Rage

CHAPTER 23

Milo and I sat in a rear booth of a coffee shop on Vermont just north of Wilshire, drinking Cokes, waiting for Ramparts Detective Philip Krug. Krug had been in his car when we reached him and he welcomed the opportunity for lunchtime company.

The locale was his choice, a big, bright, half-empty place with puce-colored vinyl booths, cloudy windows, and the outward profile of a toy rocket ship.

He was twenty minutes late and I used the time to raise the issues Allison had brought up.

Milo said, “The premeditation thing’s interesting, but I don’t see where it takes us. Rand wanting to feel less guilty by blaming Lara could be important. If he tried it on Malley. What do you think about Nestor’s bragging?”

“Sounds authentic. He knew all the details,” I said.

“I was thinking about the white guy hiring him.”

“Revenge hit. It fits.”

He looked at his Timex.

I said, “Troy bragged, too, when I interviewed him in jail. Said he had plans to be rich.”

“You’re thinking he had hit-man fantasies, too?”

“I don’t see him planning for the Ivy League. Maybe he saw Kristal as career practice.”

“Goddamn little savages. What do you do with them?”

Phil Krug was a compact man in his forties with thin red hair and a copper-wire mustache so thick it extended farther than his crushed nose. He wore a gray suit with a navy shirt and a pale blue tie. The waitress knew him and said “The usual?” before he had a chance to sit down.

Krug nodded at her and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Nice to meet you guys. Tell Elise what you’re having.”

We ordered burgers. The waitress said, “Phil orders his with blue cheese.”

Krug said, “That’s ‘the usual.’ ”

Milo said, “Sure.”

Nonconformity seemed impolitic. I said, “Ditto.”

In between bites of cheese-slathered ground chuck on an undistinguished bun, Krug discussed the little he’d learned about Nestor Almedeira’s murder. Unknown assailant, no leads, granules of heroin on the dirt near the body.

A single head-shot, close proximity, through-and-through temple wound, coroner’s guess was a.38, no bullet recovered and no casing, so the killer had picked up or used a revolver.

I side-glanced at Milo. Expressionless.

“Lafayette Park,” he said.

Krug wiped cheese from his mustache. “Let me tell you about Lafayette Park. Coupla months ago I got called for jury duty, civil case, they hear them over at the courthouse on Commonwealth, which is right near the park. I knew I’d be disqualified but I had to show up and wait and do all that good citizen stuff. Lunch break comes and the clerk reads off this prepared statement telling all the jurors where to eat. Then she goes into this speech about never going into Lafayette Park, even during the day. We’re talking a courthouse yards away swarming with law enforcement, and they’re saying don’t step foot inside.”

“That bad,” I said.

“It sure was for our boy Nestor,” said Krug. “So what’s the connection to West L.A.?”

Milo told him about Rand Duchay and Troy Turner’s murders, but left out Lara Malley’s suicide and the similarities between the shootings.

“I remember that one, snatched little baby,” said Krug. “Depressing, glad it wasn’t mine. So maybe Nestor was the hit boy on Turner, huh?”

“He claimed he was to his sister.”

“She never mentioned that to me.”

“She told C.Y.A. right after Nestor bragged about it, got no interest, phoned Ramparts, same deal.”

“She probably talked to some clerk,” said Krug. “We don’t always get the sharpest knives in the drawer… they do that, the idiots. Brag. How many you solve that way? Plenty, right?”

“Plenty,” said Milo.

“So what are you thinking, someone went on a revenge kick and hit the other baby killer? With all those years in between? What’s it been, ten?”

“Eight,” said Milo.

“Long time,” said Krug.

“It’s a problem, Phil, but there’re no other leads.”

“I’ve been figuring Nestor as your basic dope thing. Patrol officers I.D.’d him as a bottom-feeder with a bad disposition, he was working Lafayette and MacArthur and the streets.”

“Bottom-feeder user?”

Krug pantomimed a bellpull. “Bingo. His arms and legs were full of tracks and there was dope in his blood. You know what it’s like when they get to that point. They’re just selling to stay healthy.”

Milo nodded. “How much heroin was in him?”

Krug said, “Don’t remember the numbers, but it was enough to get him high. The way I figure, being numbed out made him easier to kill. They found a knife on him but it never got out of his pocket.”

“The killer feeds him, then does him?” said Milo.

“Or Nestor fed himself and ran into bad luck. If I was out to get a guy like Nestor, that’s how I’d do it. And a guy like Nestor would have enemies.”

“Bad disposition.”

“The worst,” said Krug, “but we never picked up any specific street talk on who he pissed off.”

“Where was he living?” said Milo.

“Dump on Shatto, pay by the week. You could go there but you’d find nothing. Nestor’s total belongings fit into one box and there was nothing interesting. Maybe the coroner still has it but you know the storage problems at the crypt. My guess is it got tossed.”

“Nestor’s sister said he showed her Turner’s I.D.”

“It wasn’t in his stuff.”

“What was?”

“Clothes, needles, spoons, crappy clothing.”

“Anyone at his crib have anything to say?”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Krug. “We’re talking transients and a clerk who does the blind-dumb-deaf bit.”

Krug took a bite of his burger. “Excellent, huh? One thing the French are good for is cheese… anyway, whatever bragging Nestor might’ve done in the past, his crowing days were over.”

He reached in his pocket and brought out a postmortem shot of a hollow-cheeked visage. Matted hair, sallow complexion, death-glazed eyes bottomed by gray pouches. Patchy facial hair came across as a gray skin rash.

Like his sister, Nestor Almedeira had a round face. Bad living had wiped out any other resemblance to her.

I motioned for the picture and took a closer look. Nestor had been the baby of the family, but he looked ten years older than Anita. His head had been tilted by the morgue photographer to give a view of the entrance wound. Left temple, black-and-ruby hole sharpened by stellate skin shredding and framed by a pointillist ring of powder.

Milo said, “Was he sitting when he was shot?”

“Right on the park bench,” said Krug. “Your kiddie killer was sitting, too?”

“Maybe in a car. Anything happening on the case, Phil?”

“You’re about it,” said Krug, finishing his burger and wiping his lips. “Be sure to let me know if you learn anything. Be nice to close this one, even if no one else gives a shit.”

“No family agitation,” said Milo.

“You met the sister. She thinks Nestor was scum. Family wasn’t making any moves to claim the body, coroner had to keep bugging them. Finally, one of the brothers paid for the mortuary to pick it up.”

Krug waved and the waitress brought the check and placed it in the center of the table. He took some time cleaning his mustache, pulled a steel toothpick from his shirt pocket and worked it around his gum line.

“So.” He smiled.

Milo picked up the check.

Krug said, “You made my day,” and sauntered out.

When the waitress came by for payment, Milo said, “We’ll have coffee.”

She glanced disapprovingly at the completed bill. “I’ll have to retotal.”

Milo handed her a wad of bills. “Keep it.” She flipped through the money and winked. “On the house.”

As she returned to the counter, he said, “If Malley was the white man who paid Nestor to hit Troy Turner, Nestor was an obstacle that had to be cleared up. On the other hand, Nestor had a big mouth, and for all those years at C.Y.A. he never gave Malley up.”

“Because he wanted to get out,” I said. “But once he was free- and stoned- his inhibitions dropped. He bragged to Anita, so there’s a good chance he talked to other people. The problem is, they were probably people who didn’t care.”

“Other junkies and losers,” he said. “To them he’d be just another fool shooting off his mouth. Anita did care and tried to report it and everyone shined her on.”

Milo pulled on his upper lip. “Another proud moment for the department… Nestor’s crime scene sounds a lot like Rand’s. And Lara’s. Okay, that makes Malley suspect-of-the-week.”

“There’s another unnatural death we should think about. Jane Hannabee was killed a few months after Troy. When I interviewed her she predicted Troy’s death. Said his notoriety would make him a desirable target. From what Anita said, that’s exactly how Nestor saw him.”

“You think Hannabee figured out who paid to kill Troy?”

“Or she was eliminated out of revenge because she spawned Troy,” I said.

“You destroy my family, I destroy you. Man, that’s cold.”

“So is shooting your own wife six months after she’s lost her only child and faking it as suicide.”

His forehead creased. “Hannabee wasn’t shot.”

“Neither was Troy,” I said. “Because Troy was behind bars and with all of C.Y.A.’s problems, they keep firearms out. Shooting someone in a homeless encampment in the middle of the night would be possible but extremely reckless. Hannabee’s murder was so stealthy it wasn’t discovered for hours. She was pulled out of her sleeping bag, cut, slid back in, rewrapped in plastic.”

“You’re saying signature doesn’t matter to Malley.”

“He’s not governed by a structured compulsion because his goal isn’t sexual satisfaction. His goal is housecleaning. Whatever gets the job done.”

“Alex, if Malley’s really done all these people, he’s still a serial killer. Guess Rand’s grandmother’s the lucky one, dying of disease.”

The coffee arrived. The waitress set Milo’s mug down with exquisite caution, leaned over and flashed a triangle of freckled chest. Tight wrinkles tugged at her cleavage. She lingered for a second before straightening.

“Anything else?” she said with a song in her voice.

“Nope, we’re fine, Elise.”

“You’re very kind,” she said.

“So they tell me.”

We headed back to West L.A., taking Sixth again. Milo slowed to glance at Lafayette Park. Trees, lawns, benches, a few men sitting, a couple of others walking. The courthouse on Commonwealth loomed. Who’d have thought so much threat resided in empty, green space.

He said, “Anyone approaching the campgrounds where Malley lives from either direction on Soledad would be spotted easily. There’s nowhere to hide on the road, so forget surveillance. Not that surveillance would tell me anything. Doesn’t sound as if Malley’s gonna go pub-crawling and blab to lowlife friends.”

He rubbed his face and made an abrupt lane shift that evoked frenzied honks. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.

The honker’s Toyota whipped in front of us. On the rear bumper was a War Is Not the Answer sticker.

Milo growled. “It got rid of slavery in America and Nazis in Germany.”

I said, “If Malley’s still active in the drug trade, he might leave the campsite periodically.”

“Unless I can watch him, how the hell do I find that out?”

“Maybe his boss is more aware of his comings and goings than she let on.”

“Bunny the stuntwoman? Think there’s more than a work relationship, there? I sensed something personal going on.”

“Maybe. She made a point about not keeping tabs on Malley. Which was an answer to a question you didn’t ask.”

“The lady protesting too much?” he said. “If she is Barnett’s love-interest, questioning her further is only going to alert him. I’m gonna call the coroner about Nestor’s belongings, check out his dump on Shatto despite what Krug said. Anita was right about Krug. He doesn’t give a shit. I also know a Ramparts uniform who might be able to turn me on to some street junkies, maybe I’ll get lucky and find out Nestor blabbed to someone else. Better check into Jane Hannabee’s death, too. Big-time fun, huh?”

“Can you handle more complication?”

“What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”

“If Malley’s anger extends to everyone he perceives as having been on the boys’ side, and killing Rand rekindled his rage, the Daneys could be in jeopardy. If Malley was outside Rand’s window that night, he could’ve been spying on them as well.”

He thought about that. “Yeah, they should probably be warned, but it’s tricky. What if they go over to Malley’s place and try to talk things out? Being all spiritual and positive about basic human goodness and all that. If we’re right about what happened to Rand, heartfelt discussion with Cowboy Barnett is not a prescription for longevity.”

“Warn them not to have contact with him,” I said.

“Think I can compete with God?”

“Good point,” I said. “Cherish, especially, might try to talk things out. She fancies herself a therapist.”

“God bless the God-pushers. You like feel-good religion, Alex? Inherent blessedness of the human spirit, eternal forgiveness, the certainty of an afterlife where all is bright and airy?”

“Everyone needs comfort.”

He laughed angrily. “Give me that old-time religion, bro. And I ain’t talking rousing hymns and babbling in tongues. My childhood was nuns who smacked my hands raw and priests stoked by guilt and hellfire and blood sacrifice.”

“Blood sacrifice sells movies,” I said.

“Sells entire civilizations.”

“Optimism’s for wimps?”

“Hey, it’s great if you can swallow it,” he said. “Blind Faith 101.”

After dropping me back at my place, Milo leaned out the passenger window. “Has my resolute negativity brought you down? Because there’s something you can do for me while I’m up to my neck in Nestorania.”

“Sure.

“How about you warn the Daneys? Be psychologically sensitive and hold back if you sense they’re gonna do something stupid. And as long as we’re putting out warnings, what about the boys’ lawyers- talk about getting on Malley’s wrong side. Remember their names?”

“Sydney Weider for Troy, Lauritz Montez for Rand.”

“That just rolled off your tongue. The case stayed with you.”

“Until Rand called, I thought I’d forgotten about it.”

“So much for optimism, pal. Anyway, feel free to schmooze with them, too. I hate talking to lawyers.”