Motive (18 page)

Moe Reed took over the watch, allowing Milo a brief stop at home in West Hollywood, where he showered, gobbled half a cold pizza and a generous square of cold baked ziti, while reading the paper. Sitting
across from Dr. Rick Silverman, who breakfasted on fruit and Rice Krispies. While reading the paper.

“
Wall Street Journal
for him,
Times
for me. Neither of us are great in the morning, this morning we’re grumpy as hell. Finally, he got paged from the E.R. and I’m about to leave when I see I need to change my shirt, got tomato sauce on it, and that pissed me off more than anything. You think it’s a subconscious blood thing? I chose Italian out of big-time empathy?”

I said, “You’ve always liked pizza.”

“There you go again. Doing your reality thing.”

William and Clara DiMargio lived in an olive-green, one-story bungalow south of Pico and east of Overland. I waited ten minutes before Milo pulled up. He wore a gray suit that matched the sky, a chartreuse shirt, a tie the color of mud, the faithful desert boots, resoled for the umpteenth time. His hair was slicked and he’d shaved haphazardly, creating a grid of nicks at his jawline. His eyes were bloodshot, his head stooped.

Three-hundred-plus homicides. Here we go again.

A woman answered the door. Sixties, five three, black hair cut short, pretty face, small body swallowed up by a quilted blue housecoat.

She said, “Yes?”

“Mrs. DiMargio?”

“That’s me, what is this?”

Milo flashed his badge. Not the card; the card says
Homicide
. “Is Mr. DiMargio here?”

“Why?”

“It’s about your daughter Francesca. If we could come in, ma’am?”

Clara DiMargio said, “Can I see that badge again?” But she stepped back, gripping the doorframe for support.

A man’s voice said, “Clara?” just before its owner appeared. William
DiMargio wasn’t much taller than his wife. Older than her or just aging faster, with frizzy white hair, eyelids surrendering to gravity, rough, weathered skin. An indifferently trimmed mustache spiked in all directions.

“The police, Bill.”

“What’s going on?” Bill DiMargio demanded. But he, too, made way for us.

As always, Milo did his best. As always, it didn’t seem to matter.

Clara DiMargio wailed and shook. Her husband held her at arm’s length as if he wanted to throw her away. Jut-jawed, eyes full of rage, spittle collecting at the corners of his lips as he mouth-breathed.

I went to the kitchen and fetched water and a box of tissues, placed everything on the coffee table in front of the couple. The table was shaped like a lyre, pecan wood with tiny black freckles, resting on gilded griffon legs. A basket of wax fruit, a bronze nutcracker shaped like a crocodile, and a collection of framed photos crowded the surface.

Most of the pictures were of conventional-looking people in their thirties—two couples, each with a pair of small children. In one picture, Clara and Bill stood among them. No one with tats and pierces.

A single shot off to the left portrayed a cute young teenage girl who resembled Francesca Lynn DiMargio’s DMV photo if you factored out the blue-and-scarlet buzz cut, the snaky black neck tattoos, studs, hooks, and barbells inserted into eyebrows, nose, lips, and the tender space between lower lip and chin.

Pierces everywhere
but
her ears. A shy girl shouting defiance with negative space?

I studied the expression on her pre-modification face. Forced smile. Tense, preoccupied. Posing but still caught off guard.

Clara DiMargio grew silent. Her husband removed his arm from her shoulder and scooted a few inches away.

Milo said, “We’re so sorry for your loss, but if you could talk to us it might help find out what happened.”

Bill said, “What happened is probably she lived like a freak and it got her.”

His wife cried out, “Oh!” and used both hands to grab her own cheeks.

“Like it matters now? Like she’s gonna get upset?”

Clara howled. He set his mouth tighter and his mustache bristled.

Milo said, “We’re open to any information you want to give.”

Bill said, “She lived her own life, shut us out.”

“Oh, God,” his wife whimpered.

He shifted farther away. “Like that place she supposedly worked. Like it was a real job and we were supposed to be thrilled.”

“Even Odd. You’ve been there?” said Milo.

“Why would I? Being in a bookstore in a bad neighborhood at night is a job? Who buys books at night?”

Clara dried her tears. “Frankie said people came in.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Hmmph. Well, she never told me nothing.” To us: “In the slums they’re all of a sudden big readers?”

Clara said, “Silverlake is not the slums.”

“Right, it’s Beverly Hills. Look. These guys are here for information, I’m giving them information. You want to tell me hanging out with losers couldn’t a had something to do with it? Gimme a break, Clara.”

He shot up, walked into the kitchen, shaking a fist.

Clara said, “He’s upset.”

Milo and I sat there. Moments later, Bill DiMargio was back, empty-handed. As if spotting the water for the first time, he poured himself a glass and slurped noisily.

I said, “Did Frankie have problems with nighttime customers?”

“No,” said Clara. “Not that she said.”

Bill said, “Just ’cause she didn’t say doesn’t mean nothing. She never said nothing.”

“Oh, please, Bill.”

“Be honest. If she had a problem, would she a told us?”

Silence.

Clara said, “Frankie was a good girl. She needed her freedom, is all.”

“Which we gave her. We gave all three kids freedom but the others respected it.” Bill DiMargio’s face crumpled. He swung his head toward us, drifted from Milo to me, settled on me. Tears oozed down his weathered skin. “Lord Jesus, what happened to my
baby
?”

Milo said, “Someone murdered her in her home.”

“How? What’d they do to her?”

“We don’t have details yet.”

“You were there. You don’t know?”

Milo said, “The autopsy will clear that up.”

“I don’t understand,” said DiMargio. “You can’t just look at—what they poisoned her, you can’t tell from the outside? Some crazy drug?”

Clara said, “I don’t want to hear this.” Her turn to escape. She walked down the hallway at the far side of the living room and turned right.

The sound of retching. A toilet flushed.

Bill DiMargio said, “That’s what happened? They poisoned her with some crazy dope?”

Milo rubbed his face. “I’m afraid the body was there for a while, sir, and that makes it hard to—”

“Ohhh!” DiMargio cupped both hands over his face.

Clara returned, wiping her mouth, several shades paler.

Her husband said, “Don’t ask them any questions, you won’t like the answers.”

Both of them finished their water. I got more, took time to check out the photos on the fridge door.

Again, everyone but Frankie.

When I got back, Milo was saying, “… terrible to go through this.
But we never know what’s going to solve a case, so whatever you can tell us—like who Frankie’s friends were—”

“She had no friends,” said Bill.

“We don’t know that,” said Clara.

“We don’t? Name one.”

Silence.

When Clara started crying again, Bill left for the second time, came back toting a framed photo larger than the ones on the table and thrust it at us.

Formal portrait of Frankie DiMargio around fourteen, wearing a white dress, her hair long, brown, luxuriant. Clear skin, clear eyes. The only metal in her face, orthodontic.

The same tentative, beleaguered smile.

“She was a good-looking girl,” said Bill. “Until she started to mess with herself. Got her first tattoo at fifteen. But we never knew. On her back, down at the bottom, she hid it from us for a year, if I’d a found out who gave it to her, he’d be sorry. But she wouldn’t say even after I grounded and re-grounded her, took away her CDs. She was always difficult. Contrary. Wouldn’t go to parties she got invited to. Wouldn’t answer when you talked to her, like you weren’t there.”

“Bill,” pleaded Clara.

DiMargio’s mouth tightened. “I’m
trying
to be helpful. So they can
solve
this damn thing.”

His wife stared at him. Stood and left for the third time, bustling straight up to the end of the hall. A door closed hard.

Bill DiMargio said, “Now she’ll sleep all day, that’s what she does, she sleeps it away. As usual, it’s my fault—you wanna hear about Frankie? I’ll tell you. Her problem was she always had to be different. I know, I know, that’s normal, everyone has to do their own thing. Plus she’s shy, afraid of people, life is hard, I get it, she needs to
express
herself. But let me tell you, shy doesn’t have to be a problem, lotsa people are shy, right? And they don’t get into trouble.”

Footsteps sounded. Bill DiMargio folded his arms across his chest.
Clara returned, dressed in a black blouse and slacks, black sneakers. Sidling close to her husband, she slipped her hand into his.

He said, “You okay, hon?”

She sighed and turned to us. “May I tell you about our little Francesca? She was so, so, so
shy
. Just born that way.”

Bill DiMargio said, “Finally, something we can agree on.”

The history was one I’d heard hundreds of times. Quiet, somewhat withdrawn child, previously well behaved, finds a social niche among a loose band of fellow outcasts in junior high and everything changes: dress, taste in music, school performance, adventures with drugs.

“But nothing addictive,” said Clara DiMargio.

Her husband humphed. She withdrew her hand. “I’m not saying she was blameless. There was some drinking, some marijuana. But nothing serious and until then she’d never done anything even naughty. Just the opposite, she was our little Goody Two-shoes, refused to even taste mulled wine at Christmas.”

Bill DiMargio said, “If only that had lasted.”

“She did
not
have a drug problem,” said Clara.

“You say so.”

“I do. You know I’m right, Bill.”

“Probably,” he conceded. “Though there were times she looked like it was more than just wine and reefers.”

“Say what you want,” said his wife between clenched jaws. “She was
never
addicted to anything. Everyone told us that.”

I said, “Everyone meaning—”

“School counselors,” she said. “She tested with learning problems but never once, not ever, was there even the slightest suspicion of addiction to anything.” Glaring at her husband.

He muttered, “Must be true, they’re the experts.”

Clara said, “Which isn’t to say whatever she was doing was acceptable. Frankie’s grades suffered. She was never the greatest student but
up until eighth grade she’d managed to pass everything. After the change, she began failing.”

“Once it started, banzai,” said Bill. Forming a wing with one hand, he dive-bombed sharply.

Clara said, “We had her tested several times, she’s at least average, above average in some things. Like creative thinking, she was definitely creative. School was even harder for her because her sister and her brother had found it easy. Classes and the social things.”

Bill said, “That’s for sure, Tracy could party in her sleep.”

“Tracy’s our older daughter,” said Clara. “She’s extremely social. Works as a party planner.”

“Bill Junior’s an accountant,” said her husband. “Smart as a whip.”

“Do they live in L.A.?” I said.

Clara said, “Tracy lives outside of Chicago, Bill Junior’s firm is in Phoenix.”

“Raking in the big bucks,” said Bill. “He was the easiest one to raise.”

“Thank God
everyone’s
doing well,” said Clara. “Including Frankie, she really had pulled things together.” The unspoken word:
finally
.

I said, “When’s the last time you saw Frankie?”

Long silence.

Bill said, “We really didn’t see her. Not since … maybe four months. She came by to get some cash.”

“Cash for …”

“Living. That’s on top of we’re already paying her rent.”

Clara said, “Not all of it.”

“Most of it,” he said. “Never even saw the place. She didn’t want us to.”

Clara said, “I saw it.”

“Once. Before she moved in. It’s not like we pay the rent and get to be entertained the way Tracy and Bill entertain us when we visit.”

“Everyone’s different. Frankie needed to live her own life.”

Bill grunted.

“She was painfully shy,” Clara persisted. “Social things were so hard for her.”

I said, “Did she have any friends after high school?”

“I’m sure.”

“Any idea who they are?”

“People at work, I’d imagine.”

“Losers,” said Bill. “Nutcases. You want who did this, look there. A loony or some ghetto lowlife.”

I said, “Did she report any problems at work? With anyone?”

“Never,” said Clara.

“Like she’d tell us?” said Bill.

Clara sprang up and ran out. This time she didn’t return.

We sat there with Bill but something in the air had changed and every subsequent question evoked a slow, weary shake of his head. As we turned to leave, he remained seated.

Milo said, “Thank you, Mr. DiMargio.”

“For what? All I did was fucking
cry
. And now
she’s
pissed off.”

Bill DeMargio didn’t look at us as we left his house.

Outside, Milo said, “Poor people. Not exactly a model family, huh?”

I said, “Does that exist?”

“Good point. You see or hear anything relevant?”

I said, “I heard confirmation of my guess last night. Frankie’s shyness could’ve led her to trust the wrong person.”

“Doesn’t shyness usually make you suspicious? My mother always talked about her middle sister, my aunt Edna, being afraid of her own shadow as a kid. When I knew her, she was a scary crone who rarely left her house, hated the Masons and the Baptists and kept a shotgun propped by her bed.”