The Murder Book (10 page)

“You don’t like her hitching.”

“Would you? Standing there on Sunset, thumbing, any kind of pervert…” She stopped, went rigid. “Where was — where’d you find Janie?”

“Near downtown.”

Waters relaxed. “So there you go, the complete opposite direction. Melinda wasn’t with her. Melinda was over on the Westside.”

Schwinn’s slit eyes made the merest turn toward Milo. Bowie Ingalls had seen Melinda pick Janie up on Friday, watched the two girls walking north toward Thumb Alley. But no reason to get into that, now.

“Melinda’ll come back,” said Waters. “Sometimes she does that. Stays away. She always comes back.”

“Sometimes,” said Schwinn. “Like once a week?”

“No, nothing like that — just once in a while.”

“And how long does she stay away?”

“A night,” said Waters, sagging and trying to calm herself with a twenty-second pull on her cigarette. Her hand shook. Confronting the fact that this was Melinda’s longest absence.

Then she perked up. “One time she stayed away two days. Went up to see her father. He’s in the Navy, used to live in Oxnard.”

“Where’s he live now?”

“Turkey. He’s at a naval base, there. Shipped out two months ago.”

“How’d Melinda get to Oxnard?”

Eileen Waters chewed her lip. “Hitched. I’m not going to tell him. Even if I could reach him in Turkey, he’d just start in with the accusations… and that bitch of his.”

“Second wife?” said Schwinn.

“His whore,” spat Waters. “Melinda hated her. Melinda will come home.”

Further questioning was futile. The woman knew nothing more about the “fancy Westside party,” kept harping on the downtown murder site as clear proof Melinda hadn’t been with Janie. They pried a photo of Melinda out of her. Unlike Bowie Ingalls, she’d maintained an album, and though Melinda’s teen years were given short shrift, the detectives had a page of snaps from which to choose.

Bowie Ingalls hadn’t been fair to Melinda Waters. Nothing chubby about the girl’s figure, she was beautifully curvy with high, round breasts and a tiny waist. Straight blond hair hung to her rear. Kiss-me lips formed a heartbreaking smile.

“Looks like Marilyn, doesn’t she?” said her mother. “Maybe one day, she’ll be a movie star.”

Driving back to the station, Milo said, “How long before her body shows up?”

“Who the fuck knows?” said Schwinn, studying Melinda’s picture. “From the looks of this, maybe Janie was the appetizer and this one was the main dish. Look at those tits. That’d give him something to play with for a while. Yeah, I can see him holding on to this one for a while.”

He pocketed the photo.

Milo envisioned a torture chamber. The blond girl nude, shackled… “So what do we do about finding her?”

“Nothing,” said Schwinn. “If she’s already dead, we have to wait till she shows up. If he’s still got her, he’s not gonna tell us.”

“What about that Westside party?”

“What about it?”

“We could put the word out with West L.A., the sheriffs, Beverly Hills PD. Sometimes parties get wild, the blues go out on a nuisance call.”

“So what?” said Schwinn. “We show up at some rich asshole’s door, say, ‘Excuse me, are you cutting up this kid?’ ” He sniffed, coughed, produced his bottle of decongestant, and swigged. “Shit, Waters’s dump was dusty. All-American mom, another poor excuse for an adult. Who knows if there even
was
a party.”

“Why wouldn’t there be?”

“Because kids lie to their parents.” Schwinn swiveled toward Milo. “What’s with all these fucking questions? You thinking of going to law school?”

Milo held his tongue, and the rest of the ride was their usual joy-fest. A block from the station, Schwinn said, “You wanna go snooping for Westside nuisance calls, be my guest, but I think Blondie was lying to Mommy like she always did because a fancy Westside party was exactly the kind of thing that would calm the old lady down. Hundred to one Blondie and Janie were fixing to thumb the Strip, score some dope, maybe trade blow jobs for it, or whatever. They got into the wrong set of wheels and ended up downtown. Janie was too stupid to learn from her past experience — or like I said, maybe she liked being tied up. She was a stoner. Both of them probably were.”

“Your source mentioned a Westside party.”

“Street talk’s like watermelon, you got to pick around the seeds. The main thing is Janie was
found
downtown. And chances are Melinda’s somewhere around there, too, if a scrote got her and finished with her. For all we know, he kept her in the trunk while he was setting up Janie on Beaudry. Got back on the freeway, he could be in Nevada by now.”

He shook his head. “Stupid kids. Two of them thought they had the world in their sweet little hands, and the world upped and bit ’em.”

Back at the station, Schwinn collected his things from his desk and walked off without a word to Milo. Not even bothering to sign out. No one noticed: None of the detectives paid much attention to Schwinn, period.

An outcast, Milo realized.
Did they stick me with him by coincidence?

Pushing all that aside, he played phone poker until well after dark. Contacting every police entity west of Hollywood Division in search of 415 party calls. Throwing in rent-a-cop outfits, too: The Bel Air Patrol, and other private firms that covered Beverlywood, Cheviot Hills, Pacific Palisades. The privates turned out to be the worst to deal with — no one was willing to talk without supervisory clearance and Milo had to leave his name and badge number, wait for callbacks that probably wouldn’t happen.

He kept going, casting his net to Santa Monica and beyond, even including the southern edge of Ventura County, because Melinda Waters had once hitched PCH to Oxnard to see her father. And kids flocked to the beach for parties — he’d spent many a sleepless night driving up and down the coast highway, spotting bonfires that sparked the tide, the faint silhouettes of couples. Wondering what it would be like to have someone.

Four hours of work resulted in two measly hits — either L.A. had turned sleepy, or no one was complaining about noise anymore.

Two big zeros: An eye surgeon’s fiftieth birthday party on Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills had evoked a Friday midnight complaint from a cranky neighbor.

“Kids? No, don’t think so,” laughed the BH desk officer. “We’re talking black tie, all that good stuff. Lester Lanin’s orchestra playing swing and still someone bitched. There’s always some killjoy, right?”

The second call was a Santa Monica item: A bar mitzvah on Fifth Street north of Montana had been closed down just after 2
A.M.
, after rambunctious thirteen-year-olds began setting off firecrackers.

Milo put the phone down and stretched. His ears burned and his neck felt like dry ice. Schwinn’s voice was an obnoxious mantra in his head as he left the station just before 1
A.M.

Told you so, asshole. Told you so, asshole.

He drove to a bar — a straight one on Eighth Street, not far from the Ambassador Hotel. He’d passed it several times, a shabby-looking place on the ground floor of an old brick apartment building that had seen better days. The few patrons drinking this late were past their prime, too, and his entrance lowered the median age by a few decades. Mel Torme on tape loop, scary-looking toothpicked shrimp and bowls full of cracker medley decorated the cloudy bar top. Milo downed a few shots and beers, kept his head down, left, and drove north to Santa Monica Boulevard, cruising Boystown for a while but didn’t even wrestle with temptation: Tonight the male hookers looked predatory, and he realized he wanted to be with no one, not even himself. When he reached his apartment, images of Melinda Waters’s torment had returned to plague him, and he pulled down a bottle of Jim Beam from a kitchenette cupboard. Tired but wired. Removing his clothes was an ordeal, and the sight of his pitiful, white body made him close his eyes.

He lay in bed, wishing the darkness was more complete. Wishing for a brain valve that would choke off the pictures. Alcohol lullabies finally eased him, stumbling, to bed.

The next morning, he drove to a newsstand and picked up the morning’s
Times
and
Herald-Examiner
. No reporter had called him or Schwinn on the Ingalls murder, but something that ugly was sure to be covered.

But it wasn’t, not a line of print.

That made no sense. Reporters were tuned in to the police band, covered the morgue, too.

He sped to the station, checked his own box and Schwinn’s for jour-nalistic queries. Found only a single phone slip with his name at the top. Officer Del Monte from The Bel Air Patrol, no message. He dialed the number, talked to a few flat, bored voices before finally reaching Del Monte.

“Oh, yeah. You’re the one called about parties.” The guy had a crisp, clipped voice, and Milo knew he was talking to an ex–military man. Middle-aged voice. Korea, not V.N.

“That’s right. Thanks for calling back. What’ve you got?”

“Two on Friday, both times kids being jerks. The first was a sweet sixteen on Stradella, all-girls’ sleepover that some punks tried to crash. Not local boys. Black kids and Mexicans. The girls’ parents called us, and we ejected them.”

“Where were the crashers from?”

“They claimed Beverly Hills.” Del Monte laughed. “Right.”

“They give you any trouble?”

“Not up front. They made like they were leaving Bel Air — we followed them to Sunset, then hung back and watched. Idiots crossed over near UCLA, then tried to come back a few minutes later and head over to the other party.” Del Monte chuckled, again. “No luck, Pachuco. Our people were already there on a neighbor complaint. We ejected them before they even got out of the car.”

“Where was the second party?”

“That was the live one, big-time noise. Upper Stone Canyon Drive way above the hotel.”

The locale Schwinn’s source had mentioned. “Whose house?”

“Empty house,” said Del Monte. “The family bought a bigger one but didn’t get around to selling the first one and the parents took a vacation, left the kiddies behind and, big surprise, the kiddies decided to use the empty house for fun ’n’ games, invited the entire damn city. Must’ve been two, three hundred kids all over the place, cars — Porsches and other good wheels, and plenty of outside wheels. By the time we showed up, it was a scene. It’s a big property, coupla acres, no real close-by neighbors, but by now the closest neighbors were fed up.”

“By now?” said Milo. “This wasn’t the first time?”

Silence. “We’ve had a few other calls there. Tried to contact the parents, no luck, they’re always out of town.”

“Spoiled brats.”

Del Monte laughed. “You didn’t hear that from me. Anyway, what’s up with all this?”

“Tracing a 187 victim’s whereabouts.”

Silence. “Homicide? Nah, no way. This was just kids partying and playing music too loud.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Milo. “But I’ve got rumors that my db might’ve attended a party on the Westside, so I’ve gotta ask. What’s the name of the family that owns the house?”

Longer silence. “Listen,” said Del Monte. “These people — you do me wrong, I could be parking cars. And believe me, no one saw anything worse than drinking and screwing around — a few joints, big deal, right? Anyway, we closed it down.”

“I’m just going through the routine, Officer,” said Milo. “Your name won’t come up. But if I don’t check it out,
I’ll
be parking cars. Who owns the house and what’s the address?”

“A rumor?” said Del Monte. “There had to be tons of parties Friday night.”

“Any party we hear about, we look into. That’s why yours won’t stick out.”

“Okay… the family’s named Cossack.” Del Monte uttered it weightily, as if that was supposed to mean something.

“Cossack,” said Milo, keeping his tone ambiguous.

“As in office buildings, shopping malls — Garvey Cossack. Big downtown developer, part of that bunch wanted to bring another football team to L.A.”

“Yeah, sure,” lied Milo. His interest in sports had peaked with Pop Warner baseball. “Cossack on Stone Canyon. What’s the address?”

Del Monte sighed and read off the numbers.

“How many kids in the family?” said Milo.

“Three — two boys and a girl. Didn’t see the daughter, there, but she could’ve been.”

“You know the kids personally?”

“Nah, just by sight.”

“So the boys threw the party,” said Milo. “Names?”

“The big one’s Garvey Junior and the younger one’s Bob but they call him Bobo.”

“How old?”

“Junior’s probably twenty-one, twenty-two, Bobo’s maybe a year younger.”

More than kids,
thought Milo.

“They gave us no trouble,” said Del Monte. “They’re just a couple guys like to have fun.”

“And the girl?”

“Her I didn’t see.”

Milo thought he picked up something new in Del Monte’s voice. “Name?”

“Caroline.”

“Age?”

“Younger — maybe seventeen. It was really no big deal, everyone dispersed. My message said you’re Central. Where was your db found?”

Milo told him.

“There you go,” said Del Monte. “Fifteen miles from Bel Air. You’re wasting your time.”

“Probably. Three hundred partying kids just caved when you showed up?”

“We’ve got experience with that kind of thing.”

“What’s the technique?” said Milo.

“Use sensitivity,” said the rent-a-cop. “Don’t treat ’em like you would a punk from Watts or East L.A. ’cause these kids are accustomed to a certain style.”

“Which is?”

“Being treated like they’re important. If that doesn’t work, threaten to call the parents.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“That usually works. Gotta go, nice talking to you.”

“I appreciate the time, Officer. Listen, if I came by and showed a photo around, would there be a chance anyone would recognize a face?”

“Whose face?”

“The vic’s.”

“No way. Like I said, it was a swarm. After a while they all start to look alike.”

“Rich kids?”

“Any kids.”