The Murder Book (33 page)

The Cossack brothers’ pad was an exceedingly vulgar, blue-tile-roofed and monstrously gabled heap of gray limestone perched atop a scarred dirt hill with no grass or trees in sight. Stone facing, only. The sides were lumpy stucco. Bad trowel job. Cheap-looking white metal fencing and an electric gate partitioned the front of the property from the street, but without benefit of vegetation, the house sat in full view, baking in the sun, puffy flanks glaring white in spots.

A double-sized Dumpster overflowing with trash advertised ongoing construction, but no workers were in sight, drapes covered the windows, and a mini car museum took up the rest of the massive driveway.

Plum-colored Rolls Royce Corniche, black Humvee with blacked-out windows, red (what else?) Ferrari that came as close as Milo had seen to a penis on wheels, a taxi yellow Pantera, a pair of Dodge Vipers, one white with a blue center stripe, the other anthracite gray striped orange, and a white Corvette convertible. All under a drooping, makeshift canvas awning that stretched across listing metal stilts. Off to the side, in the full sun, was a ten-year-old Honda that had to be the maid’s wheels.

Big house and all those cars, but no landscaping. Just the kind of eyesore a couple of teenagers would put together if they tumbled into endless cash, and Milo was willing to bet the Cossacks had six figures’ worth of stereo equipment inside, along with a state-of-the-art screening room, a pub, a game room or two. He was starting to think of them as a dual case of profound arrested development.

The house was exactly the kind of eyesore that would provoke neighbor complaints in a blue-chip district, meaning now he had something to look for.

He drove downtown to the Hall of Records, made it through the traffic by 2
P.M.
, and combed through the zoning-board complaint files. Sure enough, three gripes had been lodged against the Cossacks, all by Carolwood residents, irritated about noise and dirt and other indignities caused by “protracted construction.” All dismissed for lack of cause.

He moved over to the property files, ran searches on the Cossacks, Walt Obey, both Larners. John G. Broussard.

Obey’s holdings were protected by a cadre of holding companies, a firewall that would take weeks, if not months, to break through. Same for the Larners and the Cossacks, although a few pieces of real estate were held privately by each duo. In the case of the Larners it was half a dozen condos in a Marina del Rey building owned jointly by father and son. Sixteen strip malls in low-rent exurbs were registered to the Cossack brothers.

The boys living together, working together. How touching.

Nothing was registered to Sister Caroline.

Shifting gears for a moment, he pulled up Georgie Nemerov’s records. The bail bondsman and his mother co-owned a single-family dwelling in Van Nuys that Milo recognized as the family home from twenty years ago, and a six-unit apartment in Granada Hills, also jointly registered to Ivana Nemerov. Whatever Georgie had or hadn’t done, building a real estate empire didn’t seem part of the equation.

John G. Broussard and his wife — Berna
delle
— had held on to the house in Ladera Heights as well as three contiguous lots on West 156th Street in Watts. Maybe the chief’s or his wife’s parents’ place, an inheritance.

Once again: no empire. If John G. was trading for something, it wasn’t land. Unless he was embedded somewhere in Walt Obey’s corporate acreage.

He ran searches on Melinda Waters and mother Eileen and came up empty, was thinking about what else to do when the records clerk came over and told him the building was closing. He left and drove up and down Temple Street, past the place where Pierce Schwinn had spotted Tonya Stumpf strutting. The block was a Music Center parking lot now, filled with its daytime load of municipal workers’ and litigants’ vehicles, due to the Court Building down the street. Lots of people, lots of movement, but Milo felt out of it — out of the rhythm.

He drove toward home, slowly, not caring about rush-hour toxins, street-work delays, notably stupid driving by what seemed to be fifty percent of his fellow commuters. All the urban niceties that usually drove up his blood pressure and made him wonder why the hell he’d chosen to live like this.

He was sitting at a red light at Highland when his phone rang. Alex’s voice said, “I got you. Good.”

“What’s up?”

“Maybe nothing, but my source — the woman Michael Larner molested — called me again, and I met with her last night. Seems the day Larner made his move on her, he was angry about Willie Burns. Enraged, talking to someone about Burns. Willie had been gone from Achievement House for a few days so it sounds like Larner found out who Burns was, was steamed because Burns disappeared.”

“Enraged,” said Milo.

“That’s how she describes it. She walked into his office just as he got off the phone, said Larner was flushed and agitated. Then he composed himself and turned his attention to her. Which could be more than a coincidence. Harassers and rapists often get stoked by anger. Anyway, it’s probably no big deal, but it does fit with our working hypothesis: The Cossack family contracted Larner to hide Caroline until Janie Ingalls’s murder cooled down. Burns made contact with Caroline, then split, and the family panicked. But they never found him, he even managed to slip away after his dope arrest, because Boris Nemerov bailed him out immediately. Four months later he ambushed Nemerov.”

“Interesting,” said Milo. “Good work.” He summarized what he’d seen at Sangre de Leon last night.

“Big money,” said Alex. “Same old story. One more thing: When I was looking for Melinda Waters on the Internet, I got a few hits but dismissed them. Then I realized maybe I’d been too hasty about one in particular. An attorney in Santa Fe, New Mexico, specializing in bankruptcy and evictions. I’d been thinking about Melinda as a stoned-out truant, didn’t see a pathway from that to a legal career, but your comment about her turning up with a family and picket fence got me thinking, so I pulled up her website again and checked her bio. She’s thirty-eight years old, which would be exactly our Melinda’s age. And she didn’t graduate college until she was thirty-one, law school till thirty-four. Before that, she worked as a paralegal for three years but her résumé still leaves the years between eighteen and twenty-eight unaccounted for. Which would mesh with someone going through changes, pulling her life together. And get this: She was schooled in California. San Francisco State for undergrad, Hastings for law.”

“Hastings is a top school,” said Milo. “Bowie Ingalls described Melinda as a loser.”

“Bowie Ingalls was not a sterling judge. And people change. If I didn’t believe that, I’d choose another profession.”

“Bankruptcy and eviction… I guess anything’s possible.”

“Maybe she’s not our gal, but don’t you think it’s worth looking into?”

“Anything else interesting in her bio?”

“No. Married, two kids. Do they have picket fences in Santa Fe? Not that hard to find out. It’s a ninety-minute flight to Albuquerque, another hour by car to Santa Fe, and Southwest Airlines has cheap flights.”

“Calling her on the phone would be too easy,” said Milo.

“If she’s trying to put her past behind her, she may lie. There’s a flight at seven-forty-five tomorrow morning. I booked two seats.”

“Manipulative. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s cold there,” said Alex. “Twenty to forty Fahrenheit, some snow on the ground. So bundle up.”

B
y seven-fifteen, Milo and I were at the back of a long queue at the Southwest Airlines gate. The terminal was Ellis Island minus the overcoats — weary posture, worried eyes, language-soup.

“Thought we had our seats,” he said, eyeing the front of the line.

“We have electronic tickets,” I said. “Southwest’s system is you wait for your seat assignment. They board in groups, give you little plastic number tags.”

“Great… I’ll take half a dozen bagels, a rye sliced thin, and two onion rolls.”

The flight was booked full and cramped, but amiable, populated by seasoned, mostly easygoing passengers and flight attendants who fancied themselves stand-up comedians. We arrived early on a tarmac specked with snow and turned our watches ahead one hour. Sunport Airport was low-profile and blessedly quiet, done up in earth tones, turquoise, and mock adobe, and riddled with talismanic hints of a decimated Indian culture.

We picked up a Ford Escort at the Budget desk, and I drove north on Highway 25 toward Santa Fe, feeling the wind buffet the tiny car. Snow — clean white fluff — was banked up along the side of the road, but the asphalt was plowed clear and the sky was bluer and bigger than I’d ever imagined and when I opened the window to test the air, I got a faceful of pure, sweet chill.

“Nice,” I said.

Milo grunted.

City sprawl, fast-food franchises, and Indian casinos gave way soon enough to long, low vistas of desert, bounded by the purplish tips of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and that vast sky that just seemed to grow bigger.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

“Hey, look at this,” said Milo. “Seventy-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. Put some weight on that pedal.”

As we neared Santa Fe, the highway climbed and the altitude registers increased steadily to seven thousand feet. I was speeding across the highest of deserts, no cactus or sandy desolation. The mountains were green where the snow had melted and so were the lowlands, bearded by wind-hardy, drought-tolerant
piñon
trees, ancient and ragged and low to the ground — Darwinian victors — and the occasional vertical statement of bare-branch aspens. Millions of trees, tipped with white, not a cloud in the sky. I wondered if Melinda Waters, Attorney-at-Law, had woken up thinking this was going to be a great day. Would we be a petty annoyance or an intrusion she’d never forget?

I took the Saint Francis exit to Cerrilos Road and continued through the southern part of Santa Fe, which seemed not much different from any other small city, with shopping centers and auto dealers and gas stations and the type of businesses that hug highways. Melinda Waters’s office was listed on a street called Paseo de Peralta, and my reading of the map I’d grabbed at the rental counter put that right off Cerrilos. But the address numerals didn’t check out and I followed the signs north to City Center and the Plaza and suddenly we were in a different world. Narrow, winding streets, some of them cobbled, forced me to reduce my speed as I rolled past diamond-bright, one-story adobe and Spanish colonial buildings plastered in sienna and peach and dun and gold. Pools of melting ice glistened like opals. The luxuriant trees that lined the road had managed to shrug off all but reminiscent flecks of snow, and through their branches streamed the sky’s blue smile.

Different businesses filled the north side: art galleries, sculpture and glass studios, gourmet cookware emporia, purveyors of fine foods, high-fashion clothing and hand-hewn furniture, custom picture framers. Cafés and restaurants never tainted by corporate logos abounded, promising everything from Southwestern to sushi. SUVs were the steeds of choice, and sinuous, happy people in jeans and suede and boots that had never known the kiss of manure crowded the sidewalks.

We reached the central plaza, a square of tree-shaded green set up with a bandstand and surrounded by low-rise shops, drove past a covered breezeway where a couple of dozen down-parkaed Indians sat behind blankets of silver jewelry near the Palace of the Governors. Across the square was a massive blocky structure of fieldstone that seemed more European than American. More restaurants and galleries, a couple of luxury hotels, and suddenly Paseo de Peralta had disappeared.

“Very pretty,” said Milo, “but you’re going in circles.”

At Washington Avenue, in the shadow of a salmon pink Scottish Rite temple, I spotted a white-haired couple in matched shearling jackets walking an English sheep dog that could’ve supplied the garment’s linings, and asked directions. The man wore a plaid cap, and the woman’s hair was long and braided and gray and set off by silver butterflies. She wore the kind of makeup meant to convey no makeup at all, had crinkly eyes and a ready smile. When I showed her the address she chuckled.

“You want the northern part of Paseo de Peralta — it horseshoes at the Plaza. Herb, where’s this address, exactly?”

The man shared her mirth. At least I’d made someone happy. “Right there, my friend — just up the block.”

Melinda Waters’s law office occupied one of eight suites in a sand-colored adobe building that abutted an Italian taverna. The restaurant’s chimney billowed storybook puffs of smoke and cooking smells that got my salivary glands going. Then I thought about what lay ahead, and my appetites shifted.

The units faced a large, open parking lot backed by a high berm and an opaque stand of trees, as if the property — the town itself — terminated at a forest. We parked and got out. The air was frigid and perfect.

Each office had its own entrance. A wooden post hung with shingles served as a directory. Four other lawyers, a psychotherapist, a practitioner of therapeutic massage, an antiquarian book dealer, a print gallery. How far was Ojai?

Melinda Waters’s door was unlocked and her front room smelled of incense. Big rust-and-wine-colored chenille chairs with fringed pillows were arranged around a battered old, blackwood Chinese table. Atop the table were art books, magazines that worshipped style, a brass bowl full of hard candy, and straw baskets of potpourri. Would any of that ease the pain of bankruptcy and eviction?

Blocking the rear door, a round-faced Indian woman of thirty or so sat behind a weathered oak desk and pecked at a slate gray laptop. She wore a pink sweatshirt and big, dangling earrings — geometric and hard-edged and gold, more New York than New Mexico. As we approached her desk, she looked up without conveying much in the way of emotion and continued typing.

“How can I help you?”

“Is Ms. Waters in?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am,” said Milo, producing his card.