Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (20 page)

"So guess where I'm headed now? Reason I stopped here, first, is I'm not sure how to approach Fidella. He's cooperated so far, what's my reason for recontacting him without getting him antsy and pulling back into his shell?"

I said, "If he's a con man he'll be naturally suspicious, so I'm not sure you can avoid getting him wary. You could try telling him you've found some kids at the school who had conflict with Elise, figured if she confided in anyone it would be him."

"Which leads to an interesting point: Elise told Trey Franck about Martin but if she mentioned it to Fidella, he didn't pass that along. So either she felt closer to Franck or Fidella's keeping his cards under the table. If it's the latter, Fidella may be considering another extortion scheme."

"All the more reason to tantalize him with a possible link to the school. You're confirming his initial theory and making him feel like part of your team, as opposed to a suspect. He lets his guard down, you might learn something interesting."

"And Santa's on call twelve months a year." Yanking the fridge open for the third time, he scored a second slice of bread, deliberated, added a third. Pulled out a jar of boysenberry jam topped by a gingham-wrapped lid.

"Looks homemade. You guys going slow-food?"

"Robin's friend brought it."

Slathering both slices, he chewed noisily. "I'd love to see Fidella's spontaneous reaction to the mention of Franck's name. He gives off a serious tell, I've got a clear pathway to your basic crime of passion. But I can't risk showing my cards. Not that the odds like Uncle Milo. Unlike Sal, I never scored a jackpot."

"If you had, you might've held on to the dough."

"Well, look at that." He pinged the vase of flowers with a fingernail. "For the price of some stems and petals, I get therapy."

CHAPTER
23

The sky above Sal Fidella's block was moonlit, particle-clogged, heavy with mist. Houses and shrubs and trees appeared partially erased.

No Corvette in the driveway, dim yellow porch light over the door but no illumination from within.

Milo got out and rang the bell anyway, was greeted by the expected silence. Someone called "'Scuse me?" from across the street.

A man gestured from the lawn of a neatly kept ranch house.

Big man in T-shirt and shorts. Big shaggy dog on a leash sitting obediently at his side.

The dog studied our approach, dark, bear-like, unmoving but for intelligent eyes that cut through the haze.

The man was in his early thirties, bullnecked and crew-cut with a fuzzy chin-beard and the top-heavy physique of a silverback gorilla. "You're cops, right? I came out with Rufus and seen you." He hooked a thumb at Fidella's house. "What'd he do?"

Milo said, "What makes you think he did anything?"

"He didn't?"

"What's on your mind, sir?"

The man shifted his weight. The dog didn't budge. "Tell the truth, Officer, none of us likes him living so close."

"None of us being..."

"Me, my wife, also the Barretts--two houses down, they also got kids."

"You're worried about your kids?"

"Not yet," said the man. "So far, he just bothered the wives."

"Bothered them how?"

"Trying to sell 'em stuff they didn't want. With my wife it was a guitar for my oldest. But Sean don't play the guitar, Sean's into sports, she told him that. He kept pushin', telling Dara kids who played instruments were smarter than kids who didn't play instruments, he had some good cheap guitars, Sean could pick his color. Dara said thanks but no thanks. He follows her all the way up to our door, finally she has to say, really, I'm not interested, and he's still talking. Dara told me about it later, I said let me go over there, she said if he does it again, no sense making a scene. Later we were having a barbecue with Doug and Karen--the Barretts--and Dara found out he'd pulled the same stunt with Karen."

"Trying to sell her a guitar."

"Drums, their oldest plays the drums, you can hear it a mile away when he practices. One day
he
catches Karen as she's driving up, tells her doesn't sound like Ryan's drum kit's any good. She says it's fine. He says it's really not, he can get her a better one, cheap. Karen says no thanks, we're fine, he gets pushy the same way he did with Dara. Karen's tougher than Dara, she yells at him to back off."

"Did he?"

"Yeah. But he had a foot in her door, that's weird, no?"

"Anything else about him we should know, Mr...."

"Roland Staubach," said the man. "I go by Rolly. This is a nice family block, he lives by himself, never goes to work. So tell me, how'd he get that Corvette? And that ginormous flat-screen?"

"You've been inside his house?"

"Me? Why should I?"

"You saw his flat-screen."

"It's right in front and sometimes he opens those sheets he uses for curtains. I'll be walking Rufus and he's right there for the whole world to see. Sitting on the couch in his underwear drinking and watching his flat-screen. When I saw you drive up in that unmarked, I said finally, someone I can talk to."

"You know about unmarkeds," said Milo.

"I used to drive for one of the tow-yard services used by your department. Van Bruggen's, over in Silverlake? Once in a while I hooked up an unmarked. So what'd he do?"

"Nothing," said Milo.

"Nothing? You knocked on his door."

"He's a potential witness, Mr. Staubach."

"To what?"

"Nothing that concerns the neighborhood. Is there anything else you want to tell me about him?"

"He gives me a bad feeling," said Staubach. "Anytime he gets in that Corvette, guns the engine like he does, Rufus is at the front window, all tense." Rubbing the dog's neck. "Also, he never goes to a regular job, this is a working block. I drive for UPS, work weekends at Mack's Aquarium in Tarzana. Dara's a teacher's aide at the kids' school, for tuition. Doug and Karen are both at Con Edison. The Millers down the block are respiratory therapists, everyone's working like crazy except him."

"How long has he lived here?" said Milo.

"He was already here when we moved in, that's a year and a half ago."

"Thanks, Mr. Staubach. We'll be back to talk to him."

"You could talk to him now, Officer."

"He's home?"

"I saw him pulling that Corvette into the driveway around four thirty, never saw him leave. Gunning it, like he always does, Rufus was up at the window, all tense. Then an hour ago the Corvette starts up again only this time no gunning and Rufus is relaxed so I go check it out. Some other guy's driving it away. Some kid."

"How old of a kid?" said Milo.

"Didn't get a long look at him but I could see him through the open window and it sure wasn't Fidella."

"We talking teenager?"

"Could be. I really didn't see that good."

"Caucasian?"

"Not black, that's for sure," said Staubach.

"Hair color?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"Could he have been Hispanic?"

"All I can say is light enough so he wasn't black. Or maybe he was black but a light black. I figured maybe he's Fidella's kid, a divorce situation, Fidella never sees him, that would fit. With his character, you know?"

"You figured Fidella loaned him his car."

"I guess... you're thinking the car got stolen?"

"Was the kid inside Fidella's house?"

"That I can't tell you. You're thinking this kid hot-wired it or something?"

"You're sure Fidella wasn't in the passenger seat?"

"I guess he could've been. All I saw was someone at the wheel."

Milo looked up and down the block. "There was enough light?"

Staubach pointed. "He passed right under that street lamp, Officer. I wouldn't tell you something I saw when I didn't."

"What was the kid wearing?"

"All I saw was his head," said Staubach. "That's my point, I'm not gonna make stuff up."

"Have there been any other car thefts in the neighborhood?"

"You know, last year, Mr. Feldman--he's an old man, his wife just died, that blue house with all the flowers. Last year, someone drove off in Mr. Feldman's Cadillac, middle of the night, rolled it right out of his driveway. It got found in East L.A., tires gone, the moonroof cut out. That's why you asked about Hispanic? Some kind of East L.A. gangbangers? Yeah, sure, he could've been."

"You saw this kid drive off an hour ago."

"What time is it now?"

"Nine fifteen."

"Then it's an hour and a quarter. So what's next, Officer?"

"I'll give Mr. Fidella another try."

"Great idea."

Milo said, "Looks like Rufus is itching for his walk."

"Already walked him," said Staubach.

"Then I guess he deserves a nice rest."

"Wha--oh, sure, I'll stay out of your way. But keep in touch, okay? We're a block likes to know what's going on."

Another try at Fidella's front door brought the same result.

He peered across the street at Staubach's house. Neatly pleated drapes ruffled as someone moved.

I said, "Your year for helpful citizens."

"Must be El Nino."

We continued up Fidella's cracked driveway. The yard was an unlit patch of dirt or grass--too dark to tell which. High hedges loomed on three sides. The rear door was wood set with a glass panel. The single garage was bolted shut.

No illumination. Milo pulled out his little fiber-optic flashlight, held it high, the way cops are trained to do, aimed at a rusty light fixture over the rear door. "Empty socket, lots of rust. Sal's behind in his maintenance." A rap on the panel was followed by silence. He cast a cool white beam over the property.

Mostly dirt, some weeds, a single struggling orange tree. The hedge was ficus, worn bare in spots by disease and backed by cement block.

A second go-round, closer to the rear of the property, picked up something lying near the hedge.

What looked to be a roll of carpeting. Closer inspection showed it to be a cloth tube, fattened by substantial content.

Giant sausage.

Person-sized sausage.

Milo held me back instinctively, inched forward, scanned. Stopped.

Clamping the flashlight in one armpit, he gloved up. Lit up the dirt separating him from the package. Bent at the knees.

"Footprints... looks like some sort of sneaker."

Shifting to the left, he skirted the prints, checked the ground for other signs of disruption, inched his way toward the roll of cloth. Stooping, he held the flashlight in his teeth, peeled back a corner of sheeting.

"Bald head," he announced. "Cracked like an egg, lots of blood."

He got up, walked backward. "Can't move anything until the C.I. gets here but anyone taking bets this ain't Sal?"

I said, "No good odds on that one."

Three hours later, Fidella's body had been taken to the crypt. Blood spatter freckled the kitchen of the house, including some fairly heavy ceiling castoff. A pool cue coated with skin and brain matter stood propped in a corner, bloody sneaker prints trailed through the hallway near the linen closet. Under strong light, red specks darkening the dirt outside grew visible.

Despite all the blood, no sign of a struggle. Milo's working hypothesis was a blunt-force blitz near the kitchen sink, followed by wrapping of the body in a blanket and three fitted sheets taken from the linen closet and a dump in a corner of the yard. No argument from the C.I. or anyone else.

Techs dusted and processed. Van Nuys uniforms guarded the yellow tape out front. A gray-haired, stoop-shouldered Van Nuys detective named Wally Fishell showed up after the body was gone, looking sleepy and put-upon. After getting the facts from Milo, he said, "I'm happy to work with you, Lieutenant, but if you see this as fruit from the tree you planted, that's fine with me."

"Meaning farewell and good luck."

"If that's your preference," said Fishell.

"Because you're a pal."

Fishell looked as if he'd been slapped. "I'm not dumping, I don't want to get in your way is all."

"No prob."

"Look, whatever you want, Lieutenant. I been working like a dog, supposedly I'm off. The plan was to spend time with my granddaughter. She lives in San Mateo, I don't get to see her often enough."

"Go home, then."

"Naw, it's okay, I'm here already."

"Forget it," said Milo. "This is definitely gonna hook into mine."

"You have an idea who killed him?"

"Probably the same person who killed my vic."

Fishell waited.

Milo said, "That's as far as it's gotten. Go home and enjoy the granddaughter. How old is she?"

"Five."

"Great age."

"You bet. We were watching
Dora the Explorer
," said Fishell. "That's a cartoon show--you got kids?"

"Nope."

"Oh," said Fishell. "Well, thanks, I get back now I can finish
Dora.
"

We waited around longer, in case the crime scene crew came up with anything dramatic.

No signs of forced entry. Fidella's slippers and three empty beer bottles with Fidella's prints were found in the living room.

No prints on the pool cue, probably wiped clean. Same for a bloodstained leather case. Screening the house for physical evidence would stretch until morning. No sign of any computers, but clear space on a bedroom desk and an old laser printer in the closet suggested a linkup had once existed.

Fidella's cell phone lay on the bed. Milo checked recent calls. Nothing since morning. He returned the phone to a tech admiring the murder weapon.

"Look at this, Lieutenant. Ivory handle, probably genuine. And this is
real
cute." Eyeing a middle section of rosewood imprinted with silver hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds.

"This cost some serious bucks, Lieutenant. No table in the house so he probably took it with him to bars, pool halls, whatever."

"Or the killer brought the cue with him."

"And risk damaging something so cool?" said the tech.

"Depends on the payoff."

"For what?"

"Bashing in Mr. Fidella's skull."

"Oh. I guess, maybe."