Guilt (21 page)

“Yes … funny.”

She labored to smile. Succeeded and hinted at the beautiful woman she’d once been. “It … happens.”

We returned to the unmarked. Milo put the key in the ignition but didn’t start up.

“Groot’s instincts were good, the Bimmer’s a likely scam and Clark Kent’s shaping up like a bad boy with a second pad. Think he’s the daddy?”

I said, “He’s got women coming in and out constantly, but Qeesha’s the only one seen more than once or twice. That says beyond casual and the last time Sommers saw her, she was conspicuously pregnant and looked angry. Maybe because Wedd wanted her to terminate? If she was pressing Wedd for money, it could’ve motivated the car scam: He finds her wheels, gets her temporarily out of his hair, uses the insurance money for his own new drive. A pimped-up SUV just like Heather saw at the park that night.”

“At the park ’cause he’s doing advance work, taking care of business. Qeesha hassled him, he killed her and the baby. Ditto Adriana, because she knew too much. Clark’s sounding like a
real
bad boy.” He frowned. “With no criminal record.”

“The timing works,” I said. “Qeesha left Idaho a couple of years ago, plenty of time to hook up with Wedd, get pregnant. What I find interesting is Adriana didn’t follow her to L.A. but she did leave home, right around the same time. Reverend Goleman suggested she needed a life change. Meeting Qeesha, seeing her independence, might’ve inspired Adriana. She’d run the day care at the church. She found child-care work with the Van Dynes, then the Changs. San Diego’s close to L.A. so it’s not illogical she and Qeesha would reconnect. Maybe that post office box of hers was her own bit of naughty intrigue, allowing the two of them to correspond in secrecy. Allowing her vicarious entry to Qeesha’s world without actually participating. But four, five months ago that changed when Qeesha called for help and Adriana went down to L.A. with the Changs—a break of her usual routine. That’s the same time Sommers saw Qeesha pregnant and unhappy. What if Qeesha
sensed she was in danger—she’d seen something frightening in Wedd’s attitude—and wanted support? Or a witness?”

He looked over at the building. The painters had paused, were sitting at the curb eating burritos. “… Those bugs. Wax. If Wedd’s our guy, he’s something other than human.” Head shake. “All those women, he’s got some kind of charisma going.”

“Women who aren’t seen more than once or twice.”

He stared at me. “Oh, no, don’t get imaginative. Too early in the day.”

He started the car but kept it in Park. His left hand gripped the steering wheel. The fingers of his right hand clawed his knee. He rubbed his face.

I said, “Sorry.”

“No, no, now it’s
my
head’s going in bad directions. What if the baby wasn’t unwanted, Alex? What if it was wanted in a bad way? Literally. For some kind of nut-cult ritual.”

His normal pallor had leached to an unhealthy off-white. I felt my own skin go cold.

He said, “Dear God in Heaven, what if that poor little thing was
farmed
.”

A
woman stood near the entrance to the division parking lot. Tall, lanky, long-legged with frizzy yellow hair, wearing a maroon pantsuit with shoulder pads a couple of decades too big, she consulted a piece of paper as she checked out entering vehicles. A badge was clipped to her lapel.

I said, “Department bean counter?”

Milo said, “Your tax dollars at work.” He rolled up behind a black-and-white and a blue Corvette that was someone’s civilian ride. Both cars passed the frizzy-haired woman’s scrutiny. When Milo pulled up to the keypad, she looked at him, waved the paper.

“Lieutenant Sturgis?” She approached the driver’s side.

Milo said, “Another survey? Not today,” began rolling the window up.

“Don’t do that!” Her protest was more screech than bellow. Her pantsuit was the color of pickled beets, some fabric that had never known soil or harvest. She wore glasses framed in pale blue plastic, rouge that was too bright, lipstick that wasn’t bright enough. Had one
of those rawboned bodies that abhor body fat. Nothing masculine about her, but nothing feminine, either.

She pressed a hand on the half-rolled window. Picture on her badge; I was too far to read the small print. She showed Milo the paper in her hand: On it was a full-page, color photo of him.

He said, “Never seen the guy.”

“C’mon, Lieutenant.”

He rolled down the window. “What can I do for you?”

“You could stop avoiding me.” She unclipped the badge, showed it to him. “Kelly LeMasters, L.A.
Times
.”

Milo didn’t oblige her with a response.

She said, “That’s the way it’s going to be? Fine, I’ll grovel for every crumb. Even though I shouldn’t have to ’cause I’m with the paper of record and I’ve been calling you all week on those skeletons and you’ve been shining me on like I’m your ex-wife filing for more spousal support.”

She smiled. “Or in your case, ex-husband.”

Milo said, “A comedian.”

“Anything that works,” said Kelly LeMasters. Her tone said she was used to rejection. But not inured to it.

A car pulled up behind us. Large black man at the wheel of a brand-new Chevy unmarked. Dark suit, white shirt, red tie. Scowl of impatience. Horn-beep.

Milo said, “That’s a captain behind me, so I’m going to pull into the lot. It has nothing to do with avoiding you.”

“You couldn’t avoid me if you wanted to, I’ll be right here when you come walking out.”

True to her word, she hadn’t budged a foot. Looking at me, she said, “This is the psychologist. He advise you to shine me on?”

“No one’s shining you on. Sorry if it came across that way.”

“Ma’am bam thank you
not
,” she said. “What, you’re allergic to cooperation?” She looked me over, top-to-bottom. “Good angle, grizzled
homicide cop and dashing shrink.” Blue eyes shifted back to Milo. “Delete
grizzled
, insert
rumpled
.”

He reached for his tie, lying crookedly across his paunch. The reflexive move cracked up Kelly LeMasters. She slapped her knee with glee. Long time since I’d seen anyone do that. Not since my last drive through the Ozarks.

Milo said, “Glad to be amusing.”

Kelly LeMasters said, “See? You’re human. Have your vanities like everyone else. So why in the world would you refuse to cooperate with me? I could make you famous. At least temporary-famous and that’s pretty cool, no?”

“Thanks but no thanks.”

“Playing hard to get? Why run from stardom, Milo Sturgis? In addition to being a sexual-preference pioneer, for which you’ve never received just credit, you’re darn good at what you do. According to my sources, over the past twenty years you’ve closed proportionately more murders than any other detective. And yet no one really knows about the totality of your accomplishments because you refuse to maintain any sort of media presence. Sure, you pop up from time to time, giving pithy little quotes. But more often than not you let some boss-type get the credit for your work.”

“Aw shucks.”

“Fine, you’re the gay Jimmy Stewart but why shut me out on these baby cases? What is it? My breath?”

She leaned close, exhaled noisily. “See? Minty fresh?” I was favored with a second blast of herbal aroma. “Back me up on that, Doctor.”

Milo and I laughed.

“See,” she said, “I’m a funny girl. Reward me, Milo Sturgis.”

“It’s complicated.”

“So what isn’t?” Her hand shot out. A white-gold wedding band circled one of ten bony fingers. Her nails were short, unpolished. But for the ring, she wore no jewelry.

Milo said, “Now we shake?”

“We sure do,” said Kelly LeMasters. “Seeing as we’re going to be warm, nurturing, mutually advantageous buddies.”

A car approached from Santa Monica Boulevard. Shiny unmarked, new enough to lack plates.

Milo motioned LeMasters away from the lot entrance, turned his back to the oncoming vehicle.

“Who’s that?” she said.

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s not talk here.”

Kelly LeMasters said, “No prob. That Indian place you like?”

He glared at her. “
Nowhere
I like, I don’t want to be seen with you. Minty fresh notwithstanding.”

“Fine,” she said. “If it means you’re going to give me something juicy.”

“No obligations.”

“That’s what they all say.”

We headed up the block into the residential area south of the station. Milo and LeMasters walked abreast as I trailed two steps behind. A few turns later he stopped in front of a dingbat apartment building. White stucco instead of aqua but stylistically not dissimilar from Melvin J. Wedd’s part-time residence.

Milo’s idea of a private joke? Nothing about him suggested mirth as he drew himself up to max height, the way he does when he’s out to intimidate.

If that was the goal, it failed with Kelly LeMasters. She took a notepad and pen out of her bag and said, “Go for it.”

Milo said, “Put that away, we’re off the record. If you guys still respect that.”

“Milo, Milo,” she said. “If nothing’s on the record, what use are you to me?”

“This may come as a shock,
Kelly:
Being useful to you isn’t my priority.”

“Of course not, solving nasty old murders is, yadda yadda yadda. But you know as well as I do that those things go together. How many
of your closed files would still be open if you didn’t get media exposure when you needed it?”

“I appreciate the value of a free press. But my hands are tied.”

“By?”

“Off the record?”

“Regarding that small point?” she said. “Sure.”

“Bureaucracy.”

She said, “You’ve got to be kidding.
That’s
the staggering secret? We all deal with red tape, you think my employer’s all Bill of Rights and no bullshit?”

“Glad you empathize.”

“I don’t need you to tell me why your stupid, venal bosses closed you up on the second skeleton: politics as usual, the whole Maxine Cleveland real estate thing. You ever meet her? Brain-dead and clueless, should be a perfect fit in D.C. That ploy was stupid, where did it get her?” She removed her glasses. “Your idiot bosses let me get scooped by a
damn student paper
.”

“You want to complain, I can give you some phone numbers.”

“How far would that get me?”

“Exactly my point, Kelly. It’s like talking to dust.”

She studied him. “You’re a crafty one, aren’t you? Okay, we go off the record, as long as at some point it goes on the record and I don’t mean months.”

“Nope, can’t give you a deadline.”

“I don’t want a deadline, I just want you to be reasonable.” She put her glasses back on. Wrote something in her pad, angling the page so he couldn’t see. I’ve seen him do the same thing with witnesses, trying to kick up the intrigue, establish dominance.

The two of them would make an interesting bridge twosome.

“Define
reasonable
, Kelly.”

“Use common sense, cut the crap, however you want to define it. I am
not
going to remain mute for eternity only to have every moron on TV and the Internet going with the story.”

Bony hands slapped onto bony hips. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Fine.” Her pen poised. “Shoot.”

“Put the pad away.”

“You don’t trust me to keep it under wraps?”

“You just said your patience couldn’t be guaranteed.”

“We’re wasting each other’s time,” she said. “This is bullshit.”

“Then how about we table the proceedings? Something opens up, I promise to let you know.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re right,” he said.

She studied him. “You’re shitting me. Nice try.”

“I’m not. You’re right.”

“Admitting you made a mistake? Have you checked your Y chromosomes recently?”

“If it was up to me, Kelly, I’d have lots to tell you and it would hit the paper tomorrow. Not because I care about you or your job but because it could be in my best interest. Unfortunately, by pulling that stunt at the parking lot, you made sure anything you write is going to be traced right back to me.”

“I … maybe that was poor judgment but what was my choice?”

Milo shrugged.

Kelly LeMasters said, “Okay, fine, no notes and I swear to protect your identity.” The pad and pen returned to her bag.

Milo said, “Same for the tape recorder you’ve got in there.”

“How … fine, you’re an ace detective.” She produced the machine, switched it off.

He took it, removed a mini-spool that he pocketed, returned the recorder.

Her nostrils flared. “You’re going to keep that?”

“For both our sakes.”

“Want to check if I’ve got a nuclear-laser thought-reader in here?”

“Nah, those are so twentieth century. So what do you want to know, Kelly?”

“After all that I have to ask questions? Just tell me what you’ve learned about those baby skeletons.”

“The first skeleton may not be related to a crime.”

“What makes you say that?”

“No signs of trauma or injury.”

“Maybe it was smothered or something.”

“Anything’s possible but I need evidence.”

“A body buried under a tree is evidence,” she said. “If no crime was committed why conceal it?”

“Could’ve been a death due to natural causes that someone wanted to cover up.”

“What kind of death is natural for a baby?”

“Disease.”

“Then why cover it up?”

“Wish I knew, Kelly. I may never know.”

“Why the pessimism?”

“Too old, too cold.”

“I assume you’ve traced the owners of the house.”

“You assume correctly. No leads, there.”

“I know,” said LeMasters. “I looked into it, myself. Found that old guy in Burbank, the whole John Wayne thing, he had nothing to say. Neither did anyone in Cheviot Hills. Including that kid who blabbed to the SMC paper. Her thing was
I talk to Lieutenant Sturgis, no one else
.”

Milo said, “Power of the press.”

“Yeah, we’re real popular—so I should just forget about the first one.”

“Probe to your heart’s content, Kelly. You learn anything, I’ll be grateful.” Sounding sincere. Not a word about Eleanor Green, a big blue Duesenberg.