The Murder Book (41 page)

Milo smiled at her, and she retracted her head behind her newspaper.

He was back at DuPars in Farmers Market, trying to sort things out. Vance Coury had stayed in his head because it had been Coury who’d raped Janie the first time and maybe initiated the scene that led to Janie’s murder.

Normally, he’d have investigated the hell out of the guy. But… then something hit him. Maybe there
was
a safe way to learn more.

He threw money on the table and left the coffee shop. The old woman’s stare followed his path to the door.

The Shining Light Mission was five stories of brick-faced stucco painted corn yellow and sided by rusting gray fire escapes. No friezework, no moldings, not the slightest nod to design. It reminded Milo of one of those drawings little kids do when asked to render a building. One big rectangle specked with little window squares. The place even tilted. As a hotel, the Grande Royale had been anything but.

Old men with collapsed jaws and runny eyes years past self-torment loitered in front and every one of them greeted Milo with the excessive amiability of the habitual miscreant.

Knowing exactly what he was — no way could he be taken for anything else. As he entered the mission, he wondered if the cop aura would stick after he left the department. Which might be sooner rather than later; going up against the chief wasn’t a formula for career longevity.

Even an unpopular chief who might be leaving soon himself. Milo had been scouring the papers for Broussard stories, and this morning he’d found yet another one in the
Times
. Pontification on the chief’s rejected raise by two members of the police commission. Defying the mayor who’d appointed them, which meant they were serious.

“Chief Broussard represents a long-entrenched police culture that contributes to intracommunity tension.”

Politico-blab for “Update your résumé, J.G.”

Broussard had come into office in the aftermath of the Rampart scandal, and the commission had offered no hint at new corruption. The chief’s problem was his personality. Arrogance as he bucked the commission at every turn. In that sense, the chief still thought like a cop: Civilian meddling was the enemy. But Broussard’s imperious nature had alienated the wrong people, well past the point where even pals like the mayor and Walt Obey could help him.

Then again, maybe Broussard didn’t care about losing his job, because he had something waiting in the wings.

Converting his unpaid position as security consultant to Obey’s Esperanza project into a nice, fat corporate gig that would guarantee him long-term status and bucks, keep the wife in Cadillacs and whatever else floated her canoe.

If so, what was Obey getting out of the deal?

The Cossacks’ participation as refinancers fit perfectly. They owed Broussard big-time for the Ingalls cover-up, would go with the flow. Could Alex be right about Obey getting himself into a financial bind, needing the brothers as white knights?

Any way you turned it, Milo knew he was a flea. What the hell, safety and security were for wimps.

He entered the mission lobby. The vaulted space had been converted to a TV room where a dozen or so bums sat slumped on folding chairs, staring at a movie on big-screen. The scene featured actors and actresses in long hair and beards and camel-colored robes wandering through a desert that looked like Palm Springs. Despite the camels. Some biblical epic that asked you to buy the Hebrews as blond and blue-eyed. Milo shifted his attention to the reception desk — maybe the very desk where Vance Coury had obtained the key to his rape den. The counter was topped by several plastic, screw-top cookie jars, and the bookcase behind it was jammed with red-bound Bibles with crosses on their spines. Off to the left were two brown-painted elevator doors. A metal-railed staircase ran straight back and hooked sharply to the right.

The place smelled of soup. Why did so many places dedicated to salvation smell of soup?

An old black guy, more cleaned up than the others, got up from his chair and limped over. “I’m Edgar. May I help you, sir?”

Big bass voice but a little bandy-legged fellow wearing pressed khakis, a blue-gray plaid shirt buttoned to the neck, and sneakers. Bald except for tufts of kinky white cotton above his ears. White-white dentures made for smiling. The total effect was clownlike, benign.

Milo said, “Are Reverend Fred or Reverend Glenda in?”

“Reverend Fred’s at the City of Orange Mission, but Reverend Glenda’s upstairs. Who shall I say is calling?”

The guy had a refined way of enunciating, and his eyes were clear and intelligent. Milo could see him doing butler time at some country club, kissing up to rich folk using perfect grammar. Different skin color, and maybe he’d have been the one getting served.

“Milo Sturgis.”

“And this is about, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Personal.”

The old man regarded him with compassion. “One moment, Mr. Sturgis.” He made his way slowly up the stairs and returned a few minutes later. “Reverend Glenda’s waiting for you, Mr. Sturgis. Next floor up, second door to the right.”

Sitting behind a small, oak desk in a small, nearly empty office fitted with an ancient radiator and masked by yellowed venetian blinds, Glenda Stephenson looked exactly as she had ten years ago. Fifty pounds overweight, way too much makeup, a teased-up meringue of brunette waves atop a broad, welcoming face. Same kind of clothes too: pink, dotted Swiss dress with a frothy collar. Every time Milo’d seen her she’d worn something frilly and inappropriate in that same soap-bar pink.

He didn’t expect her to remember him but right away, she said, “Detective S! It’s been so long! Why haven’t you brought me anyone in so long?”

“Don’t hang out much with the living these days, Rev,” said Milo. “Been working Homicide for a long time.”

“Oh, dear,” said Glenda Stephenson. “Well, how have you been with that?”

“It has its moments.”

“I’ll just bet it does.”

“How’s the soul-saving business, Reverend?”

Glenda grinned. “There’s never a lack of work.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Sit down,” said Glenda Stephenson. “Cup of coffee?”

Milo saw no urn or pot. Just an alms box on the desk, next to a neat stack of what looked to be government forms. Impulsively, he reached into his pocket, found a bill, dropped it in.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” said Glenda.

“I’m Catholic,” said Milo. “Put me in a religious environment, and I have an urge to donate.”

Glenda giggled. Little girl’s giggle. For some reason it wasn’t as foolish coming out of that dinner-plate face as it should’ve been. “Well, then come by often. There’s never a lack of need, either. So… Edgar said this is personal?”

“In a way,” said Milo. “Work and personal — what I mean is it needs to be kept confidential.”

Glenda sat forward, and her bosoms brushed the desk top. “Of course. What’s the matter, dear?”

“It’s not about me,” said Milo. “Not directly. But I am involved in a case that’s… ticklish. A name came up, and I traced a connection to the mission. Vance Coury.”

Glenda sat back. Her chair creaked. “The son or the father?”

“The son.”

“What has he done?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

In repose, Glenda’s customary face was unlined — nothing filled wrinkles as well as fat. But now worry lines appeared at the periphery — etching the corners of her mouth, her eyes, her brow.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Could this reflect in any way on the mission?”

“Not that I can see. I certainly wouldn’t do anything to put you in a bad position, Reverend.”

“Oh, I know that, Milo. You were always the kindest. Taking time from your patrol to deliver sad souls. The way you held their arm, the way you… ministered to them.”

“I was trying to clean up the streets, and you were there. I’m afraid there’s nothing pastoral in my makeup.”

“Oh, I think you’re wrong,” said Glenda. “I think you would’ve made a wonderful priest.”

Milo’s face went hot. Blushing, for God’s sake.

Glenda Stephenson said, “Coury, the son… when Fred and I accepted the building, we had our reservations. Because you know we’re grizzled old veterans of this neighborhood, knew darn well what his father had been like — everyone on Skid Row knew about his father.”

“Slumlord.”

“Slumlord and a mean man — never gave us a dime, and Milo, we asked. That’s why we were shocked when a few months after he died we received a letter from the son’s lawyer letting us know he was donating the hotel to the mission. I’m afraid our immediate response was to harbor uncharitable thoughts.”

“As in, what’s the catch,” said Milo.

“Exactly. The father… no, I won’t speak ill of the dead, but suffice it to say that charity didn’t appear to be his strong point. And then there were the people he employed. They’d always made the lives of our men difficult. And the son had kept them on.”

“What people?”

“Angry young men from East L.A.,” said Glenda.

“Which gang?” said Milo.

She shook her head. “You hear talk. Eighteenth Street, the Mexican Mafia, Nuestra Familia. I really don’t know. But whoever they were, when they showed up on the street, they intimidated our men. Swaggering by, driving by. Sometimes they’d get out and demand money, become threatening.”

“Physically?”

“Once in a while someone got punched or pushed. Mostly it was psychological intimidation — looks, threats, verbal bullying. I suppose they felt entitled — territorial. Mr. Coury — the father — had used them as rent collectors. When the son offered us the building, the first request we made on him was that he ask his crew to stay away from the men. Because we thought he was going to hold on to the other hotels, and we didn’t want to be geographically close to that kind of environment. His lawyer said there’d be no problem, Coury was going to tear the buildings down and pave them for parking lots. It ended up being a very smooth transition. Our lawyer talked to his lawyer, papers were signed, and that was it. Fred and I kept waiting for some ulterior motive but the way our lawyer explained it, the son was in an inheritance tax bind and the Grand Royale could be appraised in a manner that would serve his best interests.”

“Inflated appraisal?”

“No,” said Glenda. “Fred and I wouldn’t be party to that. In fact, we demanded to look at the most recent county assessments, and everything was in line. The Grand Royale was worth approximately twice what the other hotels were, so apparently it fit the son’s tax needs. It wasn’t the only thing he sold. Mr. Coury, the father, had owned many properties. But the three hotels had been acquired as a package through some sort of government housing deal, so by donating the Royale, everything worked out.”

“Coury aiding the Lord’s work,” said Milo.

“Funny, isn’t it? The father acquired filthy lucre by oppressing the poor and now at least some of those profits have served to elevate the poor.”

“Happy ending, Reverend. Doesn’t happen very often.”

“Oh, it does, Milo. You just have to know where to look.”

He talked to her a bit longer, stuffed more money in the alms box over her protests, and left.

Vance Coury had made good on his promise to keep the gang-bangers away from the Mission and now that the two other hotels had been torn down for parking lots, his need for rent collectors had disappeared.

But the gang thing intrigued Milo and when he drove by the lots and took a look at the attendants, he saw shaved heads and skulking posture. Tattoos conspicuous enough to be visible from the curb.

W
hat I’d seen of Vance Coury’s demeanor synched with the profile of a domination rapist: surly, hypermacho, eager not to please. The supercharged ambience in which he operated fit, too: big engines, flashy paint, the photos of submissive fellatrices tacked to the walls of the garage. The mutilated Porsche.

A corrupt father completed the picture: Coury had been raised to take what he wanted. Throw in some like-minded buddies, and Janie Ingalls had been a rabbit in a dog pit.

Junior hadn’t been interested in my patronage. Did he really regard the Seville as a hunk of junk? Or did those parking lots pay the bills and the auto-customizing business was recreational? Or a front… all those gang boys.

I headed for the city and thought about the bisected Porsche. Evisceration on display. The joy of destruction. Maybe I was interpreting too much, but the few minutes I’d spent with Coury had left me wary and creeped-out, and I kept checking the rearview mirror well past Mulholland.

Back at home, I imagined the party scene twenty years ago: Janie’s encounter with Coury, amid the noise and the dope, the flash of recognition — pleasure for Coury, horror for Janie.

He moves in and takes over. The King’s Men join in.

Including a King’s Man who seemed different than the others?

The images Nicholas Hansen’s gallery had posted on its website were still-lifes. Lush, luminously tinted assemblages of fruit and flowers, rendered meticulously. Hansen’s work seemed galaxies away from the ruined sculpture assembled on the Beaudry on-ramp — from any brutality. But art was no immunization against evil. Caravaggio had slain a man over a tennis game and Gauguin had slept with young Tahitian girls knowing he’d be infecting them with syphillis.

Still, Nick Hansen seemed to have taken a different path than the others, and deviance has always fascinated me.

It was nearly three, maybe past the New York gallery’s closing time, but I phoned anyway, and got a young, female voice on the other end. The first time I’d contacted the gallery, I’d talked to an older woman and hadn’t left my name, so here was a chance for some new dissembling.

I shifted into art-speak and presented myself as a collector of old masters drawings who’d run out of the sunlight-free space such treasures demanded and was considering switching to oils.

“Old masters oils?” said the young woman.

“A bit beyond my budget,” I said. “But I
have
been impressed by some of the contemporary realism that’s managed to assert itself among all the performance pieces. Nicholas Hansen, for example.”