Killer (14 page)

Milo smiled. “What can you tell us about Dr. Sykes?”

“Just what I said, she wasn’t too social. Last year we had a block party, everyone getting together, bringing potluck. Dr. Sykes didn’t show and she was home because her car was in the driveway just like it is now.”

“You’re observant, sir.”

“Goes with the territory, I’m an artist. Commercial, graphic, run art direction for Intello-fuel. You tell me your name today, tomorrow it’ll be erased from my brain. But faces, visual stimuli? It’s like life’s a movie and I remember each scene.”

“Did you happen to observe anything out of the ordinary tonight, sir?”

“Nope, if I had, I’d have called you guys. Only thing I can tell you is the approximate time she got home. I pulled up at seven twenty and her
car wasn’t there. Otis hadn’t been walked yet, so I walked him. After changing my clothes, having a beer, so it was around seven forty and by then her car was there. So around seven thirty would be my guess.”

“Would that be a typical time for Dr. Sykes to arrive?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” said Burghoff. “Generally I’m home by five, Otis is walked by six, once I’m in I don’t come out. Tonight I had a late meeting.”

The door to the neighboring house opened. A man stepped out. Burghoff waved.

The man walked toward us. Around the same age as Burghoff, shorter, thinner, wearing a white T-shirt and pale blue sweatpants. “Jack.”

“Mike.”

“What’s going on?”

“Dr. Sykes got killed.”

“You’re kidding.” The new arrival looked at us.

Milo introduced himself.

“Michael Bernini. Who did it?”

Milo said, “Don’t know yet.”

“Killed. Wow—hey, Otis.”

The dog exhaled as Bernini stooped to pet him.

Burghoff said, “Pretty crazy, huh?”

“I’ll say.”

“Your turn, Mike. Back to bed, Ote-man.”

Bernini had nothing to add. Same for two other residents of the block, an elderly couple and a younger woman in a silk kimono who opined that Connie Sykes had been “basically a hermit,” and repeated the block-party story. Speaking with no more agitation or sympathy than had anyone else.

Milo and I continued down the block.

He said, “Late, but unlamented.”

I said, “Unlamented could mean a long suspect list.”

“I’ve got a short list. Starting with your buddy Effo or one of his homeboys and ending with the sister.”

We reached the Seville. He held the driver’s door open. “Facts is facts. Have a nice night.”

I said, “You’re taking the case?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“When did you get here?”

“Ten thirty, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“You parked, watched her house, mulled about how best to scare her off without creating a problem for both of us. No easy answer to that so eventually you got out and walked to her front door and rang her bell and got no response. Her car was in the driveway so you figured she was in the shower or doing something else that impeded her hearing. Or she’d heard you just fine and was refusing to come to the door. The door has a peephole, for all you knew, she was looking right at you. You got irritated but stayed cautious: Crazy woman, what if she was standing on the other side holding a gun? You took out your Glock, rang some more. Zip. At that point, your choice was to back off completely and continue worrying about me, or to do a little checking. You squinted through the peephole. That chandelier gives a lot of light and you saw her. You cursed, put the Glock back, gloved up, tried the door. If it was open, you’d re-arm and go in. If not you’d start making calls.”

“It was locked. So what?”

“You’re officially a witness, yet you’re taking the case …”

“Because I want it. Some muckamuck says I can’t do it, fine. You going to suggest that to anyone?”

“Of course not.”

Turning his back, he loped back toward the crime scene.

I said, “Talk to you tomorrow.”

His response was muted.

I think he said, “Maybe.”

At the end of the next day I phoned Milo. No call-back.

With no active therapy cases, my workload consisted of writing up two reports. That left plenty of time for playing with the dog and downtime with Robin.

Robin was busy and Blanche’s high-rate behavior was the sleep of the just.

That left plenty of time for thinking.

I felt like calling Efren Casagrande, knew it was wrong.

Ditto, Cherie Sykes.

The following morning at nine, Milo called my private line.

I said, “Lieutenant who?”

“Touchy, touchy.”

“How’s the case?”

“Moving along,” he said. “If you call idling moving. And guess what, you can now get involved.”

“What changed?”

“Hour and a half Rivera and I are interviewing your amigo Effo
Casagrande. He’s a savvy guy, which is to be expected seeing as crime’s his chosen career. Has hired a lawyer who’s informed us that
Mister
Casagrande is under no obligation to talk to us. However,
Mister
Casagrande will deign to donate some of his precious time if
Doctor
Delaware is present. Apparently, he misses you. Must be nice to be wanted. Unlike ol’ Connie who no one seems to give a shit about. Including her brother up in Silicon Valley who I just got off the phone with. He reacted like I’d given him the weather forecast. Said he’d get down soon as his schedule frees up. Meanwhile, the body molders at the crypt.”

“Anything interesting from the autopsy?”

“Nope, stabbed fatally then strangled for good measure. No sign she fought back.”

“Given the chance to fight, she would’ve,” I said. “So she was taken by surprise.”

“That’s the way I see it. Someone who didn’t scare her.”

“That doesn’t apply to Efren.”

“But it might apply to Efren’s homeboy Guzman because he cleans her office and she’s already done business with him. And if that doesn’t work out, I’ve got Sis.”

“Have you told her about the murder?”

“Didn’t think that was advisable. And obviously you haven’t told her, either. So please don’t. See you at ten thirty.”

I drove to the West L.A. station, wondering what Efren would be like. Thinking back to the session following his lifestyle comment when he’d showed up jumpy and distracted, only to sink down and hang his head drowsily.

That day I said, “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah … maybe a little … I don’t know.”

“Confused?”

He shook his head. I got him juice, anyway.

“I’m okay—been thinking about a new engine.”

“For the Chevy?”

“Yeah. I get it when I’m sixteen.”

“Congratulations.”

“Yeah but it’s slooooow.”

For the next quarter hour I listened to car-talk and watched him perk up. The crate engine he wanted for the low-rider, new speakers to “like shake up your head, man.”

Maybe he’d keep the Aztec eagle, maybe he’d replace it with “something more bad.”

I said, “Car have hydraulics?”

“Yeah but shit. I’m gonna make it like this.” Separating his hands with a three-foot gap.

I said, “Going for the big-time bounce.”

“Yeah … I said something last time. Lifestyle. You prolly don remember.”

“Diabetes doesn’t fit your lifestyle.”

“Yeah, yeah. So what the fuck was
that
?” Slapping his forehead hard. “I mean what
was
that, man? Like it’s it’s it’s … like a
thing
, man? Like it’s gonna go
away
, man?
Fuck
that. Fuck that bitch’s ass. Her. The bitch.”

“Diabetes.”

He clawed his fingers. “She’s like a lyin’ naggin’ bitch. Goin’ at me, ruh ruh ruh ruh ruh.”

“Trying to control you.”

“
Fuck
that.” He punched a palm. “Fuck
her
. Fuck
all
a them. I make her
my
bitch.”

“It’s your body,” I said.

“Damn fuckin right—I’m like the blood is
good
, man. The blood is red,
mi sangre
, it’s like alive, man, you know? Get a little sweet, fuck, I change it, you know? With that insulin shit, it’s fuckin’
bullshit
, y’know? It’s just sugar.”

I nodded.

“
Fuck
them,” he said. “I do it
my fuckin’ way
.”

The following week, he said, “Can’t do every week no more. Like maybe two a month, y’know?”

I figured he was getting ready to terminate. Maybe premature, maybe not, but no sense arguing. I had to remain the adult who made no attempt to control him.

I was wrong. When it came to Efren, I got used to being wrong.
For the next thirteen months, he showed up faithfully, never a minute late, never forgetting to bring cash payment. During that time, his mother called five times, a gracious, soft-spoken woman who’d married a psychopath and had possibly birthed a psychopath. Wanting me to know he’d had great checkups, the smoothest blood sugar his doctor had ever seen.

The fifth time she phoned her voice swelled with emotion. She told me I was a miracle worker, she was saying prayers for me every Sunday Mass, could she send a pot of
menudo
with Efren, did I know what that was?

“Know it, like it, appreciate the gift, Mrs. Casagrande. But please don’t feel it’s necessary.”

“No gift, Doctor. A thanks.”

“Seeing Efren has been a pleasure.”

Silence. “Really?”

“He’s a very bright boy.”

“I know, I know, so how come he’s so stupid?”

I didn’t answer.

She said, “Anyway, he’s doing good. First I thank God, then you.”

I wrote my third follow-up report to his endocrinologist. As with the first two, I never heard back. I knew the doctor as anxious and overextended, barely coping with the patient load the hospital shoved at him. He did send me three new referrals and they proved simple, compared with Efren.

The
menudo
was delicious, perfect for a chilly November night.

Robin said, “You should mold your practice, darling: patients with moms with culinary skills.”

After the last session of the thirteenth month, Efren announced he was moving from L.A., couldn’t come anymore.

“Where you going?”

He shifted on the sofa.

I said, “Big secret, huh?”

“Nah … Oakland, okay? Anyway, thanks, man. For listening to my bullshit.”

“Actually,” I said, “you put out very little bullshit.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I mean it. You were straight.”

A sunken chest heaved. A flimsy-looking hand moved swiftly to one eye, then the other. He worried a big zit nippling his underbuilt chin.

Back to the eyes, now. “Got some shit in here, like dirt.”

“Smog,” I said. “That’s L.A.”

“Yeah … you been to Oakland?”

“Took my licensing test there years ago but not since.” Before that I’d trained at Langley Porter, UC San Francisco, supplementing my fellowship’s pittance by working as a research assistant on a gang study. Braving some of Oakland’s more murderous streets. Blocks that saw more blood than some butcher shops.

Efren said, “License? Like for driving? Why you go up there for that?”

“My psychologist’s license,” I said.

“Huh?”

I pointed to the framed certificate behind my desk. “That says it’s legal for me to do my job.”

“Legal? What’s illegal for you, man? Doing some gangsta-freak doctor shit?” He bobbed his head. “How you feelin’ I stealin’ you dealin’ we all feelin’ getting
real-in
.”

I laughed. “Interesting concept.”

“You’re saying you gotta pay to work?”

“There’s a fee, but mostly you need a certain amount of—”

“Oh, man, they pushin’ you
around
.”

“Not really—”

“You gotta
pay
? To do your
job
? That su-ucks—hey, you ever need help, you say, okay?”

“Help with what?”

“Anyone
pushing
on you.” He winked. “Now I got to go. Long trip to El Oco-land. El
Loco-land
.”

“You’re driving up there?”

“Maybe.” Another wink. “Oh, yeah, I ain’t
legal
to drive.” Laughing, he got up and slouched to the door. Walking back to me, he held out his hand.

I shook it. His bones felt fragile. “Hey,” he said. “It’s been real, man.”

I said, “I’ll walk you out.”

“No, no, I know the way, man.”

“Okay, then. Have a good time, Ef.”

“Good?” His eyes slitted. “Ain’t gonna be fun. Gonna be
business
.”

Now, years later, I reached the West L.A. station twenty minutes early, parked a block away, strolled the distance on foot, kept walking past the building. Figuring if Efren reverted to instinct he’d be on time, if he wanted to strut a bit, he’d keep Milo waiting. Either way, I had a decent chance of seeing him before anyone else got involved.

I’m so fucking pissed some bitch would try to do that, I’m ready to
kill
her ass. You with that?

Nope
.

Just kidding. Maybe
.

If I encountered him, what would I say?

He was early. Walking south on Butler from Santa Monica Boulevard next to a curvy blonde, the two of them engaged in animated conversation.