Killer

CHAPTER 22

Black in the car, check the phone. One message: Robin.

She said, “No spaghetti, the place closed down.”

“I’m out early, anyway, see you in thirty.”

“Does early mean no luck finding her?”

“Not much.”

“You going to tell Milo you looked for her?”

“He’ll find out anyway, so yes.”

“Things are getting complicated, darling.”

“Life’s little challenges.”

“Love your outlook,” she said. “Okay, I’ll cook spaghetti.”

Before I began the drive home, I sat parked near Virgo Virgo, working the iPhone and trying to locate William Melandrano and/or Bernard Chamberlain.

A W. Melandrano the right age lived nearby in North Hollywood, but no address or phone numbers were given and 411 had nothing to add. Four Bernard Chamberlains. A man living in Hollywood seemed the most likely. That address was close to Ree’s apartment.

A couple of button pushes could instantly tell Milo if either man had a criminal history. The best I could do was try a website that trafficked in mug shots, one of those mean-spirited celebrations of other people’s misfortunes, custom-tailored for an increasingly mean-spirited world.

My hopes rose when I learned that a Bernard Chamberlain had been arrested for disorderly conduct three years ago in Tampa, Florida. The next click revealed a shot of a seventeen-year-old boy.

Time to stop fooling around.

Milo answered his desk phone. “Your pal Effo has an unassailable alibi for the time frame of Connie’s demise: partying with homeboys and homegirls at a known gang house in Pacoima, thirty people to back him up. Not that I took any of their words for it. A neighbor across the street, old lady terrified of all the scary kids going in and out, takes tons of surreptitious pictures and she captured him coming and going. So congrats.”

I said, “Doesn’t mean much. You never figured he did it himself.”

“True, I’ve got Millie Rivera nosing around, see if she can pick up any rumors of a contract. But the neighbor’s camera cleared up one thing: Ramon Guzman was at the same party. Which might give you pause, Alex. Here’s a joker who tried to get you permanently erased and your buddy’s still whooping it up with him.”

“Efren was a patient, not my buddy.”

My voice had risen.

He said, “Onward to Cherie Sykes. I tried to organize a meeting with her through her lawyer but he’s at a convention in Palm Springs. Same for Connie’s mouthpiece. What do people like that consider continuing education? Learning how to dress a pit bull in designer duds? Anyway, I’m gonna drop in on Ms. Ree, see how she’s reacting to Sis’s death.”

“Speaking of which.” I told him what I’d learned.

He said, “You went to her place—”

“Clinical follow-up.”

“I see,” he said. “Actually, I don’t.”

“I wanted to check out my initial reaction. See if I’d been wrong about her. She’s rabbited so my being wrong is looking damn likely. Obviously, it’s time for me to get out of the way and let you do your thing.”

“Hey,” he said, “no sense beating yourself up. You’re the original victim in all this and I’m glad it’s someone else’s death I’m investigating. She took just the baby stuff, huh?”

“And the baby.”

“I’ll bring a techie over, see what turns up.”

“Landlady already started cleaning it.”

“Nothing ventured, but maybe they’ll find something.”

I said, “The timing doesn’t look good for her. And you were right: Even if she didn’t kill Connie herself, one of her pals could’ve. She’s tight with that band.” I recounted my visit to the bar, gave him Melandrano’s and Chamberlain’s names.

He said, “Ties that bind. If Connie was right about one of them being daddy, there’s motive to spare.”

“And Chuck-o Blatt confirmed Ree was definitely worried about Connie taking her back to court.”

“Hold on.”

A series of clicks. “Nothing on Melandrano but Mr. Bernard Chamberlain of Hollywood, Cal, was busted ten years ago for assault. In Arkansas … doesn’t look like he served any time … photo shows him as a hairy-biker type. Kind of mean eyes. Big guy, too — not that tall but two hundred and fifty el-bees. Yeah, we’re definitely gonna want to make his acquaintance. Melandrano’s, too.”

“We’re?”

“Plural intentional, Alex. The situation has now ventured into psych territory — actually, it always was a head-case. So who better than thou to weigh in?”

“Feeling charitable?”

“Yeah, right,” he said. “This is work, pal, no room for sentimentality. And guess what? Brother Connor finally had the time to visit Connie’s corpse. Flying in for a meet tomorrow. Connie told you he was a tech guy, right?”

“She did.”

He laughed. “Depends on what you mean by technical. He doesn’t develop chips, he’s a porn-meister, been doing it for a long time. Interesting family, no? Okay, let me firm up current addresses on our Lonesome Moaners, we’ll check ’em out tomorrow. Meanwhile, Connor Sykes, my place, eleven a.m. I’m assuming you’re RSVP’ing yes.”

“Black tie?”

“Business attire.”