Compulsion (25 page)

Milo gloved up, propped Mancusi’s door in place, left the building, smoked, composed himself. Got the yellow tape out of his trunk.

A cloudbank cleared the sun. Rodney Drive almost looked pretty.

I sat on the curb, trying to clear my head. Waste of time; no trick of my trade was up to the task.

Tony Mancusi was Hollywood ’s first homicide of the year and Milo phoned Detective Petra Connor. She was on vacation in Greece and her partner, Raul Biro, summoned the crime scene crew and the coroner.

Biro was young, an Afghanistan vet, thoughtful, perceptive, with freakish stamina. He’d emerged from Mancusi’s apartment expressionless, took notes as Milo summarized, tugging at a pale blue brocade tie that didn’t need adjustment. Thick dark hair starting to gray prematurely was sprayed in place. His suit was navy, tailored, spotless. Paper booties protected spit-polished loafers.

When Milo finished, he said, “Let me frame this in my head: You’re figuring Bright, Heubel, whichever you want to call him, has been here before, knows the back’s usually unlocked. Or he picks the lock, because he knows how to do that. Same deal for getting access to Mancusi’s apartment. Once in, does his thing. On his way out, he encounters the neighbor, pretends to be looking for Mancusi, makes his getaway… sounds logical.”

“But?”

“I’m thinking there could be another possibility, Loo. After Mancusi ditched the he-she, he met up with Bright and they returned here together.”

Milo scratched the side of his nose. “Could be. Though Mancusi might’ve been wary of him.”

Raul said, “If Bright and Mancusi were
real
good buddies before, Mancusi could’ve given Bright a key. Maybe Bright’s been here out of drag. When I get back, I’ll see if there’s a recent photo, canvass the tenants.”

“However Bright gained access, we’ve got a pretty good fix on the time frame. We saw Mancusi leave Gordito’s around two forty-five, the neighbor saw Fake Mom here at six thirty. Almost four hours is time enough to do his thing, clean himself up.”

“He stashes his tools in that big leather purse the neighbor described, slips out in broad daylight. No sweat because he’s got a great cover.”

Biro closed his pad. “Dowdy drag, except for the scarf. Lots of blood back there but I didn’t see any impact spatter. How about you?”

Milo shook his head.

“So I’m thinking Mancusi was likely dead when he got cut up, Loo. Bright could’ve used the scarf to choke him out, got himself a passive corpse to dissect.”

“For Shonsky, he used the scarf as a prop. Stabbed her to death. For all his victims we know of, the weapon was a knife. But he mixes it up identity-wise, so maybe he likes variety in his methods, too.”

I said, “A stealth strangulation for Mancusi makes sense. Tony was a heavy man, making him harder to subdue. And wary, because he knew or suspected what Bright was capable of.”

Biro said, “Sneak up behind, get the scarf around the neck, avoid a violent struggle. Keeping it quiet at three, four a.m.”

He fooled with his tie again. “First Mama, now the son. He’s got something against this family?”

“If only it was that simple, Raul.”

“The psycho do-gooder thing, huh? In his mind, he’s helping out, then he snaps?”

I said, “The do-gooder thing is a power play. He was a cruel kid, killed his own sister for big-time financial gain, developed a taste for playing God.”

“Making the rules,” said Biro. “He picks the who and the when and the how. But Mancusi got done because Bright was worried he’d talk.”

Milo said, “That’s how we see it.”

“Serving it up on that plate. That’s a whole different universe of bad.”

Milo lit another cigarillo. Inhaled for a long time and blew smoke at the sky. “If he followed me when I was trailing Tony, saw me put Tasha in the car, that coulda been Tony’s death warrant. Because Bright knew Tasha was at the party when Tony griped about his mother, figured too close for comfort.”

I said, “If Bright was watching Tony, he’d already been thinking about snipping loose ends.”

He grunted.

Biro said, “How we dividing the chores?”

“Mancusi’s yours, the rest is my headache.”

“You have any problems with this expanding?”

“To what?”

Another tug at the tie. “This many bodies over all these years, a suspect that psycho. Someone suggests a task force, I really don’t see how we can stop it.”

Milo said, “We take it wherever it goes, Raul.”

Biro said, “Meanwhile, we work with what we’ve got. Starting with finding the he-she. You want me to get Vice over to Gordito’s tonight?”

“Let me cover that, you concentrate on this.”

Biro flipped through his pad. “So we know whodunit and maybe at least part of whydunit and howdunit. Now all we have to do is find this altruist.”

A slow smile brightened his unlined face. “Rich old lady. Maybe I should start visiting some of those women’s clubs – bridge, bingo, high tea, whatever.”

“Bygone generation, Raul.”

“Actually, Loo, they still do the tea bit out in Pasadena and San Marino.”

“You grew up there?”

“Nope, East L.A. ” said Biro. “My mother cleaned rooms at the Huntington.”

A crime scene tech emerged from the apartment in full hazmat suiting, unmasked, wiped sweat from his face. “Got the bathroom dark enough to luminol, Detectives. Lots of swipe marks and someone used granulated cleanser. But there’s a whole lot of hemoglobin left. Tub, floor, sink, oodles in the shower.”

“Oodles,” said Milo.

“That’s a technical term,” said the tech. “This one’s something, huh? Got a spare smoke?”

At three thirty p.m. we left the scene and cruised by Gordito’s. Two rangy hookers, not even close to feminine, sat nibbling and drinking and gabbing. A trio of construction workers occupied a nearby table, everyone minding their own business.

Milo said, “Drive a little and circle back, we’ll keep trying for a while. Once Tasha finds out Tony got sliced she’s a sure rabbit.”

His cell beeped. “What’s up, Sean?… Any resemblance?… Better than nothing, zip a copy over to Raul Biro… The smart one, worked with Petra… Yeah, him. Anything else? Good, get over to the house and be in charge while the techies do their thing… I don’t care about that, Sean, if any of those chrome mavens have a problem, tell ’em to call me. Now read
everything
you’ve got, go slow and enunciate. I got old ears.”

He listened for several minutes, worked his jaws, clicked off.

“Got a two-year-old DMV shot on Nicholas Heubel. Unfortunately, the photo shows him with a full gray beard and a shaved head and the address he listed is a P.O.B. in Brentwood that he only rented the month he applied for the lease on the house. He gave three references: Ansel D. Bright, San Francisco, Roland Korvutz, New York, and a Mel Dabson, here in L.A. ”

I said, “Establish a fake identify and back yourself up with your real name.”

“Clever boy, huh? The leasing company says Bright’s reference was ‘glowing.’ And the number they reached him at traces back to a prepaid cell. Korvutz never responded to the request. Unlike this Dabson character, who said he’d known Heubel for years, Nicky was upright, honest, and dependable. Two out of three plus twenty-four grand in cash was enough to close the deal.”

I said, “Where in L.A. does Dabson live?”

He checked his notes. “Altair Terrace, zip code looks like… not too far from here, in the Hollywood Hills.”

I said, “Wonder if you can see the sign from there.”

I made several passes up and down Highland, drove over to Santa Monica where transsexual and male hookers share the stroll with varying degrees of harmony.

Milo looked for Tasha while he worked the phone. Trying for background on
Melvin
then
Mel Dabson.

No such individual.

I said, “Could be another alter ego.”

He ran AutoTracks and criminal searches using
Melford, Melrose, Meldrim,
and
Melnick,
sat back cursing.

A call to the state Franchise Tax Board on Dabson came up empty. But a brief chat with a helpful clerk at the county assessor brought a smile to his face.

“
Tram
mel Dabson. Been paying the property tax on Altair Terrace for twenty-one months.”

A dive back into NCIC came up empty.

I said, “‘Trammel’ means ‘to hinder.’”

“Building word power every day.” He phoned Sean to check on the toss of the Brentwood house.

Empty, clean, no cars in the garage.

As he shut his eyes and leaned back, something caught my eye at the edge of a strip mall near Orange Drive.

“Rise and shine.” I pointed.

He jerked upright. “Pull over.”

This time Tasha ran.

“Oh, great,” said Milo, as she ducked off Santa Monica onto Orange and veered into an alley.

He jumped out of the car and I circled the block to Mansfield. When I got to the mouth of the alley, Tasha was racing toward me, skinny-legged sprint easily outstripping Milo ’s openmouthed lumber.

Shoes in hand, panty hose shredding.

Milo ’s arms churned air. His face was crimson.

Tasha looked back at him, picked up speed. Saw me. Looked back again. Stumbled.

She went down hard on her back, purse landing just out of reach from a splayed arm.

As she got to her feet, Milo caught up, sucking air. He flipped her over, did a quick frisk and cuff, snarled a command not to move. Snagging the purse, he dumped the contents. Tissues, condoms, cosmetics, and a packet of Oreos landed on the asphalt. Then a clatter as a pearl-handled straight razor slid out.

Still panting, Milo stomped the weapon hard, ground pearl into dust. Hauled Tasha up hard.

“Idiot,” he said.

She grew limp in his grasp. Her face crumpled. Bits of gravel clung to her pancake veneer.

She began working up a smile.

Milo ’s snarl killed that. He put her in the back of the car, used the seat belt for further confinement.

This time he got in front.

Tasha jangled the cuffs. “You can take these off. I won’t run, sir. I promise, sir.”

“Open your mouth again” – pant pant – “and I’ll hogtie you.” To me: “ Hollywood station.”

“Sir, that’s not necessary!”

Milo strained so hard for oxygen that his bulk rose off the seat.

I drove.

Tasha said, “Least it’s a nice ride. Love these old Caddy-lackers. What was it, confiscated from some-”

“Shut the hell
up.
”

“Sorry. Sir.”

“Are you
deaf
?”

Five blocks from Wilcox Avenue: “Sir, don’t get mad but you’re still breathing hard. You sure you’re okay?”

“Why the hell did you rabbit?”

“I got scared.”

“Did we hurt you the first time?”

“No, but…”

“But
what
?”

Silence.

Milo said, “God forbid you should miss a trick.
Idiot.
”

“A girl’s got to make a living.”

“You’re not gonna
be
living if you don’t stop acting like a moron. Guess who got cut right after he left you?”

“Someone got cut?”

“You really
are
deaf.”

Long silence. “You’re not saying Tony?”

“You’re ready for
Jeopardy!,
genius.”

“Tony got
cut
? Omigod is he all right?”

Milo said, “Quite the opposite.”

“You mean-”

“We’re talking one trick that won’t be giving you any repeat business.”

“Omigod, ohsweetlord-”

“It happened right after he saw you,” said Milo. “We’re figuring someone was watching besides us.”

“Who who who?”

“What’s that, your owl imitation?”

“Who, sir? Please!”

“Think ugly suit and seamed stockings.”

“Him? Omigod no way!”

“You know something about him we don’t?”

“No, sir, no…”

“But?”

“I just never knew someone who… did that.”

“All those years on the street?” said Milo. “Spare me the innocence.”

“I seen fights, sir. Seen a man beat another man to death over a wrong look. Seen people all doped up, losing their lives ’cause a… seen plenty of badmen, sir, but no, not that, never something like that…”

“Not what?”

“Something… all controlled.”

“How do you know it was controlled?”

“Wannaboos,” said Tasha. “It’s all about the game. Tony didn’t do nothing to nobody, right?”

“Why not?”

“Tony was weak, there was no anger in him, just sadness.”

“You’re right about one thing,” said Milo. “This was
real
controlled.”

“I don’t wanna
know,
sir, please don’t tell me
details.
”

“Fine, but we
like
details. Let’s hear everything you know about Tweed.”

“Nothing else, I swear, nothing.”

Milo turned to me: “This is not going well, pard.”

Tasha said, “Just what I
told
you, sir, that’s everything I
know
!”

“How many parties have you been to with Tweed?”

“Just that one.”

“Why not more?”

Silence.

“What was the problem?” said Milo.

“It’s not a place I gone to again.”

“That’s no answer.”

Tasha said, “It’s – to be honest, no one invited me.”

When we got to the rear door at Hollywood station, she said, “You don’t need to lock me up, I promise.”

Milo whistled “ Dixie.”

“Sir, there’s a problem, a real
problem,
usually they only got one girl cell free ’cause all the troublemakers are boys and if the girl room’s all full, they put you in a boy room and it’s
dangerous.
”

“You have equipment for the girl room?”

Silence.

“Do you?”

Barely audible: “Not yet, I’m saving up.”

“Nothing I can do, then. You know the rules.”

“I am human, sir, not plumbing.”

“What can I say.” Tough tone but his cheek muscles twitched.

“
Please,
sir. Other policemen are nice to me, I don’t make trouble, they put me in the girl room. The girls like me there, ask anyone, I don’t cause no problems, check your files.”

“When’s the last time you were here?”

“A year, sir. Maybe more. I swear. You put me in the right place and I’ll do anything you-”

“Tell you what,” said Milo. “You cooperate, I won’t book you for the blade even though you were already warned. Or for resisting, even though you made me exercise.”

“Yes, sure, of course… what does cooperate mean?”

“You’re a material witness. I might even get you a snack.”

“That is so kind, sir… you did lose my Oreos.”

Hollywood Division obliged with an empty interview room where Milo stashed Tasha. He brought her a donut and a Coke, phoned Raul Biro at the murder scene on Rodney.

Biro was still waiting for access to the apartment, had some forensic guesses to pass along.

Tony Mancusi’s head had been sawed off right beneath the chin, leaving most of the neck’s internal structure intact. Care had been taken to sever vertebrae without breaking them.

Clean work; the coroner’s investigator’s guess was a large, extremely sharp, nonserrated blade, consistent with the weapon that had dispatched Ella Mancusi. The same weapon had probably been used on Tony’s fingers. Exploratory cuts on the other hand suggested intent for a bilateral amputation.

“Maybe he got bored,” said Biro. “Or ran out of time.”

Final disposition was the coroner’s purview but the C.I., a registered nurse with twenty years’ experience, admitted off the record that the hyoid cartilage appeared ruptured. Pinpoint hemorrhages in the eyes could’ve been due to a number of causes but, combined with the neck injury, strangulation was a “decent possibility, let’s see if the doc agrees.”

Milo looked for the Altair Terrace address in a Thomas Guide, found a single block of curving, dead-end tributary off the northeastern edge of Beachwood Drive.

Not far from a rent-a-horse ranch where I used to ride when I worked at Western Pediatric. Walking distance from Franklin Avenue, but heavily wooded and freakishly quiet. I remembered how bends in the trail opened abruptly to dry, flat mesas. The vulgar message of the Hollywood sign.

Milo said, “I’m starved,” and called out for four barbecued beef sandwiches from a place on Western. I had one, he ate two, he passed the last one to Tasha, who said, “Normally I stay away from red meat, but that smells yum.”

By six forty the sky was felt-gray deepening to black and we put her back in the Seville.

She said, “I’m still tasting that lovely sauce.”

Milo said, “Behave yourself and you can have dessert.”

“So kind, sir. I do like this
car.
”

I drove up Beachwood, parked two blocks south of Altair Terrace.

Milo unbelted. “Time for a little hike.”

“Sir, it’s uphill, you sure you’re okay?”

“Your concern is touching. Let’s go.”

“Is this guaranteed safe?”

“What are you worried about?”

“He could see me.”

“What makes you think he’s here?”

“You’re taking me here.”

“This is to jog your memory.”

“I already told you, this is definitely the place.”

“We’re not on the street yet.”

“This is it, I
feel
it.”

“ESP?”

“I get feelings,” she said. “In my hair, the roots get all tingly, means I’m getting a message.”

“Out of the car.”

One block later: “Can we at least go slow, sir? My poor little feet are so sore.”

“I offered to get you some sneakers.”

“With this dress? As if. Can we just go slow?”

Milo exhaled and shortened his steps.

Tasha winked at me.

Ebony night; no sidewalks or streetlights, wide spacing between the properties filled with unruly greenery and old-growth trees.

A world in silhouette.

Tasha said, “That’s the party house, I’m sure. Let’s go.”

“Whisper.”

“Sorry. That’s the party-”

“I heard you. Which one?”

“Um, we’re not there yet.”

“Forward march.”

Ninety seconds later: “That’s the one! All the way on top!”

“
Whisper,
dammit!”

“Sorry, sorry. That’s it. For sure.”

A long-nailed hand pointed to a low, pale box perched on the uppermost rim of the cul-de-sac.

Milo motioned us to stay in place, hiked past three houses, then four more. Stopped just short of the target. Waited. Hazarded a quick flashlight wash of the façade.

Blank but for a single shuttered window. Garage to the left, with a corrugated aluminum door.

The flashlight beam dipped to a cement walkway. Pines and eucalyptus towered behind the flat roof. Sparse vegetation in front: a spindly yucca plant and a stunted palm.

Milo padded back. “You’re sure?”

Tasha said, “Absolutely, sir. That stupid spiky thing, got a run in my stocking. And over there’s where if you step out in back you can see the sign and over there is where Tony – rest-his-soul – and me walked.”

Tracing the curve of the cul-de-sac. “It’s all coming back to me – out
there
is where all the coyote screaming came from, I got so scared, sir, it was dark just like it is now. I hate the darkness, can we
go
?”

“Stay put with my partner.” He retraced his climb, got closer to the pale house.

Tasha said, “All that climbing can’t be good for him.”

I didn’t answer.

“He should work out… You don’t say much, sir… It’s too weird out here, real scary-quiet, know what I mean, like something’s gonna jump out? Like something’s gonna – quiet’s basically an evil thing. The
devil
likes quiet. The
devil
likes you to think everything’s nice and quiet then he jumps up and grabs you. This is a
bad
quiet. Even Fontana had a better quiet than this quiet. When the chickens were all sleeping you could hear the train. I liked to lie in bed listening to the train and wondering where it was going – okay, here he is again, maybe he seen enough and we can get outta here.”

Milo said, “Can’t be sure but looks like no one home.”

Tasha said, “My hair says that’s a message from God, let’s get outta here, find us some noise.”