Compulsion (4 page)

“The car was idling.”

“I don’t remember him starting it up, so probably. Don’t remember any engine noise at all but maybe I was blocking it out. That particular model’s pretty quiet.”

“Which way did he drive?”

He pointed south. “Right past my house.”

I knew the neighborhood from my grad student days at the U., had roamed these same streets searching for shortcuts home to my dismal little single on Overland. “It’s a bit of a maze. All those dead ends.”

Moskow stiffened. “You’re thinking he’s from
around
here?”

“No, but he may have planned his escape route.”

“Well, I’ve never seen him in the neighborhood. Same for the car. This isn’t exactly S600 territory.”

“Not a lot of Benzes?”

“Plenty of Benzes, but not 600s.”

“You’re into cars.”

“I’ve owned a few junkers that I fixed up.” He managed a half smile. “Owned a DeLorean. That was an experience. So what are we talking about, some old Mafioso?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Big black car, execution-style killing, guy that age. What came to mind is maybe he’s an old goombah hit man who
didn’t
burn out.”

He pulled the thread loose, rubbed it between forefinger and thumb. “That stupid cap.”

“Would there be any reason for Mrs. Mancusi to be involved with an old Mafioso?”

“Wouldn’t have thought so. Then again, who’d imagine this?”

“How well did you know her?”

“Not well at all. She was quiet, seemed nice enough. We’d say hi, good-bye, that’s about it.”

“Any social life?”

“Just that guy I told the lieutenant about.”

“How often was he here?”

“Maybe every month, that why I assumed he was her son. Could’ve been more often, it’s not like I kept my eyes fixed on her house.”

“Anything more you can say about him?”

“Forties, blond, sloppy-looking. Now that I think about it, I never actually saw them together. He’d knock on the door and she’d let him in. When he left, she never walked him out.”

“Was walking hard for her?”

“On the contrary, hale and healthy.”

“Anything else you can tell me about the blond guy?”

“Kind of thickset, when I say sloppy I mean he didn’t seem to care about his appearance.”

“Any idea what his name is?”

“Never heard her call him anything. Like I said, never saw them actually together. He never looked happy to be here, so maybe there was tension between them. And the last time he visited, a month or so ago, he stayed outside, talking to Mrs. Mancusi through the open door. I assume it was her, because no one else lives there. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from the looks of it they could’ve been arguing. Then he did this.”

Slapping a hand on one hip, he bent one leg and grimaced.

“It was a little… theatrical, know what I mean? It seemed funny, a grown man who wasn’t particularly gay looking, vamping like that. It struck me as an odd thing to do. Especially when you’re talking to your mother.
If
she
is
his mother.”

“You think they could’ve been arguing.”

“Look, I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble,” said Moskow, “and it’s nothing I’d swear to. Just my impression.”

“Because of his body language.”

“The way he positioned himself – he looked a little…”

“Aggressive?”

“More like defensive,” said Moskow. “Like Mrs. Mancusi told him something he didn’t want to hear.”

“Mafia hit because her name was Mancusi?” said Milo.

We were in Café Moghul, around the corner from the station. The restaurant’s owners view him as a human rottweiler and are all too happy to create personal buffets. I watched him make his way through plates of lamb curry, tandoori lobster, spicy okra, lentils and rice. A pitcher of iced clove tea sat at his elbow.

After all that blood in Ella Mancusi’s driveway, the mental pictures I’d drawn of the murder, it was all I could do to pour myself a glass.

I said, “Moskow didn’t say so but that was probably part of it. But maybe he’s on to something. The setup – knowing when she came out to get her paper, leaving the car idling, planning the escape route – smells of pro. So does the killer’s demeanor: brutally methodical, no hurried escape.”

“Grampa bad guy,” he said. “Doing her in broad daylight and giving himself less than three hours to get the car cleaned up and back in place is professional? Not to mention driving it back to Beverly Hills in full view?”

“Where’s the rent-a-car lot?”

“Alden Drive near Foothill.”

“B.H. industrial zone,” I said. “Pretty quiet on Sunday morning.”

“It’s also five minutes from the B.H. Police Department.”

“But a black Mercedes wouldn’t attract anyone’s attention. Neither would a car
entering
the lot. Any blood in the Benz?”

“At first glance, no. Let’s see what the lab turns up.”

“He wiped the knife on the front of his pants, careful not to make a mess. Two and a half hours was enough time to clean the car before he returned it. Maybe he’s got a safe place, somewhere between the crime scene and the drop-off.”

“That’s half the Westside,” he said. “Think I’m gonna get some media coverage on this one. Geriatric knife man, how many of those can there be?” Forking lobster, chewing, swallowing. “Nervy knife man, doing it in broad daylight.”

“Maybe in his mind a daytime hit was safer because a night-prowl would’ve meant breaking into her house. Did she have an alarm system?”

“Dinky. Front and back doors, no windows.”

“For an old guy, climbing through windows could be a problem,” I said. “He figured that early on Sunday, most people are sleeping. We’re also talking a victim unlikely to put up serious resistance, and a silent weapon. He blitzed her so fast she never had time to scream. If Moskow hadn’t forgotten to take his Ambien last night, the whole thing might’ve gone unnoticed. Any other neighbors have information?”

He covered his ears with his hands, repeated the gesture with his eyes and mouth.

“Moskow come up clean?”

“Spotless.” He pushed his plate away. “Wiping the blade on his pants. What’s
that
all about?”

“Could be an expression of contempt,” I said.

“Those arterial wounds, no way he’d avoid leaving some trace in the car.”

“He cleans up the obvious, the Benz gets steamed by the company, he’s home free.”

“I’m definitely buying contempt,” he said. “Lotta rage, here. The question is what did a seventy-three-year-old retired schoolteacher do to incite that.”

“People have secrets.”

“Well, none of hers have turned up, so far. The house was neat, clean, real grandmotherly.”

He drew his plate closer, began bolting his food.

I said, “Hot rage but cool planning. Maybe he wasn’t quite so careful last time.”

“What do you mean?”

“The stain in the Bentley.”

“No body associated with the Bentley, Alex. I’m not ready to connect the two.”

I kept quiet.

“Yeah, yeah, there are parallels,” he said. “Now give me another homicide that ties it together and explain to me how such a careful guy could leave a stain in full view.”

“It was dark when he brought the Bentley back and he missed it. Or something made him nervous and he left quickly.”

“That’s weak, Doctor.”

“Another possibility is he left it there on purpose.”

“Another contempt message?”

“
Look what I got away with.
Maybe the Bentley was a rehearsal for today.”

“A senior-citizen psychopath who likes to play games.” He drummed the table with his fork. “Or the Bentley has nothing to do with Ella.”

“Or that.”

“You don’t believe it.”

“Do you?”

He sighed. “I’ve got Records checking violent crime reports during the hours the Bentley was missing. Nothing so far.”

Spooning lentils into his mouth, he said, “Someone that old. Weird.”

“You know what they say. Seventy’s the new fifty.”

He reached for a lobster claw. “And up is down and low is high.”

I said, “If we are talking some kind of organized crime link, that could mean teamwork. One person steals the car, passes it along to the killer, and is available to help scrub it down afterward, maybe drive it back. Combine all that with the killer making sure to limit his contact to the front seats, and the time pressure would reduce.”

“Homicidal pit crew,” he said. Cracking the claw along the joint, he sat motionless, as if taking in the sound. “The goodfellas haven’t been a major factor since Mickey Cohen, but there are some loan sharks floating around the Valley and over in that arcade on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills.”

“Canon’s also close to the rental lot.”

“So it is.” He pulled a tube of meat from the claw, ate, repeated the process with another leg. “So what, our nice little retired schoolteacher has a dark past as a moll?”

“Or a hidden vice. Like gambling.”

“She managed to rack up a big enough debt on her pension to get sliced and diced? Make no sense, Alex. The last thing a shark wants to do is snuff the minnow and end any hope of getting paid.”

“Unless the shark has given up on collecting,” I said. “Or she wasn’t the gambler, someone else was, and they used her as an example.”

I described the unhappy exchange Moskow had witnessed between Ella and the blond man he assumed was her son.

“Arguing,” he said.

“Nothing causes conflict like money. Maybe Junior asked Mom for money and she turned him down.”

“What I don’t see is even a big-time shark butchering an old lady just to strike terror into her mope kid’s heart.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “But it is a new, cruel age.”

“Meaning?”

“Turn on the news at random.”

He dove back into his food.

I said, “Here’s another way to spin it: The blond man’s not her son, he’s the collector.”

Removing a blue plastic binder from his attaché, he handed it over. Inside was a prelim crime report form yet to be filled out, a few of what looked to be Ella Mancusi’s personal papers, and an envelope that held a three-by-five color photo.

In the snapshot, a tiny white-haired woman in a belted floral dress and high heels stood next to a flabby-looking fair-haired man in his forties. Behind them was mint-green stucco. Ella Mancusi had a bird-face and sparkling dark eyes. Her lips were rouged and her nails were polished. Smiling, but something was missing from the upturn of lip.

The blond man stood with his arms at his sides. Tight around the shoulders, as if posing for the picture had been an imposition.

I said, “Fits the guy Moskow described.”

“Read the back.”

I flipped the photo.

Anthony and me, my birthday. I baked a chocolate cake.
The writing was elegant cursive. The date was December, two years ago.

“Devoted son lets her bake her own birthday cake,” I said.

I studied Ella Mancusi’s smile some more and realized what was missing. Maternal pride.

Milo said, “I’m figuring he’s an only child because the few photos in the house were all of him, mostly when he was a kid, all the way back to grade school. She held on to his birth certificate and twelve years of report cards. C minus student when he applied himself. There’s one Anthony Mancusi in the county and the only thing on his record is a DUI six years ago, pled down to misdemeanor. If he’s got a drinking problem, doesn’t look to be genetic. The only booze Ella had was a bottle of sherry, unopened, dust all over it.”

He rubbed his face. “She didn’t own much, Alex. All her important papers were in three cigar boxes near her bed. Eighteen years ago she retired from L.A. Unified. Her last job was teaching social studies at Louis Pasteur Junior High, they wrote her a nice letter. She was widowed way before that – when Anthony was a teenager. Husband was Anthony Senior, supervisor at a dairy in Santa Fe Springs, died on the job of a heart attack. The house has been paid off for eleven years, between her pension and Senior’s she did okay. Your basic upstanding, middle-class lady living out her days in a low-crime neighborhood. Why the hell would she end up this way?”

I took another look at the photo. “It’s his mother’s birthday but he wants to be anywhere else. Toss in Moskow’s account of the irate conversation and there’s some kind of issue here. Was there a will in the box?”

He thought. “No. Junior bumps her off to inherit?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Sure, it has, but what kind of beast would have his mother carved like a holiday roast?” He motioned for the check. The smiling, bespectacled woman who always serves him hurried over and asked how the meal was.

“Everything was delicious,” he said, slipping her some bills. “Keep the change.”

“This is far too much, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I give you credit,” she said. “For next time.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I bother.”

Outside the restaurant, he hitched up his trousers and looked at his watch. “Time to talk to Tony Mancusi Junior, our misdemeanor drunk.”

“The lack of a serious record says nothing about a gambling problem,” I said.

“Yeah, but why get involved with living, breathing sharks when you can boot up and use PayPal?”

“Why would a movie star staying at the Four Seasons go trolling for thirty-dollar streetwalkers on Sunset when he’d have access to call girls who look better than his leading ladies? Sometimes dirty and dangerous is part of the thrill.”

“Games,” he said. “All right, let’s talk to this joker. At the very least, I’ll be the bearer of really bad news.”

Anthony James Mancusi Jr.’s phone was disconnected, which made Milo more intent on finding him.

The papers on his eight-year-old Toyota listed a residence on Olympic, four blocks east of Fairfax. The address matched a pink neo-Regency six-plex built around a compact, green courtyard. Vintage charm, blooming flowers, spotless pathways. If you discounted the brain-sapping traffic roar, not bad at all.

The landlord, a sixtyish Asian man named William Park, lived in one of the ground-floor units. He came to the door holding a copy of
Smithsonian
magazine.

“Tony?” he said. “He moved out three months ago.”

“How come?” said Milo.

“His lease was up and he wanted something less expensive.”

“Money problems?”

William Park said, “The units are two-bedrooms. Maybe Tony felt he didn’t need so much.”

“In other words, money problems.”

Park smiled.

Milo said, “How long did he live here, sir?”

“He was already here when I bought the building. That was three years ago. Before that, I don’t know.”

“Easy tenant?”

“Mostly,” said Park. “Is he in trouble?”

“His mother just passed away and we need to find him.”

“Passed away… oh.” Park studied us. “Something… unnatural?”

“Afraid so, Mr. Park.”

“That’s
terrible…
hold on, I’ve got Tony’s forwarding address. Sometimes I still get mail for him.”

“Have any of his mail now?”

“No, I mark it
forward
and the mailman takes it away.” Park disappeared into his apartment, leaving an open view of a neat white room.

Milo said, “The observant Mr. Moskow, now him. Law enforcement and the citizenry, working hand in hand. Maybe the world ain’t so mean, after all.”

Strange thing to say after viewing Ella Mancusi lying in a quart of her own blood. Still, it was nice to hear him positive.

I said, “Global warming.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Park returned and handed Milo a scrap of paper.

Post office box, L.A. 90027.

East Hollywood. Good chance it was a mail drop. Milo smiled through his disappointment and thanked Park.

“Anything I can do to help. Poor Tony.”

“So he was a good tenant,” said Milo.
“Mostly.”

Park said, “Sometimes he was late with the rent, but he always paid the extra fee without griping.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He told me he used to work for the studios – a grip, moving scenery. A few years ago, he hurt his back and had to live on disability. His mother helped him out. Sometimes, the rent check was hers. Someone
killed
her?”

“How well did you know her, Mr. Park?”

“Me? I didn’t know her at all, just cashed her check.”

“Did Tony talk about her?”

“Never. Tony didn’t talk much.”

“Quiet guy.”

“Really quiet,” said Park.

“How often did his mother pay his rent?”

“Hmm… I’d say about half the time. Maybe more the last few months.”

“How much more?”

“I believe out of the last six months, she paid four.”

“Did she mail you the checks?”

“No, Tony gave them to me.”

“What was the nature of Tony’s disability?”

“You mean was he crippled or something like that? No, he looked normal. But that doesn’t mean anything. A few years ago I had a ruptured disk. It was painful but I kept it to myself.”

“Tony suffered in silence.”

“You don’t suspect him, do you?” said Park. “He was never violent.”

Uncomfortable with the notion that he might’ve rented to a killer.

Milo said, “These are just basic questions, sir.”

“I hope so. He was really no trouble at all.”

The mail drop was in a litter-strewn strip mall on Vermont just above Sunset, one of those metallic-smelling mini-vaults lined with brass boxes, where the renters get keys and twenty-four-hour access.