Therapy (12 page)

“Why?”

“He said she kept to herself and that not many cons came in.”

“Enough came in to bother her,” I said. “And Sepulveda and Venice is really close to her apartment. I’d like to know how many of the cons assigned to that office had sex-crime histories.”

“Good luck. Parole’s as bureaucratic as it comes. State office, everything’s filtered through Sacramento, and now that the satellites have closed, the records are somewhere in outer space. But if it shakes out that way, I’ll start digging. Meanwhile, Roy Nichols’s place is also close by, and he has a record that says impulse control’s a problem. And isn’t it you guys who make a big deal about psychopaths not liking animals?”

“Cruelty to animals,” I said. “Flora’s mother said Nichols is a neat-freak.”

“There you go, yet another quirk. Just the type to clean up a crime scene thoroughly. He’s worth looking into, right? See you in—what, twenty, twenty-five?”

“Zoom zoom zoom.”

CHAPTER

12

M
ilo’s unmarked idled at the curb, in front of the station. He was at the wheel, smoking and tapping his finger.

I drove up next to the driver’s window. He handed me a staff permit, and I parked in the lot across the street. When I returned, the unmarked’s passenger door was open. We were heading south before I closed it.

“Big hurry?”

“I pulled Roy Nichols’s file. The 415 wasn’t just some drunk breaking glass. Though you were right about it being booze-stoked. Nichols beat some guy up at a sports bar in Inglewood, did a real number on him, broke some bones. The report says Nichols thought the guy was leering at his date, a woman named Lisa Jenrette. They traded words, and one thing led to another. What got Nichols out of a felony assault charge was several other patrons swore the other guy had thrown the first punch and that he
had
come on to Nichols’s date. One of those habitual assholes, always picking fights. Nichols compensated part of his medical bills and pleaded down to Disturbing. He served no time, promised to stay away from the bar, and took a rage control class.”

He sped side streets to Olympic, turned left, headed for Sepulveda. “A severe jealousy problem could lead to the kind of overkill they found in Flora’s bedroom.”

“Evelyn Newsome said Nichols was the one who ended the relationship.”

“So maybe he changed his mind, got possessive. Alex, I read the medical report on the guy he pounded. Shattered face bones, dislocated shoulder. One witness said Nichols was about to stomp the guy’s head into pulp when they managed to pull him off.”

We drove in silence for a while, then he said, “Rage control class. You think that stuff works?”

“Maybe sometimes.”

“There’s a hearty endorsement for you.”

“I think it takes more than a few mandatory lectures to alter basic temperament.”

“The lightbulb has to want to change.”

“You bet.”

“More tax dollars flushed,” he said. “Like those satellite parole offices.”

“Probably.”

“Well,” he said, “that really pisses me off.”

*

Roy Nichols’s house was a slightly larger, pure white version of Evelyn Newsome’s bungalow that bore the signs of ambitious but wrongheaded improvement: overly wide black shutters that would’ve fit a two-story colonial, a pair of Doric columns propping up the tiny porch, a Spanish tile roof, the tiles variegated and expensive and piled too high, a three-foot sash of bouquet canyon stone veneered to the bottom of the facade. This lawn was lush, unblemished, the bright green of a Saint Paddy’s parade. Five-foot sago palms flanked the steps—five hundred dollars’ worth of vegetation. Dwarf junipers ringed the front, trimmed low to the ground with bonsai precision.

In the driveway something hulked under a spotless black cover. Milo lifted a corner of the cover on a shiny black Ford pickup with a freshly chromed bumper. Raised suspension, custom wheels. A sticker protected by a plastic coating said:
How Am I Driving? Call 1-800-SCRU YOU.

We walked to the front door. A security firm sticker was centered on a black lacquer door. Pushing the bell elicited chimes.
Oh-oh-say-can-you-see?

“Hold on!” A woman opened. Tall, young, pretty but washed out, she had a heart-shaped face, wore a filmy black tank top over white terry-cloth shorts. No bra, bare feet. Great legs, a shaving nick on one glossy shin. Her hair was white-blond with no luster, bunched above her head in a careless thatch. Pink nail polish on her fingers, chipped badly. Darker polish on her toes, in even worse shape. Behind her was a room full of cardboard cartons. New cartons with crisp edges, sealed with brown tape and marked CONTENTS followed by three blank lines.

She folded her arms across big, soft breasts. “Yes?”

Milo showed her the badge. “You’re Mrs. Nichols?”

“Not anymore. You here about Roy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed and waved us in. But for a few feet inside the door, the entire room was filled with the packing boxes. A child-sized mattress stood propped against a tied-off garbage bag.

“Moving?”

“Soon as I can get the movers over here. They say by tomorrow, but they’ve already missed one appointment. The house is already sold, I’ve got to vacate by next week. What did Roy do?”

“You’re assuming he did something.”

“You’re here, right? I didn’t do anything, and neither did Lorelei. My daughter. She’s four years old, and if she wakes up from her nap, I’m going to kick you guys out.”

“Your name, ma’am?”

“Ma’am,” she said, amused. “I’m Lisa. Nichols, still. I’ll probably go back to my maiden name, which is Jenrette, and I always thought was a lot prettier than Nichols. Right now I’ve got other things to keep me busy. So what’s he done?”

“Could be nothing. We just want to talk to him.”

“Then go over to his job site. He’s working in Inglewood. On Manchester, near the Forum. They’re fixing up an office building. I know he’s making good money but try getting a penny out of him. Thank God his parents are cool. They want Lorelei to live decently, even though she’s not theirs, biologically. I told ’em I’d stay in L.A. and they could see her if they make it easy for me; otherwise, I move back to Tucson, where
my
folks are.”

“Roy’s tight with a buck,” said Milo.

“Roy’s like a stingy old man except when it comes to his projects.”

“What kinds of projects?”

“His truck, his single-malt collection, fixing up the house. Did you have a look at this place—he never stopped fooling with it. If there weren’t so many boxes, I’d show you all the paneling he did in the back rooms. Rosewood paneling, expensive stuff, in all three bedrooms. Made it dark as a funeral parlor, but he claimed it would help the resale value. So what happens, we put the house up for sale and we get a buyer and the first thing they’re going to do is rip out the paneling.”

“That couldn’t have made Roy happy,” I said.

“Roy’s not happy about anything.”

“Moody.”

She turned to me. “Sounds like you know him.”

“Never met him.”

“Lucky you.”

*

Milo asked if she’d seen Roy recently.

“Not for a month. He’s living with his parents, four blocks away. You’d think he’d drop by to see Lorelei.”

“Not a single visit?”

“I bring Lorelei over once a week. Sometimes Roy’s there, but even if he is, he doesn’t play with her. To him it
matters
that she isn’t his.” Her eyes misted. She shifted her weight, uncrossed her arms, looked down at the carpet. “Listen, I’ve got calls to make. Why won’t you tell me what he’s done? I mean, if he’s dangerous, shouldn’t I know?”

Milo said, “You see him as potentially dangerous?”

“What are you,” said Lisa Nichols, “some kind of shrink? We went to one, ’cause of the divorce. The court ordered it, and he did that—the shrink. Asked questions instead of giving answers.”

“Roy hasn’t done anything. We just want to talk to him about a former girlfriend.”

“The one who got murdered? Flora?”

“You know about her.”

“Just what Roy told me.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “You’re not saying . . .”

“No, ma’am. We’re reviewing the case and are talking to everyone who knew her.”

“I’ve got a four-year-old,” said Lisa. “You’ve got to be straight with me.”

“You’re afraid of Roy,” I said.

“I’m afraid of his temper. Not that he ever did anything to me. But the way he gets—crawling into himself.”

Milo said, “What did he tell you about Flora Newsome?”

“That she was . . .” She folded her upper lip between her teeth. “It’s going to sound . . .”

“What, ma’am?”

“He said she was cold. In bed. Not good sexually. He said she probably came on to some guy, then wouldn’t come through and that’s what happened to her.”

“That was his theory, huh?”

“Roy sees everything in terms of sex. If it was up to him . . .” Her head flipped away from us. “I’ve got to finish up packing. Lori will be up soon and my hands will be tied.”

She gave us Roy Nichols’s parents’ address and phone number. Milo called there, spoke to the mother, lied about being a general contractor looking for framers and got the location of Nichols’s current job site.

As we drove south on Sepulveda toward Inglewood, he said, “My guess is Flora wouldn’t put out enough for Nichols, and that’s why he dumped her. Ergo, his theory. Or, he was—what do you guys call it, when you put your own crap on someone else—”

“Projecting,” I said. “No forced entry at Flora’s apartment is consistent with someone she knew. The overkill fits with a lot of background rage, and the sexual posing suggests the source of the rage.”

“Wrought-iron fence post. Got to be some of those lying around construction jobs. More than ever, I want to know where this bastard was the night Gavin and the blonde were killed. Speaking of which, I sent two D’s over to the fancy hotels, then they talked to BHPD, and no one knows our Jimmy Choo girl. The hotels are probably lying, but the B. H. cops do keep a file of high-priced call girls, and she’s not in it. It’s just a matter of time. Someone’s got to miss her.”

CHAPTER

13

R
oy Nichols’s supervisor was a compact middle-aged man named Art Rodriguez, with a graying beard and the excitability quotient of a stone Buddha. A DODGER BLUE sticker was emblazoned across his hard hat above an American flag decal. He wore an oversize Disneyland T-shirt under a chambray shirt, filthy jeans, and dusty work boots, held a folded racing form in one hand.

We stood out in the dusty sun, just inside the chain-link border of the construction site. The job was tacking a side addition onto an ugly brick-faced two-story office building. The original structure was gutted and windowless but a sign—GOLDEN AGE INVESTMENTS—remained atop the door hole.

The new space was in the framing stage, and Roy Nichols was one of the framers. Rodriguez pointed him out—crouching on the second floor, wielding a nail gun. The air smelled of raw wood and pesticide and sulfur.

Art Rodriguez said, “Want me to get him? Or you can put on hats and go up there yourselves.”

“You can do it,” said Milo. “You’re not surprised we want to talk to him.”

Rodriguez gave a tobacco-laced laugh. “This business? All my roofers are cons, and a whole bunch of the other trades are, too.”

“Nichols isn’t a con.”

“Con, potential con, what’s the difference? Everyone gets a second chance. It’s what makes this country great.”

“Nichols impress you as a potential?”

“I don’t get into their personal lives,” said Rodriguez. “Step one, they show up, step two, they do the freaking job. I get that from a few of them with any regularity, I’m a happy guy.”

“Nichols dependable?”

“He’s actually one of the good ones. Like clockwork. Here on the dot—kind of faggy, actually.”

“Faggy,” said Milo.

“Faggy,” Rodriguez repeated. “As in picky, prissy, choosy. Everything has to be just so, he reminds me of my wife.”

“Picky how?”

“He wants his lunch box kept away from dust, gets ticked when guys mess with his tools or don’t show up on time. Any change in routine ticks him off. He folds his
jacket,
for chrissake.”

“Perfectionist.”

“What’s your beef with him?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Hope it stays that way,” said Rodriguez. “He shows up, does the freaking job.”

*

Roy Nichols was six-three, an easy 250, with a hard, protruding belly, flour-sack arms and tree-trunk thighs. Under his hard hat was a head shaved clean. The stubble that blanketed his face was fair, and so were his eyebrows. He wore a sweat-soaked earth-colored T-shirt under blue denim overalls, had a rose tattoo on his right biceps. His face was square and sun-baked, bottomed by a double chin, scored with deep seams that made him look older than his thirty years.

Rodriguez pointed to us, and Nichols surged ahead of him and swaggered in our direction.

“Round one, ding,” muttered Milo.

Nichols reached us, and said, “Police? About what?” His voice was thin and shockingly high. I bet many a phone caller had asked to speak to his mother. I bet Roy Nichols never got used to it.

Milo extended a hand.

Nichols showed us a dusty palm, muttered, “Dirty,” and lowered it to his side. He rolled his neck. “What do you want?”

“To talk about Flora Newsome.”

“
Now?
I’m working.”

“We’d appreciate a few minutes, Mr. Nichols.”

“About
what
?” A flush rose from Nichols’s bull neck and made its way up his cheeks.

“We’re taking a fresh look at the case and are talking to everyone who knew her.”

“I knew her all right, but I don’t know who killed her. I’ve already been through all that crap with some other cops—I’m on the job, man, and they pay me by the hour. They’re Nazis, man. I stay too long in the bathroom, they dock me. If it was a union job, they couldn’t do that, but it isn’t, so give me a break.”

“I’ll square it with Mr. Rodriguez.”

“Right,” said Nichols. He toed dirt, rolled his neck some more.

“Just a few minutes.”

Nichols cursed under his breath. “At least let’s get out of the fucking sun.”

*

We walked to a corner of the site shaded by two portable toilets. The chemicals had failed, and the stench was aggressive.

Nichols’s nostrils flared. “Reeks. Perfect. This is all bullshit.”

“You get upset pretty easily,” said Milo.

“You would, too, if your time was money and someone wasted it.” Nichols unsnapped the leather lid of his wristwatch and peered at the dial. “Those first cops spent days with me, man. What a hassle. I could tell right away they thought I was a suspect because of the way they played around with me.”

“Played?”

“One’s nice, the other’s an asshole. A he and a she. He faked being the nice one. I’ve seen enough TV to know the game.” He ran a hand over his skinhead. “Now, you. What, you’re getting overtime, trying to stretch it out?”

Milo stared at him.

Nichols said, “Didn’t they tell you I had a perfect alibi for when Flora was killed? Watching the game in a sports bar, then I shot pool and played some darts and got drunk. A buddy drove me to my house just after midnight, and I threw up all over the living room couch. My wife tucked me in and didn’t give me shit until she woke me up two hours later after stewing on it and then she reamed me. So I’m accounted for, okay? A whole bunch of people verified it, and your buddies know it.”

Milo glanced at me. Both of us thinking the same thing: His wife hadn’t mentioned that.

“You have any theories about who killed Flora?”

“No.”

“None at all?”

Nichols licked his lips. “Why should I?”

“We’ve heard you do have a theory.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Flora’s sex drive. Or lack thereof.”

“Shit,” said Nichols. “You’ve been talking to Lisa. What do you expect her to say? We’re getting divorced, she hates my fucking guts. Didn’t she tell you I was home that night? Shit, she didn’t. See—she hates my guts.”

“What about your theory?”

“Yeah, yeah, I told her that, but I was talking out of my butt—like you talk to your wife, you know.”

Milo smiled.

“They need you to talk,” said Nichols. “Females.” He opened and shut his hand several times, miming chatter. “You come home after a hard day’s work and just wanna chill and they want to talk. Myah myah myah. So you tell them what they want to hear.”

“Lisa wanted to hear about Flora’s sex drive?”

“Lisa wanted to hear that she was hot, the hottest, hotter than anyone else I ever met in my life.” Nichols humphed. “That’s what that was all about.”

Milo stepped closer to Nichols. “You stroked Lisa by putting down Flora? Any particular reason you chose Flora as the bad example?”

Nichols edged back.

“Did Flora have sexual problems, Roy?”

“If you call not being able to do it problems,” said Nichols.

“She couldn’t have sex?”

“She couldn’t
come
. She had no feelings down there, used to lie there like a . . . a carpet. She didn’t
like
to do it. Wouldn’t come out and say so, but she had a way of letting you know.”

“What way was that?”

“You’d touch her, and she’d get this . . . upset look. Like she—like you hurt her.”

“Doesn’t sound like a fun relationship.”

Nichols didn’t answer.

Milo said, “Still, you went out with her for what—a year?”

“Less than that.” Nichols’s eyes widened. “I know what you’re getting at.”

“What’s that, Roy?”

“That I got mad at her because she wouldn’t put out, but it wasn’t like that. We didn’t fight, I never did anything but be cool with her. I took her out to movies, dinner, whatever. Spent money on her, man, and it wasn’t like I was getting anything back.”

“Uneven trade,” said Milo.

“This is making me sound bad.” Nichols’s meaty shoulders flexed. He smiled. “Big deal how I sound, I have a total four-plus alibi, so you can think what you want.”

“Did you break up with Flora because of her sexual problems, Roy?”

“That was part of it, wouldn’t it be for anyone normal? But it’s not like we were even really going together. We were neighbors, grew up together. Our parents hung out, we had barbecues together, whatever. Everyone kind of threw us together, know what I mean?”

“Parental matchmaking,” I said.

He looked at me with gratitude. “Yeah, exactly. ‘Flora’s such a nice girl.’ ‘Flora would make a great mom.’ And she dug me, she definitely did, so why not, she wasn’t half–bad-looking, coulda been hot if she knew how to dress. And how to screw. But we
hung
out more than we
went
out, you know? Even so, I spent money on her, lots of lobster dinners. When we broke up everything was cool.”

“She wasn’t upset?”

“Sure she was, but it wasn’t any big hysterical scene, know what I mean? She cried a little, I told her we’d be friends, and that was that.”

I said, “Did you remain friends?”

“There was no . . . animosity.”

“Did you continue to see each other?”

“No,” said Nichols, regarding me with wariness now. He cupped his clean head with one big hand, scratched loose a flake of sun-baked skin. “I’d see her at my folks’. There was no bad feelings.”

Milo said, “Those lobster dinners. Any particular place?”

Nichols stared at him. “I can eat lobster anywhere, but Flora liked this place in the Marina, out by the harbor.”

“Bobby J’s.”

“That’s the one. Flora liked to look at the boats. But then one time I offered to arrange a cruise around the Marina, and she said she got seasick. That was Flora. All talk.”

“Flora was scheduled to go to Bobby J’s for brunch the morning after she got murdered. She and her new boyfriend.”

“So?”

Milo shrugged.

Nichols said, “New boyfriend? What, I’m supposed to know that? Don’t make like I was the old boyfriend and she threw me over and I gave a shit because that is total
bullshit
.”

“Roy,” said Milo, “Flora’s problems aside, I assume you and she did sleep together?”

“Tried is more like it. Flora could make like her legs were glued together. And it was always like you were hurting her. You wanna know my opinion, that
is
how she ran into trouble.” Nichols’s chin jutted defiantly. “What if she led some guy on, then wouldn’t come through? Some dude not as understanding as me. For all I know, that boyfriend of hers snapped. He seemed like a wimp, but isn’t it always the quiet ones?”

“You met him?”

“One time. Flora brought him by my folks’ house. Thanksgiving, it was evening, after we finished stuffing our pie-holes. I was mellowing out on the couch, like when I eat that way don’t make me
move,
man. Lisa and my mom were washing up and my dad and me were both blissed out watching the tube and
boing
goes the doorbell. In comes Flora all dressed up, arm in arm with this pale-faced wimp-ass dude with this wimp-ass mustache, and he’s looking uncomfortable, like what the
fuck
am I doing
here
? She claims she came by to visit my folks, but I know she’s there to show me she’s doing okay without me. That’s how women are.”