Compulsion (3 page)

If Sean called in the crime scene techs to scour the Bentley, he never notified Milo.

For one week, no new murders were reported in West L.A. Cursing whatever psycho-economic-social factors were causing a peaceful autumn, Milo got to work on some old unsolveds. The murder books he looked for were missing or sketchy to the point of uselessness and he dead-ended.

On his eighth day back on the job, I phoned to see how he was doing. His captain had just relayed a directive from the police chief’s office. A rapist-killer named Cozman “Cuz” Jackson, awaiting execution in Texas, was scrambling to avoid the needle by confessing murders all over the country and promising to pinpoint the graves.

Before Texas agreed to investigate, they wanted local cops to produce some facts.

Cuz Jackson’s claimed victim in California was Antoine Beverly, a fifteen-year-old boy from South L.A. who’d vanished in Culver City sixteen years ago while selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door. Jackson had been living nearby at the time, in Venice, and had worked ten miles from Antoine’s magazine route, as a handyman at a Westchester animal shelter.

No sign of the Beverly file in Central Records, either. Downtown wanted Milo to search for it in West L.A. and, if he found it, recontact witnesses.

No success, so far. He said, “Time to put a fatwa on the Great Bureaucratic Satan. Let me tell you how this went down: Normally this would go to the Homicide Special boys, but they love high-profile guts and glory and this ain’t either so they lobbed a pass to West L.A. Captain figures at this point I’ll be happy with anything and tosses it to me.”

“Well,” I said, “at least there’s the novelty factor.”

“Which is?”

“A captain who takes pity.”

“Gotta go, Alex.”

The gray cloud hovering over him hadn’t cleared a bit. Maybe it was lead in his arm and residual pain.

Or spiritual erosion after two decades as a gay detective in LAPD.

That
whole concept had changed, perhaps at a rate so slow it never registered in his head as progress.

As a rookie, he took pains to hide his orientation. The truth emerged anyway, leading to smirks, whispers, bursts of outright hostility. He stopped hiding but didn’t flaunt. Opened his locker more than once to find hate mail. The teamwork that forms the core of homicide work eluded him as a succession of partners heeded the whispers and requested transfers.

Making the best of the isolation, he piled up overtime and racked up one of the highest solve rates in the department. Unsure what to do with him, the department dithered to the point where civil rights advances and a jacketful of grateful letters from victims’ families made him tough to persecute.

Then an old murder brought him back to his rookie days, digging up indiscretions by the police chief, and earning him a deal: In return for not going public, he’d be promoted to lieutenant, allowed to avoid that rank’s desk duties and continue to work murders.

Shuffled out of the detectives’ room, he was stashed in a closet-sized office that had once
been
a storage closet, given a balky computer, the occasional assistance of untested D I’s, if no one else needed them, and told to pick his cases.

Translation:
Stay out of our way and we’ll return the favor.

Another man might’ve withered. Milo took well to the arrangement, establishing a second office at a nearby Indian restaurant and closing cases with dyspeptic reliability. All the while indulging his only hobby: complaining.

His solve rate caught the eye of the new chief, a man obsessed with crime stats.

A new captain named Raymonda Grant didn’t care who anyone slept with.

Milo got a better computer, more access to backup, and continuing job flexibility.

Invitations to division barbecues never showed up in his box, but he’d never been one for socializing and it was all he could do to find time for Rick.

If life had gotten easier, he wasn’t showing it.

No doubt Antoine Beverly’s family considered their son’s case as vital as the day the boy had disappeared, but Milo’s pessimism was well founded: Sixteen years is long enough to obscure any evidence and confession-cramming’s a common death row ploy that usually leads nowhere.

Still, he should’ve been happy to work.

Or could be I was projecting because my own work, this year, was proving satisfying. Several child custody cases had actually turned out the way they should, with parents making honest attempts
not
to eat their young, and attorneys restraining the impulse to destroy. Sometimes my reports even ended up on the desks of intelligent judges who took the time to read them.

I fantasized about a kinder gentler world, maybe in reaction to all the brutality on the front page.

When I raised the possibility with Robin, she smiled and stroked the dog and said, “Could be one of the positive side effects of global warming. We blame it for everything bad.”

She and I were back together after our second breakup in ten years, living in the house above Beverly Glen that she’d designed and I’d found tomb-like in her absence. She’d received a six-figure commission from a dot-com mogul to build a quartet of hand-carved instruments – guitar, mandolin, mandola, mandocello – a project that would occupy her for the best part of the year.

Dream gig, when she didn’t think about the mogul being tone-deaf and unable to play a note.

The koi in our pond had spawned a dozen baby fish, ample rain had juiced up the plants in the garden, and we had
The Dog Who Smiled and Meant It:
a one-year-old French bulldog named Blanche, a warm, soft little blond thing so bright, amiable, and mellow that I’d considered donating her chromosomes for research on the Biology of Nice.

Not that anyone was studying the topic. Dog doesn’t bite man is no story at all.

Milo’s ninth day back on the job, someone got bit.

It took place on one of those streets where that kind of thing doesn’t happen.

At six thirty-two a.m. on a quiet Sunday in a South Westwood neighborhood where small, tidy houses are dominated by the spire of the Mormon temple on Santa Monica Boulevard, a seventy-three-year-old retired schoolteacher named Ella Mancusi opened the door to her mint-green stucco bungalow, walked ten feet to pick up her newspaper, and came face-to-face with a man and a knife.

The sole witness, an insomniac advertising copywriter named Edward Moskow, was drinking coffee and reading his own paper in his living room, two houses south. By chance, he looked out the window, saw what he thought was a man punching Ella Mancusi, watched in horror as the old woman crumpled into a pool of blood.

By the time Moskow reached Ella, she was dead and her murderer was fleeing the scene.

The coroner’s investigator counted nine stab wounds, four of them fatal. From the depth and width of the cuts, the on-the-scene guess was a hefty, nonserrated, single-edged blade, consistent with some kind of hunting knife.

Most remarkable was Moskow’s description of the killer: a tall, heavyset, white-haired man wearing dark, baggy clothes and a blue plaid cap.

“One of those old-guy caps, he was a geezer. When he walked to his car, he moved stiffly, like old guys do.”

The car had been left idling at the curb, driver’s door open, as the man in the cap butchered his victim. Once finished, he wiped the blade on a trouser leg, got back behind the wheel, and drove off at a moderate rate of speed.

Moskow’s eagle eye extended to the vehicle.

“Late-model Mercedes S600, black, shiny and clean. It’s their top-of-the-line four-door if you don’t count the Maybach. I’m sure of it because I’m a car freak. We’re talking a bill and a half. I only caught part of the license plate.”

One letter, three digits. Milo put a trace on the vehicle before he went out to inspect the scene. By the time he called me, a hit had come through.

“Lifted from the Prestige Rent-A-Car lot in Beverly Hills, returned before they opened at nine. Company didn’t even know it was missing till I called. Odometer says forty-three miles were put on.”

“Was the lot locked?”

“Supposedly there’s a chain.”

“Six thirty homicide, back in place two and a half hours later,” I said.

“Talk about gall.”

“Big black luxury car boosted and returned,” I said.

He frowned. “That, too.”

“Sean follow through on the Bentley?”

“All Heubel authorized was a swab of the stain, no fancy tech stuff. Sean got a kit and did it himself. Human blood, type O-positive. But we’re a long way from tying the Bentley into this mess. And no cracks about thousand-to-one odds.”

“God forbid.”

“I do the forbidding when He’s busy. Want to have a look at this scene?”

“Sure.”

“See you in twenty.”

Ella Mancusi’s body had been taken to the crypt. What remained was blood-drenched brick and syrupy lawn.

Harder to make out patterns on the uneven surface and I’m no expert, but I’d seen enough over the years to guess at arterial spatter and slow leakage.

The old woman’s body shutting down as blood volume dropped and her heart stopped and her soul washed away.

Milo, standing straighter than I’d seen in a long time, was talking to Sean Binchy. Black strands of hair blew into his face and he slapped them away without success. A hurricane would’ve been required to budge Sean’s cropped, gelled do.

I left the blood and walked over to them.

Sean looked pale. “An old lady. A
teacher.
”

Milo said, “The Benz is on its way to the auto lab. Sean will talk to Mr. Heubel about voluntarily relinquishing the Bentley for further analysis. If Heubel doesn’t agree, we’re out of luck, according to the hardest-ass A.D.A. I know.”

Sean said, “Maybe if I tell him about this, he’ll be cool. He seemed like a nice guy.”

“Or just the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rich folk avoid messes.” Milo started to walk away.

“Um, Loot, I’m still officially on GTA.”

“Want me to talk to someone?”

Sean chewed his lip. “I’m not sure Lieutenant Escudo would be thrilled and I’ll need him for my performance rating.”

Milo’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Sean?”

Sean looked back at the blood. “Whatever I can do to help I will.”

I waited for Milo to bark at him but he said, “See how far you can get with Heubel, then we’ll talk.”

Sean saluted and marched away.

I said, “When does he get his bedtime extended?”

“When his grades improve.” Milo turned and faced the little green house. “Any spontaneous insights?”

“Elderly victim, same for the murderer, all that overkill, it’s probably personal. I’d check out boyfriends, ex-husbands, romantic entanglements gone bad.”

“Geritol lover’s spat? My witness says she was a widow and the only visitor he ever saw is a guy in his forties he assumed was her son. Techies are inside. When they’re finished, I’ll start digging through her personal effects.”

A man came out of a Spanish bungalow two doors up. Rubbing his eyes, he looked away from the blood.

“That’s him,” said Milo. “Why don’t you have a chat while I see how the house-toss is going.”

Edward Moskow was in his mid-to late fifties, bald with a frizzy gray beard. His
Swarthmore
sweatshirt was frayed at the cuffs and a size too large. Khaki pants had faded to off-white, nearly as pallid as his bare feet.

I introduced myself, leaving out the title.

Moskow nodded.

I said, “Terrible thing to see.”

“I’ll never forget it.” He touched his forehead. “Etched right here.”

“If there’s anything else you remember…”

“Old bastard.” His voice was soft and hoarse. “Unbelievable. You’d think by that age they’d lose the urge.”

“Often they do.”

He looked at me, as if he’d just realized we were having a conversation.

I said, “It’s called criminal burnout. Otherwise known as too pooped to pop.”

Small nod.

“Mr. Moskow, how old would you say this man was?”

“Only saw him for a few seconds.” Moskow’s face screwed up and his beard bristled. “Mostly I was looking at his arm.” He raised his own limb, mimed a downward thrust. “I thought he was hitting her with his hand, ran out to confront him. By the time I got there, he was walking back to his car and I saw the blood under Mrs. Mancusi. Spreading… a flood… I’ve never seen anything like it…” He shuddered.

“In terms of his age-”

“Oh, yeah, sorry… Seventy? Sixty-five? Seventy-five? I really can’t say, all I know is he
moved
like an old guy. No limp or anything like that, just stiff. Like his body was all bound up.”

“Slow.”

He thought. “He didn’t run, but he wasn’t halting. All I really saw was his back. Heading for his car. I guess I’d call it a medium pace. Normal walking. Like he’d just delivered a package or something. And he didn’t look back. I’m screaming at him and it’s like I’m not there. Bastard doesn’t even bother to turn, just keeps going, gets in the car, drives off. That’s what gets me. How
normal
he acted.”

“Business as usual.”

He played with a loose thread at the sweatshirt’s neckline.

I said, “So you never saw his face.”

“Nope. It was crazy. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, hoping someone will come out, but no one did.” He looked up the block. “Ghost town. Pure L.A.”

“What did you scream at him?”

“Who remembers… probably something like ‘Stop, you asshole!’” Moskow plinked the hem of his sweatshirt with a thumbnail. “Mrs. Mancusi’s lying there, covered in blood, and this bastard is sauntering away like nothing happened. I started after him, which in retrospect was idiotic. But you don’t think. Then I saw the knife and stopped in my tracks.”

Moisture collected at the bottom of his eyes.

“How’d you see the knife?”

“He wiped it on the front of his pants. Above the knee. Casually, like it was a natural thing to do.”

“Then what?” I said.

“Then he pocketed it and got into his car and drove off. The whole thing took seconds.”