The Murder Book (21 page)

“You would think something like that would make the papers. Burns’s name pulled up zilch.”

“That I can explain. Nemerov’s family wanted it kept quiet, and we obliged. They didn’t want Boris’s lapse in judgment made public — bad for business. And they had quite a few favors to pull in — reporters’ kids who’d been bailed out. Cops’ kids, too. Del and I were ordered to do our job but to do it very quietly.”

“Did that hamstring you?”

“Not really. Finding Burns wasn’t going to be accomplished by feeding the press. The Nemerovs were decent folk — first everything they’d gone through in Russia and now this. We didn’t want to upset them, everyone felt bad about the whole thing. The business almost went under, anyway. The insurance companies weren’t pleased, wanted to sever all ties. Nemerov’s widow and son agreed to eat all fifty grand of Burns’s forfeited bail and begged for a chance to prove themselves. They managed to hold on to most of their policies. Eventually, they got their heads above water. They’re still in business — same place, right around the corner from the station. Nowadays they’re known for never giving an inch.”

“And Willie Burns’s trail went cold,” I said.

“I dogged him for years, Alex. Anytime I had a lull, I checked on the asshole. I was sure he’d turn up eventually because a junkie’s unlikely to change his ways. My bet was he’d end up incarcerated or dead.”

“Maybe he did end up dead,” I said. “The Nemerov family had access to professional searchers. Even good folk can develop a thirst for revenge.”

“My gut says no, but if that’s what happened, it’s a definite dead end. I’m starting to feel like I’m back in junior high, staring at tests I flunked.”

“Maybe it’s only one big test,” I said. “Maybe Willie Burns knew Caroline before she was sent to Achievement House — one of the black guys Dr. Schwartzman saw Caroline hanging with. Burns’s murdering Nemerov could’ve been nothing new for him, because he’d killed before. At a party in Bel Air.”

“Burns’s record was nonviolent, Alex.”

“Till it wasn’t,” I said. “What if the nonviolent crimes were the ones he never got caught for. Was he only into heroin?”

“No, poly-drug addict. Heroin, acid, pills, meth. Since the age of ten.”

“Ups and downs,” I said. “Unpredictable behavior. Put someone like that in contact with an unbalanced kid like Caroline, stick both of them at a dope party where two not-too-bright street girls show up, and who knows what might happen? Caroline’s family suspected — or knew she’d been part of something bad and sent her to Achievement House. Willie split back to the streets but found his way over to Achievement House to visit Caroline. Stupid move, but junkies are impulsive. And no one caught on. He worked there for a month, was fired because of absenteeism.”

He drummed his fingers on his knees. “Burns and Caroline as a killing couple.”

“With or without additional friends. Burns participating in a murder could also explain his skipping out on Nemerov. The city was clamping down on dope dealers, and he knew he was likely to serve time. That would’ve made him a captive audience if Janie Ingalls’s murder came to light.”

“Then why’d he call Nemerov and offer to turn himself in?”

“To accomplish exactly what he did: ambush Nemerov, rob him, take his car — it was stripped. For all we know, Burns fenced the stereo and the phone. And that half-baked attempt at hiding it is pure hype. Also, Caroline’s disappearance could be Willie taking no chances. Figuring she was high risk to talk.”

“If Burns or anyone else disappeared Caroline, you don’t think her family would’ve reacted? Leaned on the department to solve it?”

“Maybe not. Caroline had been an embarrassment to them all through childhood — the weird sib — and if they knew she’d been an accomplice to murder, they’d have wanted to keep it quiet. It’s consistent with sequestering her at Achievement House.”

“With a pink tab,” he said.

“Burns found her anyway. Maybe
she
contacted
him
. For all we know, she was with him when he ambushed Boris Nemerov. When exactly was Nemerov executed?”

“December, right before Christmas. I remember Mrs. Nemerov talking about it. How they were Russian Orthodox, celebrated in January, there’d be nothing to celebrate.”

“Caroline was at Achievement House in August,” I said. “Four months later, she could’ve been out of there. Willie could’ve broken her out. Perhaps they were planning to cut town all along, and that’s why Burns was trying to sell dope in Venice.”

“My, my, so many possibilities,” he said. “Ah.”

He had me drive in the direction of the station, then turn onto Purdue and park in front of an old redbrick building just south of Santa Monica Boulevard.

The entrance to
Kwik ’n’ Ready Bail Bonds
was a glass-fronted storefront heralded by neon above the door and gold leaf on the glass. Unlike Achievement House, this placed welcomed attention.

I pointed to the
No Stopping, Tow Away
warning.

Milo said, “I’ll watch out for the parking Nazis. Failing that, I’ll go your bail.”

The front office was a stuffy sliver of fluorescence with a high counter and walls paneled in something mustard-colored that bore no biological link to trees. A knobless door was cut into the rear paneling. A single Maxfield Parrish print — purple mountains’ majesty — hung to the left of the doorway. Behind the counter, a round-faced man in his late thirties sat on an old oak swivel chair and ate a big wet sandwich wrapped in wax paper. A coffeemaker and a computer sat to his left. Cabbage and slabs of meat and something red protruded from the sandwich. The man’s short-sleeved white shirt was clean but his chin was moist and as the door closed behind us, he swiped at himself with a paper napkin and aimed cautious gray eyes at us. Then he grinned.

“Detective Sturgis.” He hauled a thick body out of the chair and a pink forearm shot across the counter. An anchor tattoo blued the smooth flesh. His brown hair was cropped to the skull and his face was a potpie that had been nibbled at the edges.

“Georgie,” said Milo. “How’s everything?”

“People are very bad, so everything’s very good,” said Georgie. He glanced at me. “He doesn’t look like a business opportunity for me.”

“No business today,” said Milo. “This is Dr. Delaware. He consults for the department. Doctor, George Nemerov.”

“A doctor for the cops,” said Georgie, pumping my hand. “What do you specialize in, sexually transmitted diseases or insanity?”

“Good guess, Georgie. He’s a shrink.”

Nemerov chuckled. “People are nuts, so everything’s good for
you
, Doctor. If you knew more about this business, you’d try to lock me up, too.” Heavy eyelids compressed, and the gray eyes narrowed. But the rest of the soft, doughy face remained placid. “So what’s up, Detective Milo?”

“This and that, Georgie. Eating your spinach?”

“Hate that stuff,” said Nemerov, patting his anchor tattoo. To me: “When I was a kid, I was a big cartoon fan, Popeye the Sailor. One night, when I was a high school punk, me and some friends were over at the Pike in Long Beach and I got this shit put on me. My mother almost skinned me alive.”

“How is your mom?” said Milo.

“Good as can be expected,” said Nemerov. “Next month she’s seventy-three.”

“Give her my best.”

“Will do, Milo. She always liked you. So… why you here?” Nemerov’s smile was angelic.

“I’ve been looking into some old files, and your dad’s case came up.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Nemerov. “Came up how?”

“Willie Burns’s name surfaced with regard to another 187.”

“That so?” Nemerov shifted his weight. His smile had died. “Well, that wouldn’t surprise me. The guy was lowlife scum. You telling me he’s been spotted around?”

“No,” said Milo. “The other case is also old and cold. Actually went down before your dad.”

“And this never came to light when you guys were looking for that murderous fuck?”

“No, Georgie. Burns isn’t officially a suspect on the other one. His name just came up, that’s all.”

“I see,” Georgie repeated. “Actually, I don’t.” He rolled a wrist, and muscles bulged in his forearm. “What, things are so relaxed around the corner that they’ve got you chasing ghosts?”

“Sorry to bring up old crap, Georgie.”

“Whatever, Milo, we all got our jobs. Back then I was a kid, first-year college, Cal State Northridge, I was going to become a lawyer. Instead, I got this.” Pudgy hands spread.

Milo said, “I just wanted to verify that you guys never caught any wind of Burns.”

Nemerov’s eyes were ash-colored slits. “You don’t think I’d tell you if we did?”

“I’m sure you would, but—”

“We go by the law, Milo. Making our living depends on it.”

“I know you do, Georgie. Sorry—”

Georgie picked up his sandwich. “So who else did Burns off?”

Milo shook his head. “Too early to let that out. When you guys were looking for him did you uncover any known associates?”

“Nah,” said Nemerov. “Guy was a fucking loner. A dope-head and a bum and a scumbag. Today, those Legal Aid assholes would call him a poor, poor pitiful homeless citizen and try to get you and me to pay his rent.” His mouth twisted. “A bum. My dad always treated him with respect and that’s how the fuck repaid him.”

“It stinks,” said Milo.

“It stinks bad. Even after all this time.”

“Your dad was a good guy, Georgie.”

Nemerov’s gray slits aimed at me. “My dad could read people like a book, Doctor. Better than a shrink.”

I nodded, thinking: Boris Nemerov had misread Willie Burns in the worst possible way.

Georgie rested one beefy arm on the countertop and favored me with a warm gust of garlic and brine and mustard.

“He could read ’em, my dad could, but he was too damn good, too damn soft. My mom tortured herself for not stopping him from going to meet the fuck that night. I told her she couldn’ta done nothing, Dad got an idea in his head, you couldn’t stop him. That’s what kept him alive with the Communists. Heart of gold, head like a rock. Burns, the fuck, was a loser and a liar but he’d always made his court dates before so why wouldn’t my dad see the best in him?”

“Absolutely,” said Milo.

“Ah,” said Nemerov.

The door in the rear panel pushed open and seven hundred pounds of humanity emerged and filled the office. Two men, each close to six-six, wearing black turtlenecks, black cargo pants, black revolvers in black nylon holsters. The larger one — a fine distinction — was Samoan, with long hair tied up in a sumo knot and a wispy mustache-goatee combo. His companion wore a red crew cut and had a fine-featured, baby-smooth face.

Georgie Nemerov said, “Hey.”

Both monsters studied us.

“Hey,” said Sumo.

Red grunted.

“Boys, this is Detective Milo Sturgis, an old friend from around the corner. He investigated the scumfuck who murdered my dad. And this is a shrink the department uses because we all know cops are crazy, right?”

Slow nods from the behemoths.

Georgie said, “These are two of my prime finders, Milo. This here’s Stevie, but we call him Yokuzuna, ’cause he used to wrestle in Japan. And the little guy’s Red Yaakov, from the Holy Land. So what’s new, boys?”

“We got something for you,” said Stevie. “Out back, in the van.”

“The 459?”

Stevie the Samoan smiled. “The 459 and guess what? A bonus. We’re leaving the 459’s crib — idiot’s right there in bed, like he doesn’t believe anyone’s gonna come looking for him and in two secs we’ve got him braceleted, are taking him out to the car and a window shade in the next-door house moves and some other guy’s staring out at us. And Yaakov says, waitaminute, ain’t that the 460 we been looking for since the Democratic convention?”

Yaakov said, “Det stoopid guy Garcia, broke dose windows and reeped off all dot stereo.”

“Raul Garcia?” said Georgie. He broke into a grin. “No kidding.”

“Yeah, him,” said Stevie. “So we go in and get him, too. Both of them are out there in back, squirming in the van. Turns out they played craps together — neighborly spirit and all that. They actually asked us to loosen the bracelets so they could play in the van.”

Georgie high-fived both giants. “Two for one, beautiful. Okay, let me process the papers, then you can take both geniuses over to the jail. I’m proud of you boys. Come back at five and pick up your checks.”

Stevie and Yaakov saluted and left the way they’d come in.

“Thank God,” said Georgie, “that criminals are retarded.” He returned to his chair and picked up his sandwich.

Milo said, “Thanks for your time.”

The sandwich arced toward Nemerov’s mouth, then paused inches from its destination. “You actually going to be looking for Burns again?”

“Should I?” said Milo. “I figure if he was findable, you guys woulda brought him in a long time ago.”

“You got that,” said Georgie.

Knots formed along Milo’s jawline as he sauntered closer to the counter. “You think he’s dead, Georgie?”

Nemerov’s eyes shifted to the left. “That would be nice, but why would I think that?”

“Because you never found him.”

“Could be, Milo. ’Cause we’re good at what we do. Maybe when it first happened we weren’t. Like I said, I was a college kid, what did I know? And Mom was all torn up, you remember how the insurance companies were jerking us around — one day we’re doing the funeral, the next day we’re fighting to stay out of bankruptcy. So maybe Burns didn’t get looked for like he should. But later I sent guys out for him, we’ve still got him on our list — look, I’ll show you.”

He got up, pushed the paneled door hard, was gone for a few moments, came back with a piece of paper that he dropped on the counter.

Wilbert Lorenzo Burns’s wanted sheet. Mug shot in full face and profile, the usual necklace of numbers. Medium-dark face, well-formed features that were soft and boyish — what would have been a pleasant face but for the hype eyes. Burns’s long hair protruded in wooly tufts, as if it had been yanked. His statistics put him at six-two, one-sixty, with knife-scars on both forearms and the back of the neck, no tattoos. Wanted for PC’s 11375, 836.6., 187. Possession with intent to sell, escape after remand or arrest, homicide.