The Museum of Desire

Chapter 53

By the time the coroner’s vans arrived, darkness had fallen. The fire trucks remained in place but three of the police cruisers had been called away.

The remaining four cops had resorted to working their phones. Looking up briefly as the bodies were loaded.

Sean had hung on the periphery, looking miserable. Milo handed him the search warrant on Medina Okash’s apartment. “Take your time, do every single inch. Landlady’s a peach, she may give you attitude.”

“I can handle that, Loot.”

“Exactly.”

Milo’s next call was to the LAPD Safe Detail, requesting locksmiths for entry to the Clearwater and Conrock houses and the gallery building on Hart. The last would take time, Central Division smiths tied up at a pair of ultra-high-tech-secured toy district warehouses suspected to be the storage facility for a violent home-invasion gang.

He assigned Alicia the houses.

When she was gone, Reed gave an expectant look.

“You and me, downtown, Moses. It’s a big space. If I can get Coolidge and Freeman, I’ll use them, too.”

Next communication: his captain. Who referred him to a deputy chief. Who told him to contact the Public Affairs office. Which was closed.

He texted a message, got a call two minutes later.

Dr. Basia Lopatinski said, “Just got your message.” I didn’t know he’d left one.

He said, “No mystery on cause and manner but any guesses about the poison pill?”

“What did it look like?”

“Little white square thing, came in a blue tin with Chinese lettering.”

“What were his symptoms and how long did he take to die?”

“He got weak, started foaming at the mouth, vomited, seized, and that was it. Maybe half a minute start to finish.”

She said, “Except for the half minute I’d say potassium cyanide, which usually takes a couple of minutes. It’s similar to what the Nazis used. Also Tamil, for bombers in Sri Lanka and various other fanatics. I suppose it could be KCN kicked up by a chemical accelerator. An antidepressant would do.”

“Could we be talking literal Nazi stuff saved from back then?”

“With Chinese lettering? Doubtful. Their factories make all kinds of illegal products. Including most of our fentanyl.”

“Any legit uses?”

“Here, only industrial purposes. Photography, mining, fertilizer manufacture. And for those you’d use liquid, not pills. In the Wild East, who knows? Hold on... here we go. I’m going to send you a picture from an alleged assisted suicide website and you’ll say, hey, that’s the one.”

Seconds later, an image.

He saved. “Hey, that’s the one. Why alleged?”

“It’s obviously a commercial site aimed at exploiting depressed people. They also sell a clone of Nembutal to ensure that death is as quick and painless as possible.”

“You get this on the dark web?”

“No, it’s out in the open. Was the decedent chronically depressed?”

“No idea. Met him for the first time today.”

“I see... well, in China anything goes, they put garbage in baby formula. It could be a rat poison cocktail turbocharged by ephedra or meth or cloned Ritalin. Get him here and I’ll try to find out. How are you doing, otherwise? I heard about what happened — the decapitation.”

“Word spreads.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “No secrets, the world spins faster and faster.”

A couple of techs began doing their thing and a sixtyish, crew-cut crime scene investigator named Donald Hartfield who had to be retired law enforcement showed up moments later. “Obviously don’t need me for an I.D., sir, but I still have to make notes for the file. Anything you want to tell me?”

Milo said, “Whatever you need.”

Hartfield said, “This is related to that limo thing, right? George Arredondo worked that, said it was horrific.”

“George spoke the truth.”

“Guess like breeds like. He says he still dreams about it.”

Milo, Reed, and I left the scene and walked to the Impala. Milo said, “Come with me, Moses, keep it simple.”

He got behind the wheel, I sat up front, and Reed took the back. Like a suspect. He didn’t seem to mind. Impressively calm, overall. If you didn’t notice his hands crabbed above the tight denim sheathing his knees.

Traffic had eased up a bit and twenty minutes later we were halfway to the gallery when Marc Coolidge called in.

“Man, you are all over the news.”

“Really. Didn’t see any reporters.”

“Who needs reporters?” said Coolidge. “Joe Blow has a cellphone with a camera, the media’s got their feed. Sounds like a mess.”

“Understatement. We’re on our way to the gallery. You free?”

“Just got free. What can I do?”

“Join me for art appreciation.”