Killer

CHAPTER 33

When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs, Milo said, “When you write your memoirs don’t put that in.”

Trying to make light. His hands clenched and opened, over and over. His mandible protruded. An assembly line of lumps rolled along his jawline.

We crossed the lobby of the King William, continued past DeWayne Smart’s booth. Smart called out, “Hey!”

Milo circled back to Smart’s window. “What?”

“So where is she?”

“Not our suspect.”

“That sucks,” said Smart. “For you, not her.” Laughing. His jowls were wine bladders.

“You’re a comic philosopher, DeWayne?”

“I—”

“When you look in the mirror, do you see Brad Pitt? That’s how accurate your I.D. was.”

“I—”

“Be sure to fill that prescription for bifocals. Toss in a white cane for good measure.”

“I—”

“Yeah, you.”

Back on L.A. Street, Milo distracted himself from failure by taking charge of small details. Clearing the scene with a series of clipped commands, checking if the APB on Ree Sykes had produced additional credible sightings, not surprised when the answer was no. Texting Moe Reed, he told the younger detective to rip up today’s arrest form, keep fingers crossed for a second opportunity. “And maybe pigs will indeed pilot fighter jets.”

When nothing else remained to be done, he stood watch as the cruisers and the BearCat drove away. As the last official vehicle departed, Skid Row residents began to materialize in the darkness. A glance from Milo sent several of them back inside but enough gawkers remained to set off a buzz. Then snickers.

Milo motioned me toward his unmarked and we left. Inside the car, he said, “Oletha Dreiser. Wheeling, West Virginia 26003.” Talking to himself, not me. Repeating the info, as if practicing a lesson, he began running her through the databases.

Nothing on Dreiser at NCIC, no wants or warrants locally or statewide, no missing persons reports filed.

“Not a criminal,” he said, with some regret. “Mama and child in that dump isn’t much better than wanderers in a manger, huh? We find Daddy Joe, we can build a crèche.”

I thought: Where are the wise men? but held my tongue.

“So,” he said, pulling out a dead cigar. “She’s psychotic, right?”

“Probably.”

“So time to call protective services.”

I said, “Not necessarily.”

“Why not?”

“Depends on what they can offer.”

“You think she’s fit to raise a kid?”

“Is it an optimal situation? No. But on a basic level, she’s doing an adequate job.”

“Because she feeds him?”

“Because he’s well nourished, outwardly healthy, appropriately developed, and clearly attached to her. Because ripping him away from her and stashing him in some shake-of-the-dice foster home will be traumatic for both of them and could do more harm than good.”

“Even if she is well past poco-loco.”

I said, “Even with that.”

“You’re a tolerant guy.”

“I know the system. It’s always a matter of least-terrible.”

“She’s also got a bit of a temper—”

“She had good reason to be angry.”

He frowned. “So I do nothing.”

I said, “Let’s be realistic: Even with a formal diagnosis of schizophrenia, unless there’s clear evidence that she poses an imminent danger to the baby, no court will take him away from her. Hell, even dangerous psychotics don’t get treated now that the Feds consider them another persecuted minority. What you can do is try to teach her about carbon monoxide poisoning and find her a small crib — anywhere that the baby can sleep safely other than right next to her. That will eliminate the risk of a rollover suffocation.”

“What carbon monoxide?”

I told him about the cooking stove. “Though she did have the sense to prop the window open.”

He said, “The bathroom. Didn’t look in there. Brilliant — okay, so who do I call for all this safety education if not the caseworkers?”

“There’s a juvey detective at Pacific I’ve worked with who’s smart and practical. She’ll know who to contact at Central. Want me to try her?”

“That would be nice.”

I reached D II Monica Gutierrez at her home in Palms. She promised to have her counterpart at Central, D II Kendra Washington, check out the situation first thing tomorrow, see what could be done on Oletha and Cody’s behalf.

“But you know, Alex, all we can do is advise her. Unless there’s a clear threat.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you take the baby.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Monica. “Because we’ve got far too many babies with no one to care for them.”

I hung up and summarized for Milo.

He said, “Yeah, yeah, I got the gist,” and gazed up at the seventh floor of the King William.

I said, “Sorry it didn’t pan out tonight,” and opened the passenger door.

He said, “Are you really?” Then: “Mea culpa, that was uncalled for.”

I said, “No sweat,” but his apology bypassed my brain and stuck in my gut and I felt myself bristling.

Wishing him luck, I headed for my car.

Driving home on streets emptied of rage and steel, I thought about the quandary posed by Oletha Dreiser and her baby.

Family unification at almost any cost was a long-standing doctrine at social services originally motivated by compassion but powered now by budgetary restrictions and the soulless grinding of a bureaucratic machinery that viewed kids as case numbers.

Short of obvious life-threatening danger, no court would sever Oletha’s attachment to Cody. I’d seen people far more impaired than her entrusted with parenthood.

The fact that too many kids died in foster care didn’t help, either. Last year, the toll had been three babies at three separate temporary homes. One was a neglected influenza, the second remained undetermined but was suspected to be a smothering. The last was a confirmed homicide committed by the foster mother’s gangbanger boyfriend.

A deputy D.A. had described that killing to me as a “big-time oops.”

Despite all that, Mommy as murderer would change the rules fast; Ree Sykes could forget about bureaucratic inertia as a shield.

Why had she taken the risk?

Once Milo caught up with her, what lay in store for Rambla?

I wondered how the two of them were coping with life on the run. Were they holed up in a sad little room like 709 at the Prince William, cooking with Sterno?

I wanted to believe Ree was too safety-conscious to put her child in jeopardy. That got tougher as I thought about the cold elimination of two human beings. Trying for an even three.

Winky Melandrano had served as Ree’s babysitter. Had she brought Rambla the night she ambushed and shot him?

Facts were piling up against her but I still had trouble reconciling that level of callousness with the woman I’d evaluated.

Devoted mother. Appropriate. Nurturing. I’d believed all that enough to put my endorsement in writing. But what if maternal devotion had degraded to a competitive blood sport?

The prize, twenty pounds of innocence.

Maybe … but even if I’d glossed Ree’s character, the motive Milo was ascribing to her seemed flimsy. If her goal was having Rambla to herself, why not simply disappear?

Because Connie was relentless and had the money to fund a long battle and needed to be taken care of first?

Fine, but that didn’t explain going after Melandrano and Chamberlain, men described as Ree’s lifelong friends.

Occasional lovers.

A wild night in the Malibu hills?

Complicated … if Ree wasn’t a killer, why had she vanished?

Maybe her disappearance hadn’t been voluntary. What if someone viewed her as an obstacle? The obvious candidate was Ree’s father. Brought into the game by Connie.

But if Connie had discovered his identity, why hadn’t she named him in her court papers?

And why focus on Winky and Boris?

Because naming them as possible fathers had nothing to do with the truth, it was just another ploy to cast Ree as a dissolute, sexually indiscriminate groupie.

If so, it was possible Connie had made a fatal error. Igniting a frightening man’s paternal urges, leading him to clear the deck of competition.

Connie out of the way, then Ree. Doing it quickly so that Ree’s disappearance would cast her as a suspect.

Easy enough to accomplish. So was leaving Ree’s car at the station, misdirecting the cops on a fruitless search.

A good planner. Meticulous.

But:

You left a speck of Connie’s blood on Ree’s carpet. An iota that flaked off shoes you thought you’d cleaned thoroughly.

You’re not quite as smart as you think you are. Dad.

The more I thought about it, the more I liked it intellectually. And hated it emotionally because of what it implied for Ree. And Rambla.

Child as Holy Grail. Property to be coveted, just like all the other crap cases I’d fielded in family court.

If I offered any of this to Milo, he’d point out that I had no evidence.

Neither do you, Big Guy.

No sense getting into it with him.

Also: I hadn’t a clue where to take it.