Survival Of The Fittest

23

The other detectives left and Sally brought Milo the bill. Typical cop tip; she looked ready to kiss him.

He pocketed the credit slip but stayed seated and she left. “What do you think?”

“Eight hands are better than two,” I said.

He frowned.

“What?”

“I keep flashing to what you first said about Raymond Ortiz. The impulsiveness of a first murder. If that's true, we're right at the beginning of the killing curve… DVLL. What the hell does it mean?”

“I'll go to the U tomorrow and play with the computers.”

“Sure… thanks.”

There was iced tea left in his glass and he drained it.

I asked where the men's room was.

He pointed across the room, to a door in the right-hand corner.

I pushed it open and on the other side was a pay phone, the rear door marked EMERGENCY ONLY. The lav was small, white-tiled, spotless, sweet with disinfectant.

Drafty, too. An oft-painted casement window had been left partially open and I heard engine noise from outside.

Then I noticed dry paint flakes on the sill. Recently opened window.

An alley ran behind the restaurant and a car was pulling into it.

A van.

Headlights off, but as it backed away it passed under the backdoor lamp.

Gray or light blue Ford Econoline. Electrician's logo.

I'd seen it or one just like it this afternoon, parked across the street from the Carmeli house.

The alley was narrow and the van had to manipulate a three-point turn, exposing a side panel.

I tried to force the window wider but it wouldn't budge. Straining, I made out the name of the company.

HERMES ELECTRIC. SPEEDY SERVICE.

Winged-messenger logo. An 818 number I couldn't catch.

A van. These guys love vans.

The Econoline straightened and the tires rotated. Dark windows, no view of the driver.

As it sped away, I tried for the license plate, managed to get all seven digits, kept reciting them out loud as I fumbled for a pen and a paper towel from the dispenser.

Milo got up so hard the table shook. “Stalking us, the Carmelis? He's that arrogant?”

He hurried back to the bathroom area and shoved the emergency door open.

Outside, the air was warm and the alley smelled of rotted vegetables. I could hear sirens, probably from the station. I handed him the paper towel.

“Hermes Electric,” he said.

“An electrician would wear a uniform. One of those anonymous beige or gray things that could resemble a park worker's. Electricians also carry lots of equipment, so who'd notice an extra camera in the back of the van? And I remember something Robin told me when we were rebuilding the house. Of all the tradesmen, electricians tend to be the most precise. Perfectionistic.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “Slip up and get fried… Was the van at the Carmelis' the whole time?”

“Yes.”

We walked through the restaurant, moving quickly past diners. The unmarked was parked in front, in a loading zone.

“Hermes,” I said. “The god of-”

“Speed. So we've got a fast little motherfucker on our hands?”

He used the mobile digital terminal to connect to DMV, then typed in the plate number. The answer came back within minutes.

“Seventy-eight Chevy Nova registered to P. L. Almoni on Fairfax. So the asshole switched plates. This is looking better and better- I'm heading right over to the address… looks like between Pico and Olympic.”

“The number on the side of the van was an 818.”

“So he lives in the city, works in the Valley. Has a personal car and a work van and switches plates around when he wants to play… Almoni… that could be Israeli, too, right?”

I nodded.

“Juicier and juicier… okay, let's see what the state crime files and NCIC have to say about him.”

Checking those data banks produced no hits. He started driving.

“Clean record,” said Milo. “A goddamn beginner like you said… Let's see how this asshole lives- unless you want to go home.”

My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. “Not a chance.”

The east side of Fairfax, a dark, relatively untraveled section of the avenue, was filled with one shabby storefront after another. Every store closed, except for an Ethiopian restaurant with no drapes over the window. Inside, three people sat concentrating on heaping plates.

The sign atop P. L. Almoni's address read NOTARY PUBLIC, PHOTOCOPY SERVICES, MAILBOXES FOR RENT. We got out and looked through the window. Three walls of lockboxes, a service counter in back.

“Goddamn mail drop,” said Milo. “Onward to his business.”

We got back in the car, where he phoned Valley Information, waited, said, “You're sure?” and wrote something down.

Hanging up, he gave a sour smile. “It's a Valley exchange all right, but the address is in 310 territory. Holloway Drive in West Hollywood. Welcome to the maze, fellow rats.”

Holloway was a ten-minute drive from the mail drop, nice and convenient for the convoluted Mr. Almoni. West to La Cienega, then north just past Santa Monica Boulevard, and a left turn onto a quiet street filled with apartment buildings. Well-designed buildings, many of them prewar, some concealed behind tall hedges. I guessed Almoni's would be one of them.

Only a short walk to Sunset Strip but insulated from the din and the lights. I noticed a woman walking a huge dog, its gait and hers long and confident. Tucked among the apartments was an old Mediterranean mansion turned into a private school.

So dark it was hard to read addresses. As Milo searched for the right number, I composed news copy in my head:

Not much is known about Almoni. He was a quiet man, residents in this comfortable neighborhood said.

Suddenly, he pulled to the curb.

Bad guess: Hermes Electric's home base was a newer, well-lit three-story structure with an unshielded brick face and glass doors leading into a bright, mirrored lobby.

A short walk, also, to Milo and Rick's West Hollywood house.

He was thinking the same thing, clenched his jaw and said, “Evening, neighbor.”

Out of the car, he studied a collection of parking signs on a lamppost. Bottom line: permit parking only.

Placing an LAPD sticker on the dash, he said, “Not that it'll help. West Hollywood's county territory, the meter-leeches they contract with could give a shit.”

We walked up to the glass doors. Ten mailbox slots, each with a call button.

Number 6 said I. BUDZHYSHYN. HERMES LANGUAGE SCHOOL, INC.

“Multitalented,” Milo said, squinting at his Timex. “Almost midnight… no jurisdiction, no warrant… wonder if there's an in-house manager- here we go, Number 2, hope he's not a morning person.”

He finger-stabbed Unit 2's button. No answer for several moments, then a thick, male voice said, “Yes?”

“Police, sir. Sorry to bother you but could you come down to the lobby, please.”

“What?”

Milo repeated the greeting.

The thick voice said, “How do I know you're the police?”

“If you come down to the lobby, I'll be happy to show you identification, sir.”

“If this is some kind of joke-”

“It's not, sir.”

“What's this all about?”

“One of your tenants-”

“Trouble?”

“Please come down, sir.”

“… hold on.”

Five minutes later a man in his late twenties came into the lobby rubbing his eyes. Young, but bald, with a light brown mustache and clipped goatee, he had on a baggy gray T-shirt, blue shorts, and house slippers. His legs were pale, coated with blond hair.

Blinking and rubbing his eyes again, he stared out at us through the glass. Milo held out his badge and the goateed man studied it, frowned, mouthed, “Show me something else.”

“Great,” muttered Milo, “a picky one.” Smiling, he produced his LAPD business card. If the goateed man realized the department had no jurisdiction in West Hollywood, he didn't show it. Nodding sleepily, he unlocked the door and let us in.

“I don't understand why you couldn't come at a decent hour.”

“Sorry, sir, but this just came up.”

“What did? Who's in trouble?”

“No real trouble yet, sir, but we have some questions to ask you about Mr. Budzhyshyn.”

“Mister Budzhyshyn?”

“Yes-”

The young man smiled. “No such animal, here.”

“Unit 6-”

“Is the home of Ms. Budzhyshyn. Irina. And she lives alone.”

“Is there a boyfriend, Mr.-”

“Laurel. Phil Laurel. Yeah, yeah, as in “and Hardy.' Never saw a boyfriend, don't know if she dates. She's gone most of the time. Nice, quiet tenant, no problems.”

“Where does she go when she's gone, Mr. Laurel?”

“Work, I assume.”

“What kind of work does she do?”

“Insurance company, some type of supervisor. She makes a good living and pays her rent on time, that's all I care about. What's this all about?”

“It says language school.”

“She does that on the side,” said Laurel.

“Budzhyshyn,” said Milo. “That Russian?”

“Yeah. She said in Russia she'd been a mathematician, taught college.”

“So the school's a moonlighting thing.”

Laurel looked uncomfortable. “Strictly speaking we don't allow tenants to conduct business out of their units but hers isn't any big deal, she maybe sees a couple of guys a week and she's very quiet. Very nice. Which is why I'm sure you have the wrong information-”

“Guys? All her students are men?”

Laurel touched his beard. “I guess they have been… oh, no.” He laughed. His teeth were stained brown from nicotine. “No, not Irina, that's ridiculous.”

“What is?”

“You're implying she's some kind of call girl. No, not her. We wouldn't allow that, believe me.”

“You've had problems with call girls?”

“Not in this building, but others, farther east, sure… anyway, Irina's not like that.”

“You own the building?”

“Co-own.” Brief glance at the floor. “With my parents. They retired to Palm Springs and I took over to help them out.” He yawned. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Does she also operate a company called Hermes Electric?” said Milo.

“Not that I know- what's this about?”

“Where's this insurance company she works for?”

“Somewhere on Wilshire. I'd have to go check her file.”

“Could you, please?”

Laurel stifled another yawn. “It's really that important? Come on, what is it she supposedly did?”

“Her name came up in an investigation.”

“About electricians? Some kind of construction fraud? I could tell you stories about construction. Everyone in construction is a sleaze, the work ethic is totally gone from American civilization.”

He stopped. Milo smiled. Laurel rubbed his goatee and exhaled. “All right, hold on, I'll get the file- want to come in?”

“Thanks, sir,” said Milo. “Thanks for your time.”

Laurel shuffled off, slippers flapping, and came back with a yellow Post-it stuck to his thumb like a tiny flag.

“Here you go. I was wrong, it's an escrow company, Metropolitan Title. On Wilshire, like I said. On her application she put data manager. I'm not comfortable giving information to you without her permission but this you could get anywhere.”

Milo took the yellow paper and I read the address. The 5500 block of Wilshire put it somewhere near La Brea.

“Thank you, sir. Now we're going to pay Ms. Budzhyshyn a visit.”

“At this hour?”

“We'll be sure to keep things quiet.”

Laurel blinked. “No… excitement or anything?”

“No, sir. Just talking.”

A tiny, mirrored elevator took us creakily up to the third floor and we stepped into a yellow hallway.

Two units per floor. Number 6 was on the left.

Milo knocked. Nothing happened for several moments and he was about to knock again when the peephole brightened. He showed his badge. “Police, Ms. Budzhyshyn.”

“Yes?”

“Police.”

“Yes?”

“We'd like to talk to you, ma'am.”

“To me?” Husky voice, thick accent.

“Yes, ma'am. Could you please open the door?”

“Police?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“It's very late.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is important.”

“Yes?”

“Ma'am-”

“You wish to talk to me?”

“About Hermes Electric, ma'am.”

The peephole shut.

The door opened.

She was forty or so, five three and stout and barefoot, wearing a white Armani X sweatshirt over black sweatpants. Her brown hair was chopped short and her face was pleasant, maybe pretty ten years ago, with a small but bulbous nose shadowing full lips.

Beautiful complexion- rosy cheeks over ivory. Gray eyes, searching and alert under precisely plucked brows.

She'd opened the door just enough to accommodate her hips. Over her head was a darkened front room.

“Ms. Budzhyshyn?” said Milo.

“Yes.”

“Hermes Electric?”

One-beat pause. “I am Hermes Language School,” she said, pronouncing it Hoor-meez. She smiled. “Is there problem?”

“Well, ma'am,” said Milo, “we're a little confused. Because your address also matches a company called Hermes Electric out in the Valley.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That is… a mistake.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What about Mr. Almoni?”

She backed away from the door and narrowed the opening.

“Who?”

“Almoni. P. L. Almoni. He drives a van for Hermes Electric. Has a post-office box not far from here.”

Irina Budzhyshyn said nothing. Then she shrugged. “I don't know him.”

“Really.” Milo leaned forward and his foot slid closer to the door.

She shrugged again.

He said, “You're Hermes and they're Hermes and their number is listed with your address.”

No answer.

“Where's Almoni, ma'am?”

Irina Budzhyshyn stepped back farther, as if to close the door, and Milo took hold of it.

“If you're protecting him, you could be in deep trouble-”

“I don't know this person.”

“No such guy? It's a fake name? Why does your boyfriend need one?”

Barking out the questions. The stout woman's lips blanched but she didn't answer.

“What else is phony? Your language school? The data-manager job at Metropolitan Title? What do you really do for a living, Ms. Budzhyshyn? Whether or not you tell us, we'll find out, so save yourself some trouble right now.”

Irina Budzhyshyn remained impassive.

Milo forced the door wider and she sighed.

“Come in,” she said. “We'll talk some more.”

She turned on a table lamp shaped and colored like a larva. Her living room was like thousands of others: modest proportions, low ceiling, wall-to-wall brown nylon, forgettable furniture. A folding card table and three folding chairs established a dining area. Behind a white Formica counter was a pale oak kitchen.

“Please sit,” she said, fluffing her short hair to no visible effect.

“That's okay,” said Milo, gazing at a back doorway blocked by strings of wooden beads. Through it I saw an open bathroom door: night-light dimness, underwear over a shower door.

“How many other rooms back there?”

“One bedroom.”

“Anyone there?”

Irina Budzhyshyn shook her head. “I am alone… Would you like some tea?”

“No thanks.” Milo took out his gun, passed through the beads, and turned left. Irina Budzhyshyn stood there, not moving, not looking at me.

A minute later he returned. “Okay. Tell us about Hermes Electric and Mr. P. L. Almoni.”

This time the name made her smile. “I need to make a phone call.”

“To who?”

“Someone who can answer your questions.”

“Where's the phone?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Anything else in there I should know about?”

“I have a gun,” she said calmly. “In the drawer next to the refrigerator, but I'm not going to shoot you.”

With a few quick strides, he retrieved it. Chrome-plated automatic.

“Loaded and ready.”

“I'm a woman living alone.”

“Any other arms?”

“No.”

“And no P. L. Almoni lurking in some attic?”

She laughed.

“What's funny?”

“There's no such person.”

“If you don't know him, how can you be sure?”

“Let me make the call and you'll understand.”

“Who're you going to call?”

“I can't tell you until after I make the call. You're not a county sheriff so I don't even have to cooperate with you.”

Statement of fact, no defiance.

“But you're cooperating anyway.”

“Yes. It's… practical. I'm going to call now. You may watch me.”

They went into the kitchen and he stayed right next to her, towering over her, as she punched numbers. She said something in a foreign language, listened, said something else, then handed the receiver to him.

As he pressed it to his ear, his jaws bunched.

“What? When?” He was growling now. “I don't… okay, all right. Where?”

He hung up.

Irina Budzhyshyn left the kitchen and sat on a couch, looking content.

Milo turned to me. He was flushed and his shirt looked tight. “That was Deputy Consul Carmeli. We're to meet him at his office in fifteen minutes. Sharp. Maybe this time we'll actually get past the goddamn hall.”