The Museum of Desire

Chapter 22

Maury’s Deluxe Delicatessen was a generous, glass-fronted room, dill-and-salty aromatic. A clutch of people waited to be seated. I’d never been there but Milo had because we were pulled ahead of the queue and given a corner booth by a jubilant hostess who said, “Great to see you again!”

Cops tip generously; my friend kicks up the average.

Familiarity didn’t stop him from studying the menu as if it were an arcane shred of papyrus.

A waiter, white-haired, paunchy, and hunched so severely he resembled an angle bracket with shoes, shuffled over. “The chief of police graces us with his presence, the world is safe.” Heavy lids, phlegmy, bored voice.

“Chief’s a crap job, Mel. Thought you liked me.”

“I love you. Not that way, but we could be brothers.” Mel gave a wheezy laugh. “If Mama had a lo-ong gestation history. Okay, I’ll settle for you’re my large, Gentile nephew. Who’s this?” Wink wink. “The guy?”

“A guy,” said Milo. “Dr. Alex Delaware.”

“Isn’t the guy a doctor?”

“He is. But he’s not this guy.”

Mel looked at me. “By any chance do you shave bunions and take Medicare?”

“He’s a shrink, Mel.”

“Okay. You do neuroses and take Medicare?”

“Coffee, please, Mel,” said Milo. “The usual.”

“Strong and black, Mr. Macho. You?”

I said, “The same.”

Mel said, “So decisive, Dr. Freud. Shouldn’t someone of your training be hinting, not delineating?”

I said, “If you brought coffee, it could theoretically be beneficial.”

Another wheeze. “Not bad, Doc, but don’t give up your day job. So we’re two for dinner?”

Milo said, “Three.”

“A crowd.” The old man braced himself on the table and leaned in close. “So. An ISIS guy is crawling through the desert. He sees another guy off in the distance and heads for him. Turns out to be an old Jew selling neckties. ‘Gimme water,’ he screams. Jewish guy says, ‘Got no water, just neckties. Good-looking silks, designer labels, terrific prices.’ ISIS guy goes nuts, threatens to cut off the Jewish guy’s head. Jewish guy says, ‘My fault all I got is ties? By the way, there’s a few rayons left, they look like silk and are even cheaper.’ ISIS guy is going crazy, now. Reaches for his knife to cut off the Jewish guy’s head and realizes he doesn’t have it. Doesn’t have nothing. Plus, he’s weak and tired and thirsty. Jewish guy says, ‘I also got some knits, very Ivy League, but if you want water, there’s a place a mile up.’ ISIS guy takes off. An hour later, he crawls back to the Jewish guy, looking even more shtupped up, tongue out, panting, he’s a mess. Jewish guy says, ‘What, you couldn’t find it?’ ISIS meshugenah — he’s barely talking, now, more like croaking — he says, ‘I found it all right, but they require a tie!’ ”

Without waiting for a reaction, he scurried off.

When I stopped laughing, Milo said, “He’s ninety-two, eats everything, I find him inspiring.” His eyes swung to the right. “This is probably our new buddy.”

A squarely built, shaved-head six-footer with skin the color of hot chocolate stood near the crowd. Fiftyish, gray sharkskin suit, black shirt, silver tie. After appraising the room, he nodded and headed for us.

Milo shifted to his left, allowing space for Marcus Coolidge to sit between us.

Coolidge said, “Good to meet you, Milo.”

“Same here, Marcus.”

“Marc’s fine.” Coolidge unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a trace of shoulder holster. As he slid in, his eyes shifted to me.

Milo said, “Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist.”

“Doctor.” Coolidge and I shook hands. When he’d settled and smoothed his tie, he said, “Psychologist. You have one full-time?”

“Nope, as needed.”

“My situation, hard to say what I’d need, psychology-wise. Maybe some hypnotism, convince the predators they’re lemmings and herd them off a cliff?” Coolidge arranged a napkin on his lap. “Pastrami on its way?”

“We haven’t ordered yet.” Milo looked at the counter and nodded. Mel baby-stepped our way, carrying two mugs of coffee. It took a while for him to reach the booth. Placing the cups down with great care, he looked at Coolidge. “Finally, we get the chief of police?”

Milo said, “This is Detective Coolidge.”

“Two detectives and a shrink. Walk into a bar. Uh-oh, nope it’s a restaurant. You want coffee, too — is your first name Calvin?”

“Marc. I’ll take tea. Earl Grey if you have it.”

“Veddy sophisticated,” said Mel. “What’ll it be food-wise, Oh Ye Three Magi?”

Milo said, “Detective Coolidge and I are having the pastrami.”

“I recommend with the fat,” said Mel. “Otherwise there’s no taste.”

“Absolutely,” said Coolidge.

“Cholesterol bravery, we need that in detectives. You, Carl Jung?”

“Coffee for now, a roast beef and a pastrami to go.”

“What, you eat in private? Ain’t that some kind of neurosis?”

“Taking it home to my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend, not wife? Why not commit — don’t answer that,” said Mel. “I got one of those myself. A girlfriend. Did the wife thing. Twice. So I get it.”

He got close enough for me to pick up his scent. Old clothes plus Old Spice. “You want to make it sound exotic, Doc, call her your paramour.”

He shuffled off.

Marc Coolidge said, “Entertainment and no cover charge?”

Milo said, “West L.A.’s a full-service shop.”

“Mine, I’m lucky to get fast food.”

A young waitress brought Coolidge’s tea. “Mel’s on break, I’ll be taking over.”

From the counter, Mel waved, then resumed talking to a woman a couple of decades his junior and a head taller.

Marc Coolidge said, “Ready to hear about your case.”

Milo filled him in.

Coolidge said, “Four in a limo, I get two in a Camaro. What’s next, one in a Prius? Half of one on a Harley?”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Consider it bitten. So the link between my victims to yours is McGann worked at the place where this Alvarez lived?”

“That’s it, so far.”

“You’re thinking she found something out about Alvarez and stuck her nose into it and got into trouble?”

“At this point, it’s the only thing that seems to make sense.”

“Unless there’s just a bastard who enjoys killing people and stashing them in vehicles.”

Coolidge sipped his tea, placed the bag on the saucer of his cup. “I’m sure you feel like I do about coincidences. So yeah, it’s hard to see McGann as not related, but there are differences. Your thing sounds elaborate. All that posing — like one of those Christmas things — a crèche, but evil.”

“Alex calls it a production.”

Coolidge thought about that. “Sure, that, too. Mine, on the other hand, seemed to be what I usually get. Strong-arm 211, get rid of witnesses and turn it into a 187. Those cases, they usually do the guy first, he’s bigger, more of a threat, then the girl. Sometimes she gets raped. But so far no sign of sexual assault on McGann.”

I said, “There could be another reason for that sequence. The Camaro’s trunk space is eleven or so square feet and the opening’s small. Tough to get someone Vollmann’s size in.”

“You know the dimensions by heart,” said Coolidge.

“Looked them up on the way over.”

Coolidge turned to Milo. “You’re a lucky man — that’s a good point, Doctor. As is, McGann was curled up like a fetus.”

Milo said, “Not enough blood for it to happen in the car. Something else we’ve got in common.”

Coolidge nodded. “I checked the driver’s-seat position and it fit Vollmann. But he’s six feet tall, which could be plenty of guys. All that moving and driving and dumping, been wondering about at least two killers. Which isn’t weird for me, a gang thing and all that. I just busted a quintet doing home invasions.”

Milo said, “Our vics were posed.”

Coolidge said, “Yeah, nut-so. No, nothing like that and no dog blood — man, that is bizarre. Truth is, you hadn’t called me, I’d never have assumed anything psycho. Maybe there isn’t.”

Milo said, “But coincidences.”

Coolidge nodded. “We’re atheists about coincidences.”

I said, “If McGann was just a problem to be solved, there wouldn’t necessarily be anything psycho.”

A long sip of tea brought beads of sweat to Coolidge’s forehead. He loosened his tie. “So the key might be finding out what, if anything, McGann knew about Alvarez.”

Milo said, “God willing, Marc. There’s something else common to both scenes: Our vic Gurnsey was stabbed in the upper torso like Vollmann.”

Coolidge sat up. “Really? How many times?”

“Three cuts, all potentially fatal.”

“Oh. So not the same.”

I said, “The killer could’ve had time with Gurnsey but been under pressure with Vollmann. Unless he’s a surgeon, aiming a blade that precisely would be a challenge.”

“Even so, Doctor, he misses the first time, why not just keep stabbing?” He pantomimed three rapid thrusts. “Vollmann’s already in shock, wouldn’t take that much time to hit an artery or something.”

I said, “My bet is our four were killed separately but Vollmann and McGann were taken simultaneously. And while Vollmann was being killed, McGann would have to be managed, meaning additional time pressure. Nothing quicker than a shotgun.”

Coolidge tapped the table. “She’s screaming, crying. Yeah, I can see that. When was their flight?”

Milo said, “Don’t know yet, just that they never made it.”

“Like I told you, my pathologist best-guesses it as Sunday morning.”

“After ours but around the time ours were found.”

“If it is the same bad guys, we’re talking busy busy.” Coolidge rotated his cup, spilled a few drops, mopped them with a napkin.

“Here you go, guys.” The waitress served the sandwiches. Both detectives dug in stoically, as if consuming was their latest assignment.

“Still nothing for you, sir?”

“Bring him a salad,” said Milo.

Her eyes darted from him to me. “What kind?”

Milo said, “Anything green and virtuous.”

“All lettuce is virtuous, Lieutenant.”

Coolidge laughed.

Milo said, “Dressing on the side, doesn’t matter what type, he’s not going to have much.”

The waitress stared at me. Problem child being discussed by the adults.

I said, “Mixed green.”

When she was gone, Coolidge said, “I make your rank, I also get to run the world?”

Milo said, “You bet, it’s in the contract.”

“Hah. So what do you figure next on this mess?”

“We both keep working.”

“Yeah, what else is there,” said Coolidge. “Though it used to be more fun, right? You see this year’s FBI report? National close rate for murder is down to fifty-four percent. Mine’s a little higher but not much.”

Milo’s solve rate had remained perfect for years. He said, “Too many stranger homicides.”

“That and just plain crazy stuff, what a world,” said Coolidge. “Reason I’m doing better than national is because my criminals are young, stupid, and have big mouths. You’d be amazed at how many we catch because they shoot off on social media. I had one genius last year, got a tattoo across his chest depicting how he shot a guy. Used an excellent artist, more detailed than our sketchers.”

Milo said, “Talk about a still life.”

Coolidge laughed. “More like a war scene. Brain-dead dumbo lays it out: setting, weapon, what they both were wearing. I didn’t even need to ask motive, there’s a big banner across the fool’s nipples spelling out his gang motto and the need to avenge some dude who got wasted the month before. Idiot’s lawyer shows him the photos of his torso, he’s like, ‘Oh.’ ”

“Amazing.”

“I say pass a law against any education in prison. Criminals smarten up, the rates drop even lower.” Coolidge looked at his remaining half sandwich. “Think I’ll take it home. Got one of my kids for the weekend, he’s a carnivore.”

Milo said, “Got no kids,” and dove into what was left of his dinner.

Coolidge watched him with admiration. “I don’t see any obvious way to go on mine other than keep checking in with informants.”

“Sounds like a plan, Marc.”

“Not much of one.”

“I’m not exactly blazing a pathway to victory.”

“But there’s a difference, my man,” said Coolidge. “Your case is whack and you’ve got a psychologist.”

Outside the deli, Milo said, “You want I can get the victim’s warrant on Vollmann and McGann’s place.”

“No argument there.” Coolidge glanced at the curb. A sleek black Audi, a few years old but beautifully maintained, was parked in front of the deli.

Milo said, “Yours? Nice.”

“Be good to myself,” said Coolidge. “This year’s resolution. Same as every other year.”