadbent, “maybe I do. But you can’t use my name on any report, I refuse to be connected to any more of it.”

Milo said, “Any more of what?”

“I’m serious, sir. I will not get involved.”

“Fair enough,” he lied. “Who do you suspect?”

She looked at Sajit. “Let’s go outside.”

We followed her through the waiting room out to the parking area. A glance at Connie Sykes’s unoccupied parking space caused tears to flow down her cheeks. Brushing them away, she quickened her pace, stopped at the high wall that backed the lot.

Removing a pack of Virginia Slims from her uniform pocket, she lit up, inhaled greedily. “I mean it, you can’t quote me.” Another deep intake of carcinogens. “Okay … God, this is so … Dr. Connie was embroiled in a legal matter with her sister. Who just happens to be a nutcase and a drug addict. So it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Milo said, “What kind of legal matter?”

“Custody. Dr. Connie’s niece. The sister’s the mother but in name only. She has no sense of personal responsibility — she’s also a criminal, I’m talking lowlife. The one smart thing she did was the child — a girl, her name is Rambla, she’s just a baby, really — she gave her to Dr. Connie when she went traipsing all over the country with some drug-addict musicians. Dr. Connie raised her like she was her own and the poor little thing finally had a chance at a decent life.”

Smoking some more, she squared her shoulders. “Everything was going along fine. Dr. Connie had a space set up next to my desk. She provided the best for her. Top-quality baby food, organic milk, you name it. She’d bring her in and that child would sleep peacefully in that crib, just loving her life. We’d give her toys and love and she’d giggle and then Dr. Connie would come out and play with her in between samples, sometimes she’d take her for a stroller walk. She was a well-behaved baby, Dr. Connie was talking about finding the best preschool, a really first-rate place, this baby had it made in the shade and then what happens? She comes back. All of a sudden, she’s changed her mind, is taking the baby back. She thinks she can do that, after Dr. Connie invested all that energy. Like sure, I’m just your babysitter, feel free to waltz in and out.”

I said, “So what happened?”

“What happened? A scene happened.”

“A scene here?”

“Oh, yes, you bet. The baby’s napping away and she comes and barges her way in and disrupts everything.”

“The baby’s mother.”

“In name only,” said E. Broadbent. “It should be about character not just dropping them out the chute. There’s a license to drive, why not for that?”

I said, “Something to certify fitness.”

“You bet. If I had kids, I’d want to make sure I was qualified.”

“How’d the sister barge her way in?”

“By being sneaky,” she said. “She lurked to the side where we couldn’t see her then waited until we buzzed in a sample donor and ran in. And mind you, she went straight for the baby, didn’t care that the baby was fast asleep. Just ran past me and snatched that little thing up and tried to make her escape. Not quite. I stood there and blocked her but then the look on her face, sirs — I’m talking crazy. For the life of me I thought she’d … do something. With the baby in her hands. I didn’t want any problems so I stepped aside and meanwhile Dr. Connie came out of the lab and the two of them had a to-do.”

“Did it get physical?”

“No, but it could’ve if that one had her way.”

“She threatened Dr. Connie?”

“Her whole demeanor was enraged. Dr. Connie tried to convince her rationally. She wouldn’t listen. So of course, Dr. Connie tried to take the baby. And she held on even tighter, began screaming — it was ugly, let me tell you. We had a full waiting room, standing room only, donors hearing the commotion. So what could Dr. Connie do? She stepped aside. Then she called a lawyer. And that’s why I’m telling you you have to check that crazy lady out.”

“Dr. Connie must’ve been pretty upset.”

“Upset and angry,” said E. Broadbent. “That someone could be so selfish.”

“So she sued.”

“It cost her a fortune but she had her principles.”

“Was the case resolved?”

She frowned. “They brought in experts — the other side. They brought in sleazy hired guns. One of those psychiatrists who already had his mind made up because she flirted with him. Dr. Connie was so frustrated, she tried everything. The judge was a fool. Her lawyer was a fool.”

“So she lost.”

“For the time being.”

“She planned to re-file?”

“She talked about it. So that’s why I’m telling you: The only person crazy enough to do something this crazy was her. You want a name, I’ll give it to you: Cherie.” She spelled it. “Cherie Sykes, she’s been in prison, I’m sure you people have records on her. The baby is Rambla. I can only imagine what her life is now.”

Milo copied in his pad. Convincing prop; E. Broadbent nodded approvingly.

“Ma’am, this information you have about the sister’s past, did it come from Dr. Sykes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you ever have the opportunity to observe Cherie Sykes prior to the confrontation?”

“No reason I would,” said E. Broadbent. “Dr. Sykes is — was”—two nicotine hits—“a brilliant woman. A pathologist. The other one? An addict.”

“Anything else, ma’am?”

“I don’t think you need anything else. Got your work cut out for you.”