Victims (23 page)

“Police lines don’t have caller I.D.,” I said. “So people won’t be inhibited about giving tips.”

“Oh … makes sense. Anyway, I couldn’t stop wondering if he actually
did
it, some crazy sonofabitch who thought we were on the same side. Finally, I told Dr. Angel and she said funny thing, you worked with that exact detective and I said, whoa, karma, I definitely need to get this off my chest.”

Shrugging. “So here we are, Doc.”

“Thanks for getting in touch. What did the guy look like?”

“So it
is
relevant,” said Banforth. “Damn.”

“Not necessarily, John. At this point, the cops look at everything.”

“They don’t have a suspect?”

“They’ve got various bits of information that may or may not be important. What did he look like?”

“White guy,” he said. “Around thirty-five, forty. Heavyset, kind of a round face, that’s about it.”

“Hair color?”

“Brown—short, like it was growing back from a buzz.”

“Eye color?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“He never spoke.”

“Nope, just the wink and the V-sign. It’s not like evidence, that’s why I tried to put it aside.”

“Your first impression was something about him seemed off.”

“But I can’t tell you why, sorry.”

I gave him time. He shook his head.

“How was he dressed?”

“In a coat. Like a winter coat, even though it was a warm day—
that’s
different, I guess. Maybe that’s what seemed off?”

“What kind of coat?”

“One of those fleece-lined things,” said Banforth. “Brown on the outside, maybe suede, maybe cloth, I wasn’t paying attention. Oh, yeah, something else: He was carrying a book. Like students do but he didn’t look like a student.”

“What kind of book?”

“Not a hardcover—more like a magazine, actually. Maybe some sort of puzzle magazine because it had a big question mark on the cover?”

My heart raced. Now I knew why Alex Shimoff’s sketch had tweaked my brain.

The morning after the murder, when Milo and I had visited Bijou, an apple-faced man had been there.

Sitting in a booth behind the soccer moms and their toddlers.

Eating steak and eggs, a book in front of him, penciling a puzzle.

Enjoying a hearty breakfast hours after he’d gutted Vita.

John Banforth said, “Doc?”

“You did the right thing.”

“He’s the guy? Oh, man.”

“Not necessarily but it’s a lead and Detective Sturgis needs anything he can get.”

“Well okay, then, I feel better not wasting anyone’s time.”

“Would you mind sitting with a police sketch artist? So we can get a clearer image?”

“They still do that? Thought everything was computers.”

“They still do.”

“An artist, huh? Would my name have to be on it?”

“No.”

“Then guess so,” he said. “If you can fit it to my schedule. And if Madeleine doesn’t know, she has no idea about any of this, including the fact that I’m here.”

“We’ll do it at your convenience.”

“All right, here’s my business card, call the top number, it’s my reservation line for lessons.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Just doing what I had to.”

We headed for the door. He got there first, stopped. “She was a nasty one. That Vita. Madeleine and I took to calling her the Evil One. As in wonder who the Evil One’s tormenting now. We turned it into a joke. To ease what happened. But I guess no one deserves to be murdered.”

His voice wavered on “guess.”

CHAPTER
27

O
n the way home, I detoured and drove through Vita Berlin’s neighborhood, rolling through sunlit streets and shadowed alleys, searching for a man dressed too heavily for the weather. When four circuits produced nothing, I headed to Bijou.

It was just past the three o’clock closing time. The storefront window afforded a view of Ralph Veronese sweeping up, his long hair bunched in a topknot that was part girlie, part Samurai warrior. I rapped on the glass. Without breaking rhythm, he pointed to the
Closed
sign. I rapped harder and he looked up.

He cracked the door halfway, propped his broom against the jamb. “Hey.”

“I’m doing follow-up on Vita.”

“You caught the guy?”

“Not yet. I want to ask you about a customer I noticed the first time I was here.” I described Shearling.

“Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s been here at least twice.”

“Twice doesn’t make him a regular. Half the time I’m in back.”

“He sat in that corner booth, eating steak and eggs, worked on a puzzle book.”

Veronese said, “Oh.”

“You remember him.”

“Not so much him, I remember the book. Thinking here’s another camper, going to use us as the public library. But then he ordered. Campers just like to stretch out a coffee, bring their laptops, gripe when they find out we don’t have wireless.”

“Has he been here any other times?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How about checking your receipts for both the days we know he was here?”

“Receipts are with my bookkeeper, I send paperwork to her every Friday.”

“Then please call her.”

He dialed a preset number, spoke to someone named Amy, hung up.

“She says it’s already in the storage bin, she can try to find it but it’ll take time.”

“Sooner’s better than later, Ralph.”

“She charges me by the hour.”

“Send me the bill.”

“You’re serious?”

“You bet.” He texted Amy.

I said, “You’re in the back but Hedy’s always out front. Please get her on the line for me and if you can’t reach her, give me her number.”

“Her number’s my number,” said Veronese. “We’re thinking of getting married.”

“Congratulations.”

I pointed to his phone. He reached Hedy, explained, passed it over.

She said, “The guy with the puzzle book? Sure, I remember him. But I have to tell you, he paid cash. I know for sure because it was all singles and a lot of coins. Like he busted open his piggy bank.”

“What else can you say about him?”

“Um … he cleaned his plate … didn’t talk except to order … had kind of a girlie voice—high-pitched, didn’t fit his body, he’s kind of a football-player type, you know?”

“Not much for conversation.”

“Kept his head in that book even when he was eating.”

“What kind of puzzles was he working on?”

“Couldn’t tell you. You’re thinking he’s the one who killed Vita?”

“He’s someone we want to talk to.”

“Because he’s a little off?”

“Off how?”

“You know, mentally.”

“He impressed you that way?”

“I’m no shrink,” she said, “but he just wasn’t … like he never made eye contact. Kind of mumbled. In that high voice. Like he was trying to whisper—to like stay in the background.”

“Not sociable.”

“Exactly. Just the opposite. Like
I want to be in my own world
. So I respected that, my job you have to be a shrink.”

“Anything else about him strike you as odd?”

“His clothes. It’s pretty warm inside Bijou, we don’t have the best A.C. and he’s wearing this fleece-lined shearling. I’ve got one of those in my closet from when I lived in Pittsburgh, haven’t used it once since I moved to L.A.”

“Was he sweating?”

“Hmm … I don’t think so—oh, yeah, one more thing, he had a scar. In the front of his neck, like at the bottom. Nothing gross, like a white line running across his neck.”

“Across the Adam’s apple?”

“Lower, in the soft part. Like someone cut him a long time ago but it healed up pretty good.”

“Any other marks?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Tattoos?”

“If he has ’em, they were covered up.
He
was pretty much covered up.”

“What else was he wearing besides the shearling?”

“You think he’s the one?” she said. “That kind of freaks me out. What if he comes in again?”

“No reason to worry, but if that happens just call this number.” I recited Milo’s extension.

Hedy said, “Got it. What else was he wearing? I guess he had a shirt on underneath but I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry, the shearling’s all I noticed. Because it was out of place. Mostly I was concentrating on getting the orders right. You want to know exactly what his order was, I can tell you: steak and scramble with onions and mushrooms, steak medium, no instructions on the scramble. He left like a ten percent tip, all coins, but I didn’t mind. Because it wasn’t like he was trying to be a jerk, you know.”

“More like he didn’t know better,” I said.

“Exactly,” she said. “A little out of it. You feel sorry for those people.”

I drove a mile north to a newspaper stand I knew on Robertson near Pico. The primary merchandise was a mix of fan mags and porn. Small selection of puzzle books in a corner.

Nothing with a question mark on the cover. I flashed my dubious consultant’s I.D. to the Sikh proprietor and described Shearling.

He said, “No, sir, I don’t know him.”

I gave him Milo’s card, anyway, asked him to call if Shearling showed up. “He might buy a puzzle book.”

He smiled as if it was a perfectly reasonable request. “Certainly, sir, anything to help.”

Good attitude, so I spent ten bucks on a glossy design magazine. Robin likes looking at dream houses.

I tried Milo again from the car, then Petra, and when she was also out I switched to Raul Biro. His voicemail answered but I left no message.

Was Shearling’s presence at Bijou evidence of long-term stalking, or had he happened upon the café, seen Vita torment Cerise Banforth, and decided she merited execution? If the latter, maybe he lived nearby. Reversing direction on Robertson, I gave Vita’s neighborhood another try, starting with her street.

Stanleigh Belleveaux was outside, watering his shrubs. A
For Lease
sign was staked on the lawn of the duplex. Two vacant units. I drove slowly enough for Belleveaux to notice but he didn’t look up and I continued south.

No sign of a man in a shearling and other than a young woman wheeling a baby in a stroller, all the activity was automotive: people pulling in and out of driveways. A door opened and a beanpole kid came out with a basketball, began shooting hoops.

Everything back to normal. People need to believe in normal.

It was close to eleven p.m. when Milo called.

“Still on the case and so is Petra.”

“Congratulations.”

“Or condolences. His Magnanimousness made it painfully clear I didn’t deserve it but starting from scratch ran the risk of ‘butt-fucking this one into oblivion.’ ”

I said, “Next Christmas, he’ll be Santa at the office party.”

He laughed. “Petra and I know the real reason he’s not shifting gears to Robbery-Homicide. Any hotshots who aren’t already on long-termers are being flown to Arizona courtesy the taxpayers for a confab on Mexican drug cartels, gonna be PowerPoint galore. What’s up?”

I told him about John Banforth, Shearling’s presence at Bijou hours after Vita’s murder, Hedy’s description. “A nutcase with a taste for steak.”

“Plus the way he ate—fixed on his food—smacks of an institutional background. Thirty-five to forty means that back when Quigg was working at V-State, he’d have been eleven to sixteen.”

“A kid,” he said. “But scary enough to be transferred to Specialized Care.”

“I’m also convinced of the thyroid angle. The waitress noticed a neck scar. So maybe a thyroid scan’s what brought him to North Hollywood Day. The most common reason for a thyroidectomy is cancer. There are also immune disorders that can justify it, like Hashimoto’s disease. Whatever the reason, he’d need to take a daily pill to regulate his metabolism. Sometimes dosages can be tricky and if he’s a street guy, he may not be getting optimal care. That could explain feeling cold and putting on a few pounds.”

“Cancer?” he said. “Now I’m dealing with a psycho with serious sympathy issues?”

“Thyroid cancer’s one of the most curable malignancies. He’d have the potential to live to a ripe old age.”

“Except his chemistry’s off.”

“Which would explain the scan. He needs his prescription renewed, would have to see a doctor at some point. A physician who picked up on his symptoms and found out he hadn’t been followed up regularly might want comprehensive data before adjusting his dosage. North Hollywood Day is an insurance mill but no doubt they see lots of Medi-Cal patients, so a referral there makes sense.”

“He comes in to get nuked, gets on Glenda Usfel’s bad side, she boots his ass out.”

“Wrong guy to boot.”

“ ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, yes my client’s a bit touchy but not only is he certifiably loony, his glands are out of whack and he endured the big C.’ ”

“Cart before the horse, Big Guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, find him first. Before someone
else
gets on his bad side. So where do I go with this thyroid stuff, Alex? Call every endocrinologist in town?”

“They’re unlikely to talk to you but the general public won’t have those compunctions. Have John Banforth sit down with Shimoff and work up a better likeness. If Banforth can’t give enough details, I’ll try to fill them in because I got a decent look at the guy. That and the scar, the coat, and the puzzle book could tweak someone’s memory. Even if he’s underground, he’s got to surface occasionally. Assuming he’s got an institutional background, I’d also check health clinics, welfare offices, halfway houses, and aftercare facilities near each of the murder sites. He paid for his meal with coins, I doubt that’s interest from a brokerage account.”

“On the dole,” he said. “Or he panhandles. Like Eccles. Hell, maybe that’s why he
did
Eccles: The two of them got into a competitive thing and Shearling decided to engage in unfair business practices … okay, I’ll get Banforth and Shimoff together. This is helpful, amigo.”

“One more thing,” I said. “Check out newsstands, see if anyone sells a puzzle book with a question mark on the cover. The one near Vita’s scene doesn’t but there are plenty of others.”

“There’s a big one off Hollywood Boulevard, not that far from where Lem Eccles got it. Speaking of which, Jernigan called on Eccles’s autopsy. The bruise on Eccles’s lip was from a hard blow or a kick, most likely a kick from a blunt-toed shoe. Not severe enough to be lethal but it could’ve stunned him. Other than that, the details are like the others. Eccles’s son’s trip to L.A. is tomorrow. Want to be there?”