Killer

CHAPTER 15

Connie Sykes’s residence was a one-story brick Tudor on a hilly dead-end street between Wilshire and Sunset. A cobbled driveway hosted the cream-colored Lexus.

Nice quiet location, mature trees lining the curb. Walking distance to the U. made it a good fit for a young professor’s family, back when professors could afford Westwood. The house was set farther back from the curb than its neighbors, shrouded by shrubs and a four-story deodar cedar. Ideal setup for someone who craved privacy.

A typical custody evaluation would have led me to visit the place. No need for that in Sykes v. Sykes and the house had remained an abstraction — an address in a file.

Until now I hadn’t realized how close it was to my home: five-minute drive, ten if commuters jammed up the Glen.

Walking distance if you were fit and so inclined.

It would’ve been easy enough for Connie to take a little hike under cover of darkness. The locked gate at the bottom of my road would have impeded a vehicle but a stalker on foot could’ve found a way around.

But that wasn’t Connie’s style; she was a delegator.

Now she was on the receiving end of someone else’s plan.

Three black-and-whites parked diagonally across the street kept me well back from the yellow tape. So did a carelessly positioned white coroner’s van and one of the black vans used to transport crime scene techs. The sky was black; same for the sidewalk fronting the house save for a single spotlit area near the front door.

I walked to the cops guarding the yellow tape. Jack-and-Jill team, early twenties. Officer Flynn, Officer Roosevelt, neither one impressed by my dropping Milo’s name. I wasn’t sure checking with him would help; he’d been clear about his preference.

“No, stay home, Alex.”

“You called me.”

“To let you know you’re safe.”

Click.

Stepping back from the uniforms, I phoned him. “Reporting for duty, Lieutenant.”

He said, “Oh, shit.”

“Instruct your minions to let me in.”

“Alex—”

“I won’t make a mess. Promise. Mom.”

“Why the he—”

“I need to see.”

He hung up. Moments later, the female uniform, Flynn, got a call on her radio. Looking doubtful, she waved me under the tape.

Connie Sykes lay on her back near the center of her smallish entry rotunda. No center table, just a round rug over hardwood. Imitation Persian, beige and blue and green, plus a splotch of amorphous, rusty red no weaver had ever intended.

A wrought-iron chandelier illuminated her death. She wore a mocha-colored terry-cloth robe over sensible white flannel pajamas patterned with tiny sky-blue flowers. A white china teacup sat on its side, backed by a yellow evidence marker, around six feet to her right. The cup had landed just off the rug, coming to rest on oak flooring. The surrounding tea stain was a clear amoeba with a gray border.

The terry robe had flapped open, revealing another rusty blotch, dry and crusted, spreading over much of her pajama top. Just above the spot where her navel would be, a five-inch rip was visible in the blood. Clean, straight, horizontal, puckering at the center.

Initial pierce, then a side-to-side slash, laying waste to the diaphragm.

The robe was open because its sash had been removed and used to garrote Connie Sykes.

Her face was gray where it wasn’t purplish-black. Her tongue was a Japanese eggplant sprouting from between chalky lips.

A coroner’s investigator I knew as Gloria kneeled beside the body, camera around her neck, jotting notes in a little spiral book. Milo watched from a few feet away.

I said, “Stabbed, then strangled?”

Milo said, “In that order. No forced entry, no sign of struggle, all doors were locked when I entered. So she probably opened the door for someone, got stuck, and after she was down, they finished her off with the belt.”

“Would the stab wound have been fatal?”

“I look like a doctor?”

Gloria smiled. “Hi, Dr. D., we can’t go on meeting like this. No way to know for sure until she gets opened up but if I had to guess, I’d say yes. Go deep enough where she was cut, breathing stops.”

I said, “But just to make sure, strangle her.” I looked at the sash. No knot, just a loop.

Gloria looked down at Connie Sykes’s distorted face. “Up close and personal. Someone sure didn’t like her.”

I thought: Not an exclusive club. Kept silent and struggled to sort out my feelings.

Seeing anyone debased to this extent makes me sad and some of that filtered through.

So no flush of triumph.

But …

Relief.

Suddenly I felt calmer than I had in days. Realized how wound up I’d been.

Milo said, “Seen enough?”

I looked past the body. The only room visible was a simply furnished living room backed by mullioned windows. The panes probably afforded a nice view of the backyard; tonight, they were squares of black.

To the left of the corpse was a small powder room, to the right, a coat closet.

A techie emerged from around a corner. “No sign of any burglary or disruption anywhere, Lieutenant. Bobby’s dusting her bedroom and her bathroom but my guess is you won’t get anything interesting, all the action was right here.”

I said, “Taking care of business quickly.”

Everyone stared at me. The techie, because he didn’t know me; Milo and Gloria probably because I sounded flip.

Milo hooked a thumb. “Let’s go outside.”

We ducked under the tape and headed for the Seville. Lights in neighboring houses flickered. Three properties south of the crime scene, a large man held a large dog on a tight leash. As we passed, he said, “What’s going on, Officers?”

Milo said, “A crime’s been committed, sir.”

“What kind of crime?”

I expected evasion. Milo said, “Homicide.”

The large man said, “Her? She got killed?”

Milo veered toward him. As we got close, the man’s porch light created details: soft build, white hair, bushy eyebrows, midfifties to sixty, wearing black velvet sweats. The dog was a tiger-brindle mix, overweight, with a blunt face and bright eyes. When we arrived, it settled on its haunches and breathed audibly. No protective instincts, maybe Lab plus rottweiler, more of the former.

Milo said, “You know Dr. Sykes?”

“I know she lives there,” said the man.

“Nice person?”

“Huh … she was okay.”

Milo waited.

The man said, “I guess I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but nice wouldn’t exactly be accurate. She kept to herself, sometimes you’d say hi and she wouldn’t answer. Maybe she was lost in thought.”

“Or unfriendly.”

“She never had friends over that I saw, Officer. Fact is, only time you’d hear from her was if she was complaining about someone.”

“What’d she complain about?”

“Not cleaning up poop, leaving garbage cans out too long, that kind of thing.”

“Who’d she complain to, Mr.…”

“Jack Burghoff. Anyone she thought was responsible. One time she knocked on my door and pointed to a pile of poop near her driveway. Minute little pile. Not exactly Otis’s style, right, Otey?”

The dog let out a wheeze.

Burghoff said, “If only you did one-baggers, pal. Otis leaves a souvenir, you’re going to need a shovel. Which is what I told Dr. Sykes. She looks at me like I was lying. I just walked away. Any idea who killed her? Was it a gun? ’Cause I didn’t hear anything. We’re vigilant, someone hears something, they report it.”

He stopped. “Was it?”

Milo said, “No, sir.”

“Then how—”

“I really can’t say at this time, sir. So it was a pretty quiet night.”

“Totally,” said Burghoff. “Three or so years ago we had a bunch of burglaries, lots of stuff taken. Turns out the creep was a grad student at the U. who decided to augment his fellowship.”

Milo said, “Stuart Belize.”

“You busted him?”

“My colleagues in Robbery did.”

“Nuts, huh? Studying for a Ph.D. by day, breaking into vacant houses at night? Anyway, that’s my point. You guys got him because someone on the block reported him — Professor Ashworth, to be exact.” Burghoff pointed across the street, at a two-story Spanish. “Which was kind of ironic, no? Professor nailing a student?”

Milo smiled. “What can you tell us about Dr. Sykes?”

“Just what I said, she wasn’t too social. Last year we had a block party, everyone getting together, bringing potluck. Dr. Sykes didn’t show and she was home because her car was in the driveway just like it is now.”

“You’re observant, sir.”

“Goes with the territory, I’m an artist. Commercial, graphic, run art direction for Intello-fuel. You tell me your name today, tomorrow it’ll be erased from my brain. But faces, visual stimuli? It’s like life’s a movie and I remember each scene.”

“Did you happen to observe anything out of the ordinary tonight, sir?”

“Nope, if I had, I’d have called you guys. Only thing I can tell you is the approximate time she got home. I pulled up at seven twenty and her car wasn’t there. Otis hadn’t been walked yet, so I walked him. After changing my clothes, having a beer, so it was around seven forty and by then her car was there. So around seven thirty would be my guess.”

“Would that be a typical time for Dr. Sykes to arrive?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” said Burghoff. “Generally I’m home by five, Otis is walked by six, once I’m in I don’t come out. Tonight I had a late meeting.”

The door to the neighboring house opened. A man stepped out. Burghoff waved.

The man walked toward us. Around the same age as Burghoff, shorter, thinner, wearing a white T-shirt and pale blue sweatpants. “Jack.”

“Mike.”

“What’s going on?”

“Dr. Sykes got killed.”

“You’re kidding.” The new arrival looked at us.

Milo introduced himself.

“Michael Bernini. Who did it?”

Milo said, “Don’t know yet.”

“Killed. Wow — hey, Otis.”

The dog exhaled as Bernini stooped to pet him.

Burghoff said, “Pretty crazy, huh?”

“I’ll say.”

“Your turn, Mike. Back to bed, Ote-man.”

Bernini had nothing to add. Same for two other residents of the block, an elderly couple and a younger woman in a silk kimono who opined that Connie Sykes had been “basically a hermit,” and repeated the block-party story. Speaking with no more agitation or sympathy than had anyone else.

Milo and I continued down the block.

He said, “Late, but unlamented.”

I said, “Unlamented could mean a long suspect list.”

“I’ve got a short list. Starting with your buddy Effo or one of his homeboys and ending with the sister.”

We reached the Seville. He held the driver’s door open. “Facts is facts. Have a nice night.”

I said, “You’re taking the case?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“When did you get here?”

“Ten thirty, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“You parked, watched her house, mulled about how best to scare her off without creating a problem for both of us. No easy answer to that so eventually you got out and walked to her front door and rang her bell and got no response. Her car was in the driveway so you figured she was in the shower or doing something else that impeded her hearing. Or she’d heard you just fine and was refusing to come to the door. The door has a peephole, for all you knew, she was looking right at you. You got irritated but stayed cautious: Crazy woman, what if she was standing on the other side holding a gun? You took out your Glock, rang some more. Zip. At that point, your choice was to back off completely and continue worrying about me, or to do a little checking. You squinted through the peephole. That chandelier gives a lot of light and you saw her. You cursed, put the Glock back, gloved up, tried the door. If it was open, you’d re-arm and go in. If not you’d start making calls.”

“It was locked. So what?”

“You’re officially a witness, yet you’re taking the case …”

“Because I want it. Some muckamuck says I can’t do it, fine. You going to suggest that to anyone?”

“Of course not.”

Turning his back, he loped back toward the crime scene.

I said, “Talk to you tomorrow.”

His response was muted.

I think he said, “Maybe.”