Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (4 page)

"What there is of it is enough for you to start on. Begin with the boyfriend. Who kills women? Men they're involved with. The Italian turns up absolutely clean, you'll have access to the teachers. Don't pester me until then. And no emails about the case to me or anyone else, the same goes for recording phone calls. The sole chronicle will be the murder book, you will chart strictly in accordance with the regs. That means no speculating in print. Or verbally to any civilian or any member of the department other than me. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Furthermore, when you are not writing or consulting said murder book, you will keep it locked in your desk. The same goes for your daily notes and your message slips. Even your damn Post-its will be locked up. And don't photocopy anything until I've reviewed the material." Spearing a shrimp. "Other than that, it's business as usual."

"What about Dr. Delaware?"

"Now that you've made him a fait accompli, I might as well take advantage of him. I'm sure there'll be no problem because he knows that indiscreet psychologists get bitten hard by the medical board."

Tipping the brim of his suede cap, he winked. "Not that it would ever come to that, Doctor."

CHAPTER
5

We left the chief mulling flan versus flourless chocolate cake.

As the unmarked idled, Milo found Sal Fidella's cell number in his pad and called.

"Helpful fellow, ready to meet us right now, onward to Sherman Oaks." He looked up the address in his Thomas Guide. "Hmm... this says it's Van Nuys. Maybe Ol' Sal's a little pretentious. Be nice if he turns out to be a degenerate psychopath and lies about everything?"

I said, "Be nicer if the chief's kid had a low IQ."

The house was a Spanish one-story on Burdette Court just north of Burbank Boulevard, turned mangy by flaking gray spray-coat.

A brown seventies Corvette occupied the driveway. The neighborhood ranged from spotless cottages sporting pride-of-ownership gardens to dumps with paved-over frontage hosting trailers and junkers.

Fidella's place was somewhere in the middle, with a neatly edged lawn but no landscaping other than a struggling banana plant inches from the sidewalk. The picture window was draped with what looked like a bedsheet. The Corvette was dirt-streaked, the concrete beneath its well-worn tires cracked and crumbling.

Milo said, "He didn't spend his casino dough on decor."

Fidella came out the door, unlit cigar in hand, and gave a small wave. Five six with a low center of gravity, he wore a whiskey-colored velour sweat suit and yellow flip-flops. He'd traded the red beard for a soul patch and let it go white. A hunk of something shiny gleamed from one earlobe.

"Play-ah," mumbled Milo. "What's your guess, diamond or zircon?"

Fidella studied us but didn't approach. Licking the tip of the cigar, he folded an arm across his chest.

"He look grief-stricken to you?"

"Wouldn't that be nice," I said.

"What?"

"He really is a murderous psychopath, you close it quick, Charlie gets into Yale and becomes president of the United States."

"Dare to dream." He got out of the car.

Sal Fidella extended a hand to Milo, then to me. "Hey. This stinks."

He had deep blue eyes, pudgy, oversized fingers, and a back-slanted gait that made his upper body look as if it were hurrying to catch up with his feet. A smooth basso radio-announcer voice could sell you things you didn't need.

The living room he led us into was Bachelor Cliche Central: black leather couches fitted with built-in head pillows and cup holders, matching ottoman in lieu of a coffee table set up with ashtrays, cigarette packs, a cigar box, a collection of remote controls. A wet bar favored tequila and rum. A stack of audiovisual gizmos took up most of the hearth. The sixty-inch flat-screen above the mantel was tuned to ESPN Classic, no sound. Lakers-Celtics play-off from back when giants were okay wearing short-shorts.

The adjoining dining room was unfurnished. An open doorway flashed a glimpse of bare kitchen counters. The window cover wasn't a bedsheet; a frayed, beige curtain had come loose from its rod, was held in place by duct tape and clothespins. The place smelled like a cocktail lounge after closing.

Fidella said, "Beer, guys? Something else?"

"No, thanks," said Milo.

"Mind if I do?"

"Suit yourself."

Fidella slouched to the bar, poured himself a double shot of Silver Patron, selected a lime wedge from a bowl of mixed citrus segments, and squirted the tequila.

Half the drink was gone by the time he sat facing us. "Can't believe Elise is gone. Crazy."

"Must've been tough discovering her," said Milo.

"Oh, man, it was out of a movie." Fidella sucked on his cigar and sipped. "I mean the moment I saw her, wow, it was... I knew she was gone. But I guess I didn't wanna accept it so I kept telling myself she'd be okay. It wasn't till later that it started sinking in." A meaty hand slashed air. "Permanent."

Fidella began rooting inside an eyelid with a fingertip, pulled something out, studied, flicked. "Guess she wasn't being paranoid."

"About what?"

"Bastards at Prep--the school she worked at. She told me they were out to get her."

"Which bastards?" said Milo.

Fidella shook his head. "That's the thing, she wouldn't mention names. I tried to get it out of her but she changed the subject."

"All she said was someone was out to get her."

"Yeah."

"Not how or why?"

"Uh-uh."

"When did this conversation take place, Mr. Fidella?"

"Maybe... a month ago? Three weeks? To be honest, guys, I figured she was being a drama queen. Elise could get like that. 'Specially that time of the month, know what I mean? Hormonal, almost kinda bipolar?"

"She could be moody."

"One day she's sweetness and light, next day it's like a dark cloud's over her, she's all closed up. When she gets like that, she doesn't answer her phone. What I used to do was come over, try to work things out, you know? But she never answered the door. And if I used my key, she'd freak out. Even though she was the one gave it to me in the first place. Tell the truth, that's what I kinda assumed when she didn't return calls for three days. That she was in one of those closed-up situations. But I went over anyway. 'Cause it wasn't that time of the month, know what I mean?"

"You keep tabs on that kind of thing," said Milo.

"Huh? No, it's just that when you're with a girl you get to know her rhythm."

"So you knew Elise wasn't premenstrual and you went over."

"Because she didn't answer the phone."

"You let yourself in with your key."

"I call out her name, no answer, figure maybe she's sick, in the bedroom, whatever. I'm worried, so yeah, I go in. She's not in the front, not in the bedroom, I go into the bathroom, the door's closed. I call her name, she doesn't answer, that's when I get this weird feeling. I open the door." Wince. "See her. I was gonna pull her out but she was clearly gone, you know? Blue, not moving. I figured moving her wouldn't be a good thing. For you guys' sake."

"Preserving the scene."

"If I'd moved her and messed things up, you'd be pissed, right? 'Cause she was obviously... don't think I wouldn'ta helped her if I could."

"You did the right thing, Sal."

"That was my intention."

"So," said Milo, "a month or so ago she told you people at Prep were out to get her. She definitely used the plural?"

"Huh?"

"
They
were out to get her. More than one person."

"Hmm. Yeah, I'm pretty sure... yeah, yeah, definitely
they
not
him.
That's another reason I thought she was being dramatic."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone's against her? Like a conspiracy?"

"Was Elise into conspiracies?"

"Like Kennedy stuff, UFOs? Nah. But you know what I mean."

"You didn't take her seriously."

"I would've if she'd
told
me something," said Fidella. "Also, to be honest, when Elise drank she could get that way."

"What way?"

"Feeling sorry for herself, maybe a little paranoid."

"About what?"

Fidella looked at the carpet. Twirled his cigar. Slugged back tequila and put the glass down.

"To be honest, guys, mostly about me. Enough juice in Elise's system, she'd start convincing herself I didn't like her no more, was gonna find myself another girl, someone younger. Stuff like that. But normally, she was a great girl, she could be fun. I'm nauseous-sick over what happened to her, you gotta nail whoever did it."

He rubbed one fist with an open hand. "I know I'm not supposed to say stuff like this but you get this asshole, you just leave me alone with him. I used to box Golden Gloves back in Connecticut."

"Last I heard," said Milo, "Golden Gloves didn't use tag-teams."

"Huh?"

"
They
, Sal. More than one person."

"Oh, yeah. Well, whatever, leave me with all of them."

Milo crossed his legs and spread his arms along the back of the sofa. "Where'd you meet Elise?"

"A bar."

"Which one?"

"Not here, Santa Barbara. Place called Ship Ahoy, off South State. I was there on work--Santa Barbara, not the bar. Elise was on vacation. She was all by herself and I was all by myself, we got to talking, we hit it off."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"I'm in between right now. Back then, I was a sales executive."

"What'd you sell?"

"Used to rep band equipment to schools, for G.O.S.--Gerhardt Orchestral Supply. They're headquartered in Akron, Ohio, I was their West Coast guy. The state budget for music classes got cut, my contracts started drying up. For a while, Santa Barbara was still good, it's a rich town. But then even they started holding on to their old instruments longer. I tried to switch to guitars and amps because they're hotter than trumpets and tubas. But the schools don't buy them and the mega-stores have that buttoned up. I tried to work for Guitar Center or Sam Ash, figured my experience would be a big deal. They use guys in their twenties, got eight million tattoos, pierces, heavy-metal hair extensions."

Touching his own bald head. "Before that, I used to sell truck tires, airspace for office buildings, exercise equipment, you name it."

"So when you met Elise you were on a business trip," said Milo. "How long ago are we talking about?"

"Two years, give or take."

"You two ever move in together?"

"No reason to," said Fidella. "I was traveling a lot and Elise liked her own space. Plus she enjoyed going off on her own--girlie vacations, you know? That's what she was doing in Santa Barbara. Some spa, they had a special. Elise was good at finding bargains. We didn't get possessive, you get what I'm saying?"

"Everyone had their own life."

"When we were both in the mood, we enjoyed each other's company."

Milo said, "Like that time in Reno."

"Huh?"

"There was a picture in Elise's house, you and her having a great time."

"Oh, that," said Fidella. "Jackpot day, yeah that was a fantastic day, how often does that happen?"

"Never to me."

"Me, I've had some nice experiences but not like that. Elise and me were getting eaten alive at the blackjack table, left for the buffet and walked past a dollar slot. Just for the hell of it, I tossed in a token and boom, bells start ringing, lights start blinking. Five thousand bucks. I split it with Elise, told her she was my lucky charm."

"You both like to gamble?"

"We like our games, no harm in that if you keep it under control, right?"

"Elise keep it under control?"

"Absolutely."

"Unlike her drinking."

"Yeah, vodka was a problem for her," said Fidella. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"What I'm saying is she wasn't one of those drunks, sucks it back every day. But give her a long afternoon, she's not working, she could put away a bottle of Grey Goose. Doing it slowly, you know? You wouldn't even notice unless you were with her the entire time."

"How often did she do that?"

"It wasn't binging," said Fidella. "She could control whether or not she drank. But if she felt like being a fish, she had the capacity."

"Same question?"

"Huh?"

"How often did she polish off a bottle?"

"I dunno... maybe two, three times a month. Maybe other times when I wasn't there, I really can't tell you."

"She paced herself."

"What would happen was, she'd have spare time. Or one of those moody times. I'd say something innocent, she'd march out and lock herself in her bedroom with her Grey Goose, or sometimes it was gin. I learned to just leave 'cause when it happened talking to her was no use."

"Silent treatment," I said.

"Silenter than..." Fidella let out an odd laugh--girlish, squeaky--slapped his own mouth.

Milo said, "Something funny, Sal?"

"Something stupid, guys. As in me. I was gonna say Elise could get silenter than the dead."

We didn't reply.

Fidella picked up his glass, finished the tequila. "Sure you don't want nothing?"

"We're fine."

"I'm sure as hell not." He got up, poured more Patron. "Guess I'm still in that denial stage. Like when my mother passed. I kept expecting to hear her voice, it went on for weeks. Last night, I dreamed about Elise, saw her walking through the door, like the whole ice thing was a stupid joke. What was the point of that? The ice?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, Sal."

"Well, I say it's weird. Elise didn't even like ice in her vodka. I don't want you to think she was some drunk, there was plenty of times, like out to dinner, she'd have a nice cocktail--a Stinger, a Manhattan, like anyone else. She could keep control, you know?"

"She'd pick the time and place to finish a bottle."

"The place was always her house."

"What about the time?"

"When she worked she needed to be sharp. Who's gonna hire a teacher stumbles in drunk as a skunk?"