The Murder Book (37 page)

Unless Obey’s balance sheets weren’t as glowing as the press believed, and he needed financial backup for his dream. Even billionaires could lose sight of assets and debits, and Obey had spent a decade buying up land and financing and detoxifying his holdings without a single spadeful of Esperanza dirt dug.

Big dreams often meant cataclysmic problems.

I switched to several financial databases and probed for thorns in Obey’s numerous gardens. At least seven separate corporations were listed under his leadership, including Advent. But only one outfit was publicly traded, a commercial leasing company named BWO Financing.

BWO. Probably stood for Barbara and Walt Obey. Homey. From everything I could tell, the company was doing great, with common stock trading at 95 percent of its high, preferred units paying consistent dividends, and solid ratings from Standard & Poor.

Still, Wall Street’s top analysts had been known to be caught with their pin-striped trousers around their ankles, because, at root, they were dependent upon what companies told them. And because their interests lay in selling stock.

Was Obey’s empire teetering and had he sought out the Cossacks and the Larners for support? Did the Cossacks and the Larners have enough to offer Obey?

Bacilla and Horne’s involvement was puzzling. Obey’s planned city was located outside city limits, so what use could a pair of councilmen be?

Unless plans had changed and the focus had shifted back to downtown.

Nothing really sat right. Then I thought of the cement that held it all together:

John G. Broussard’s aid in covering up the Ingalls murder implied he’d had connections to the Cossacks and maybe the Larners. Walt Obey was one of the chief’s major patrons. Maybe Broussard had put them all together, earned himself a big fat finder’s fee in addition to the private stock assigned to his wife and daughter.

Had the chief concealed a substantial lump sum payment from public scrutiny? With Obey’s multiple corporations as shield, concealing cash would’ve been easy enough.

Payoff. Payback. For all his power and status, John G. Broussard remained a civil servant whose salary and pension by themselves would relegate him to upper-middle-class status, at best. Playing with the big boys could mean so much more.

I imagined the deal: Walt Obey salvaging his dream, the Cossacks and the Larners offered a big-time social and economic leap upward, from strip malls and parking lots to the grandest of monuments.

For Chief Broussard and the councilmen, good old cash.

So much at stake.

And now Milo had the opportunity to blow it all to smithereens.

“I
nteresting theory,” said Milo. “I was wondering along the same lines, except that night Obey’s body language was more grantor than grantee. Bacilla and Horne were kissing up to him
big-time.”

I said, “Bacilla and Horne would be supplicants any way you look at it because their political life depends on fat cats. And Obey’s been alpha-dog with politicians for a long time. But you never had a chance to watch him interact with the Cossacks.”

“No,” he admitted.

We were at his kitchen table. I’d spent a miserable hour mulling how to mend things with Robin, had made another attempt to reach her at the hotel. Out. When I reached Milo he was on the way home from the Hall of Records with a briefcase full of photocopies. He’d combed through the property tax files and found fourteen fleabag hotels operating near Skid Row twenty years ago, but no ownership by the Cossacks or any of the other players.

“So much for that.” I scanned the tax roster he’d spread out between us. Then a name jumped out at me. A trio of Central Avenue hotels — the Excelsior, the Grande Royale, the Crossley — owned by Vance Coury and Associates.

“A kid by the name of Coury hung out with the Cossacks and Brad Larner back in high school,” I said. “They all belonged to some club called the King’s Men.”

“Coury,” he said. “Never heard of him.”

He brought his laptop over from the laundry room office. A search yielded three hits on two men named Vance Coury. An eleven-year-old
Times
piece described a Vance Coury, sixty-one, of Westwood, as having been brought up by the city attorney on slumlord charges. Coury was described as “the owner of several buildings in the downtown and Westlake districts who had failed repeatedly to correct numerous building and safety violations.” One year prior to his indictment, Coury had been convicted of similar charges and sentenced, by a creative judge, to live in one of his own buildings for two weeks. He’d rehabbed a single unit in two days and set up housekeeping under protection by an armed guard. But Coury’s empathy quotient hadn’t risen a notch: He’d done nothing to improve his tenants’ living conditions, and the judge lost patience. A follow-up article three weeks later reported that Coury had avoided a felony trial by collapsing in his attorney’s office and dying of a stroke. An accompanying headshot showed a rail-thin, silver-haired, silver-bearded man with the defiant/frightened eyes of one scrambling to remember his latest tall tale.

Vance Coury, Jr. appeared in a two-year-old Sunday
Daily News
item, having contributed the custom paint job to the winning entry in a California hot rod contest. Coury, forty-two, owned an auto body shop in Van Nuys specializing in “ground-up restoration of classic and specialty vehicles,” and his outfit had sprayed forty-five coats on a chopped and blown 1938 Dodge Roadster known as the Purple People Eater.

“Another father and son duo,” said Milo.

“Father owns the hotel, son makes use of the premises,” I said. “And son was a pal of the Cossacks. Meaning he might very well have been at that party. Which turns the prism a whole new way. What if it went down this way: Janie separated from Melinda and tagged along with Burns and Caroline. Burns gave her some dope, introduced her to some of his rich-kid pals. All of a sudden, Janie finds herself face-to-face with Vance Coury, the Prince Charming who tied her up and raped her and dumped her in an alley like garbage. She freaks out, there’s an altercation, and Coury, maybe with a little help from his friends, spirits Janie away before she can cause a scene. They subdue her and bring her somewhere secluded, and Coury thinks, hmm, why not take advantage of the situation? We know he’s into bondage, and what would be more arousing than helplessness? He does his thing, and this time the others join in. It gets out of hand, goes really bad. Now they need to dump the body. Because of his father’s properties, Coury’s familiar with downtown, and he picks a spot he knows is quiet and relatively deserted late at night: the Beaudry on-ramp. He takes a buddy or two along, which would explain taking the risk of leaving Janie out in the open. With one person as lookout and to help with the body, the danger would’ve been minimized.”

Milo stared at the tax roster and placed his finger on Coury’s name. “Boys being boys. The Cossack brothers themselves, not just Caroline.”

“Them, Coury, Brad Larner, maybe the other members of the King’s Men — I think their names were Chapman and Hansen.”

“A high school club.”

“A party club,” I said. “Noted for liquid refreshment, high jinks and other good fun. Janie’s murder took place a few years after graduation, but that doesn’t mean the fun stopped.”

“So where do Caroline and Burns fit into a gang-bang killing?”

“Both had reason to dislike Janie. So they could’ve participated. The fact that Caroline was stashed at Achievement House indicates her involvement. So does Burns’s disappearance. A gang-bang killing also meshes with the absence of a sequel. It took the right combination to turn things bad: dope, a defiant victim, and the ultimate adolescent drug — group conformity.”

“Adolescent?” he said. “All the males were in their twenties.”

“Arrested development.”

“Funny you should say that. When I saw the Cossacks’ current house, that’s exactly what went through my mind.”

He described the eyesore mansion, the cars, the history of neighbor complaints.

“It also matches something else you said early on,” he added. “Women tend to be affiliative. Caroline wouldn’t have had the drive or the strength to slice Janie up by herself, but once Janie was incapacitated, a few cuts and burns would’ve been easy enough.”

“But Caroline’s involvement — and Willie Burns’s — created a new level of risk for the boys: two weak links who couldn’t be counted on to keep their mouths shut. Caroline because of her mental instability and Burns because he was a junkie with a tendency to flap his gums. What if Burns found himself in a desperate situation — poor cash flow and a strong heroin jones? What if he tried to scratch up some money by blackmailing the others? To a street guy like Burns, a bunch of rich white boys with a very nasty secret would’ve seemed perfect marks. That would explain Michael Larner’s rage at Burns’s disappearance. Burns had made himself a very viable threat to Larner’s son, and now he was gone. Burns blackmailing would also explain his skipping on Boris Nemerov, even though he’d always been dependable before. Given all that, his paranoid rant about people being after him when he phoned Boris Nemerov makes perfect sense. Burns wasn’t worried about going to jail. He’d been part of a brutal murder and had gotten on the wrong side of his coparticipants.”

Milo flipped his notepad open. “Chapman and Hansen. Any first names?”

“All I read in the yearbook were initials, and I don’t remember them.”

“High school,” he said. “Oh, the glory days.”

“They
were
Garvey Cossack’s glory days. He lied about being class treasurer.”

“Preparing for a career in finance… okay, let’s go have a look at that yearbook.”

Within moments of our arrival, we’d filled out details on the other King’s Men.

At eighteen, Vance Coury, Jr. had been a good-looking, dark-haired boy with heavy, black eyebrows, a curled-lip smile that bordered on sneer, and a piercing stare. A certain type of girl would’ve thought him hot.

“Teenage lothario,” I said. Just as Janie described. “Despite what Melinda said, she wasn’t always fantasizing. Ten to one his dad owned a Jag twenty years ago.”

Like the Cossacks and Brad Larner, Coury’s out-of-class interests had been limited: auto shop monitor and the King’s Men.

L. Chapman turned out to be moon-faced Luke, a hulking, fair-haired boy with a vacant mien.

Nothing on his plate but the King’s Men.

The last boy, Nicholas Dale Hansen, was a different story. A clean-cut, button-down youth with an ever-so-serious expression, “Nick” Hansen had participated in the Junior Chamber of Commerce, Art Club, and the Boy Scouts. He’d also made honor roll for two semesters.

“The smart one in the group,” said Milo. “Wonder if he was smart enough not to be there.”

“Or the brains behind the organization.”

We got hold of the
Who’s Who
that had helped me locate the boys in the first place. No bios on anyone but Garvey Cossack, Jr.

“Coury’s a Van Nuys fender-bender,” said Milo, “so no big surprise there. And old Luke doesn’t look like the brightest bulb in the chandelier. But personally, I’m disappointed in Nick Hansen. Maybe he didn’t fulfill his promise.”

We left the library and sat out in front on a stone bench that ran along the reflecting pond flanking the entrance. I watched students come and go as Milo appropriated the identity of a Southwest Division Auto Theft detective and phoned DMV. It took some prodding to get the clerk to go back two decades, but when Milo hung up he’d filled two pages with scrawls: makes, models, owners, and addresses of record.

“Vance Coury, Sr. owned a Jaguar Mark 10 sedan, a Lincoln Continental, and a Camaro.”

“So Janie was right on,” I said. “The Lincoln was probably the missus’s wheels, and Vance, Jr. drove the Camaro. When he was out to impress girls, he took Daddy’s car with the deep pile carpeting. Something that would set them at ease before he got them up in that room and pulled out the rope.”

“He’s got himself a slew of wheels, now: eight registered vehicles, mostly classics, including a couple of vintage Ferraris.”

“You said the Cossacks had a Ferrari out in front of their house. Maybe the King’s Men never went dormant, and Coury’s bunking in.”

“Coury’s home address is listed in Tarzana, but could be,” he said. “And guess what: I was wrong about Nicholas Dale Hansen not living up to his capabilities. Drives a BMW 700 and lives in Beverly Hills on North Roxbury. Guess he just didn’t want a bio.”

“Modest,” I said.

“Or he shuns the limelight,” he said. “Because who knows what too much attention can do.”

“What about Luke Chapman?”

“Nothing on him. Never owned a car in California.”

“Meaning he hasn’t lived in California for a while,” I said. “Maybe the family moved out of state after high school. Or it’s another disappearing act, voluntary or otherwise. If he was as dull as his picture implies, he would’ve been considered another weak link.”

“Snipping off loose ends,” he said.

“That makes me think of two other ends, both apparent accidents: Bowie Ingalls hitting that tree and Pierce Schwinn hitting that rock.”

“Oh, your imagination,” he said. “So how’d the boys get the parents to stash Caroline?”

“She’d been the problem child for years. If she poisoned that dog, her parents probably had a sense the problem was serious. If the boys came to them feigning horror at something terrible Caroline had done, they might very well have believed it.”

“The
boys
,” he said. “Bunch of sleazes and that Boy Scout.
He’s
the one who interests me.”

“Merit badge for murder,” I said. “What a concept.”

Walking back to the Seville, he said, “Something that smells of evidence, I’m starting to feel like a real-life detective, gee whiz. The question is where to take it. Can’t exactly march into the boardroom at Cossack Development and accuse the brothers of being scumbag killers.”

“Can’t confront John G. Broussard, either.”

“A working cop never mentions John G. Broussard in polite company. Did you see that piece in the paper about him this morning?”