Rage (21 page)

I
nodded.

“Is
she some kind of therapist?”

“She’s
got some sort of certificate in spiritual counseling.”

“In
the future everyone will be
doing
therapy, so there’ll be no time for
anyone to
get
therapy. Maybe I should retrain in veterinary medicine.”

“You’d
consider that after meeting Spike?”

“You
love Spike like a brother. Admit it.”

“Do
the names Cain and Abel ring a bell?”

She
laughed, poured more wine, grew thoughtful. “It sounds as if Rand was this
woman’s project and she figured she could heal him. Now that he’s dead, she’s
tormenting herself that he was harboring a deep, dark secret that should’ve
been brought to light. Which may be true, he implied the same thing to you. The
big question is, Was his secret relevant to his murder? Doesn’t sound as if Ms.
Daney has anything of substance to say about that. She’s basically preoccupied
with her own guilt.”

“So
why’d she try to reach Milo?”

“To
feel she’s done her civic duty.” She played with my fingers. “On the other
hand, Rand called
you
for a reason, and a few hours later he was dead.”

The
food came.

Allison
said, “You have no idea what Rand wanted to talk about?”

“He
ended by saying he was a good person. I figured he was after some kind of
absolution.”

“Makes
sense, we’re not that dissimilar from priests.”

“What
puzzles me,” I said, “is why he’d reached out to me. My role in the case was
pretty minimal.”

“Maybe
not to him, Alex. Or maybe he simply wanted to square things with everyone
related to the case. Which would certainly include Kristal’s father. Who
happens to drive a black truck.”

“Full
circle to Barnett,” I said.

“What
do you know about this guy?”

“Lara’s
mother is certain he and Lara were dopers, suspects Barnett might’ve sold dope.
She also says Barnett isolated Lara, which got me thinking about abuse. He
lives out in the boonies, stockpiles guns.”

“Sounds
like a charmer.”

“Lara’s
mom also wondered out loud if Lara could’ve been high when she lost Kristal.”

“Lost
her,” she said. “That sounds like misplacing your keys.”

* * *

We
finished dessert and coffee, took a long time metabolizing. Allison fought for
the check, finally won. A flush sparked her cheeks.

“It’s
good to have you back,” I said. “Even if you won’t let me pay.”

“Good
to be back . . . something bothers me, Alex. I can see Lara
getting high being an issue for her husband. But why would Rand care— or even
know about that?”

I had
no answer for that.

She
played with my sleeve. “Am I being a bore? Sorry, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“Anything
but. Go on.”

“This
was supposedly a random crime, right? The boys never knew Kristal before they
abducted her.”

“They
said they just happened to spot her wandering around by herself. Why?”

“It
seems odd,” she said. “A little girl in a mall, all those shoppers. You’d think
she wouldn’t get very far before someone intervened.”

“Post-Christmas
sales,” I said. “Everyone was out for a bargain. Maybe no one noticed because
there wasn’t an obvious struggle. To a casual observer it could’ve looked like
a couple of teenagers babysitting a younger sib.”

“I
suppose,” she said.

“What’s
bothering you?”

“Kristal
was two, right?”

“A
month shy.”

“That’s
a peak period for separation anxiety. Why wouldn’t there be a struggle?”

“Some
kids are more trusting than others,” I said.

“And
some neglected and abused kids show no stranger anxiety at all. Was there any
indication of child abuse?”

“The
autopsy didn’t reveal any old breaks or scars and the body was well-nourished.
I suppose that if Nina’s claims about drugs and isolation are true, there could
have been some level of neglect.”

“How
close did the Malleys live to the mall?”

“About
half a mile.”

“So
Lara probably shopped there often.”

“She
did.”

“How
far were they from the housing project?”

“Around
the same distance. You’re thinking the boys knew Kristal even though they
claimed they didn’t?”

“They
hung out at the arcade, would’ve had opportunity to see her. Perhaps they’d
noticed Lara’s attention span lapsing before, had even talked to Kristal when
she took her eyes off her. That would’ve made it easier for them to take her.”

“Premeditation,”
I said. “The boys plotted the whole thing beforehand and they lied about that
because it would’ve made them look worse? You think that was what plagued
Rand?”

“Or
just the opposite, Alex. Rand told you he was a good person. He was trying to
minimize
his guilt, and what better way to do that than to pin the bulk of the blame
on others? Troy, for one. But also
Lara,
because Rand had seen her let
Kristal wander off before. It’s certainly nothing Lara would ever admit, but it
could’ve plagued her, contributed to her depression and her suicide. All of
which Barrett had put behind him. Until Rand brought it up. Talk about pushing
buttons.”

My
digestion had come to a halt and steak sat in my gut. “Rand wasn’t bright, I
suppose he could’ve read the signals wrong, been that clumsy. You have a
fertile mind.”

“I’m
just thinking out loud, sweetheart. Like you do.”

“What
a fun couple we are,” I said.

“We
really are, Alex. Anyone can talk about stupid stuff.”

U
nseasonably warm,” said Milo. “Unlike the reception I
got at Chaderjian.” His broad back rounded as he stuck his head inside the
fridge.

He’d
been back from Stockton for an hour, had driven straight to my house, announced
that the airlines were out to starve him. A loaf of bread and a jar of peanut
butter were already out on the counter. He’d drunk half a carton of milk
without bothering to use a glass.

“You’re
running low on provisions,” he said, voice muffled by enamel. “The lack of
jelly, jam, preserves, or reasonable facsimile is inexcusable.”

“Want
some potato chips and a cupcake in your school lunch, junior?”

“Hnh.”
He foraged, straightened, massaged his sacroiliac with one palm. “This will
have to do.” His big hand concealed whatever he carried to the counter. He set
it down next to the bread.

Carton
of peach yogurt. Something else Allison had brought over . . .
had to be weeks ago.

“It
could be bad,” I said.

“So
am I.” Flipping the lid, he sniffed, frowned, spooned gobs of glossy, beige
stuff into the sink, flushed with a spurt of tap water that spotted his tie.

Another
sniff. “Jam at the bottom’s still good.” A spoonful of orange goop landed on a
slice of bread. Peanut butter got slathered on another slice and he slapped the
two halves together. Folding the sandwich double, he ate standing up.

“Bon
appétit.”

“No
French, don’t have the patience, today.
Mon ami.
”

“No
cooperation from C.Y.A.?” I asked.

“You’d
think,” he said, “that wardens and all those other prison types would be
simpatico with cops, seeing as we’re both committed to the public safety.” He
wiped his lips. “But you’d be wrong. Our job’s putting bad guys away, they’re
chronically overcrowded, get buckets of shit tossed in their faces and all
sorts of other indignities. So their goal is moving miscreants
out.
They
made me feel like a germ, Alex.”

“No
counseling?” I said.

“What?”

“That’s
what they call C.Y.A. guards. Counselors.”

He
laughed. “There was a squirrelly feel to the place, Alex. Lots of silence, no
mistaking the tension. Later, reading the local paper, I found out there’s all
sorts of rumbling about an investigation of the whole C.Y.A. system by the
legislature. Too many dead wards. Top of that, their record-keeping’s even
worse than the department’s. But all was not lost— got any more yogurt?”

“
Mi
fridge
es su
fridge.”

“Now
it’s Spanish? Go get a gig at the U.N.”

“Talk
about miscreants.”

He
created a second concoction using honey as the sugar source, consumed it at a
more measured pace.

Four
gulps, sitting down.

“Say
what you want, but sometimes gluttony pays off,” he said. “I hadn’t had a thing
to eat since the night before, the dive I was staying at didn’t have room
service, and by the time I got outside, I was feeling pretty mean. First place
I spotted was a bar and grill two blocks from the prison. Bartender got the
kitchen to microwave a plate of spareribs, and we started talking. Turns out he
used to work as a prison cook, left seven years ago.”

“A
year after Troy’s murder.”

“Ten
months to be exact. He remembered Troy’s murder clearly, was there when they
took the body out. Couple of
counselors
carried it right through the
kitchen out to a loading dock. Didn’t even bother to wrap it, just put the kid
on a board and used belts to keep him from sliding off into the soup. Bartender
said Turner didn’t look much bigger than a plucked turkey, was about the same
color.”

He
strode to the fridge, pulled out a beer, popped the top, sat back down.

I
said, “Bartender had a good eye for detail.”

“It
helped that there was no love lost between him and the prison. He claims they
fired him for no good cause. His other clear memory is that there was a prime
suspect for the murder. Not a Vato Loco, an independent freelance knife-boy
named Nestor Almedeira. The V.L.s and the other gangs used him and guys like
him when they wanted to keep a low profile. And guess what? Said prince got out
a few months ago and his last known address is right here in L.A., the Westlake
District.”

“Almedeira
ever work for nongang clients?”

“As
in Barnett Malley? Who knows? As far as I can tell, Malley never visited. Ditto
for Rand. All Troy got was three personals, one from his mother and two from
Drew and Cherish Daney. No phone logs were kept.”

“What
put Nestor Almedeira in Chaderjian?” I said.

“He
knifed two other kids to death in MacArthur Park when he was fifteen. Served
six years for manslaughter and got out.”

“Two
dead kids is manslaughter?”

“It
is when they’re packing blades themselves and their sheets are as bad as the
guy who did them. Nestor’s P.D. claimed self-defense and got it pled down.”

“And
Nestor promptly went freelance in prison,” I said.

“So
what else is new? Bartender said Nestor was a
very
bad boy. Short fuse,
everyone thought he was nuts. I guess that squares with the way Troy got done.”

“Nestor
have a drug connection?”

“Heroin.”

“If
Malley was selling, they could’ve known each other.”

He
ambled back to the fridge, retrieved the milk carton, finished it.

I
said, “Heading over to Westlake soon?”

“I
was thinking now. Nestor got himself a job at a food stand on Alvarado. Ain’t
that a pretty thought? Bloody hands stuffing your chimichangas?”

* * *

An
L.A.-bound tourist plugging “Westlake” into one of those computer-map services
could get confused.

There’s
Westlake Village, on the far western edge of the Valley, a wide-open bedroom
community of meticulous industrial parks, high-end shopping centers,
tile-roofed vanilla houses perched prettily on oak-studded hills, and multiacre
horse ranches. People with money and scant interest in urban pleasures move to
Westlake Village to get away from crime and congestion and smog and people not
like them.

All
of which abounds in the Westlake
District.

Set
just west of downtown and named after the man-made water feature created from
the swamp that was once MacArthur Park, Westlake has the population density of
a third-world capital. Alvarado’s the main drag and it’s crammed with bars,
dance halls, check-cashing outlets, discount stores, and fast-food joints. A
few of the once-grand apartment buildings erected in the twenties remain,
sprinkled among the hideous postwar instaboxes that pushed out history and
architecture and destroyed Westlake’s identity as a high-rent destination. Some
of the structures had been sectioned and resectioned into dorm-style rooming
houses. Official residency statistics didn’t begin to explain things.

For a
couple of decades after its birth, the park was a pretty place to go on Sunday.
Then it became as safe as Afghanistan, overrun with dopers and dealers,
strong-arm specialists and pedophiles and wild-eyed people who talked to God.
Wilshire Boulevard bisects the green space and a tunnel connects the halves.
Walking through the gray, graffitied conduit used to be life-threatening. Now
murals have covered the gang braggadocio, and the mostly poor Hispanics who
populate the district picnic near the water’s edge after church on Sunday and
hope for the best.