Evidence (2 page)

Milo
gloved up. “No car keys?”

“Nope,
just this. Let me tag and then you can go through it. I didn’t see any civilian
cars parked on the street, maybe it started as a jacking?”

“And
everyone ran up here and these two started getting it on?”

“I was thinking an intended jacking, the bad guy
changed his mind?”

Milo
shrugged.

“Sorry,
Lieutenant. For shooting my mouth.”

“At
this point,” said Milo, “I’ll take anything I can get.”

“I’m
new on the job,” she said. “I’m sure there’s nothing I can teach you—guess it’s
time to flip them. I’ll do a liver temp and see if we can close in on TOD.”

Moments
later, she was cleaning off the meat thermometer.

Milo
said, “And?”

“Probably
somewhere during the last twelve hours, I’m sure the docs will be able to tell
you more.”

The
male victim’s face was a husk of the handsome, smiling visage on the driver’s
license in the blue vinyl wallet. Desmond Erik Backer, thirty-two years old
last February, five eleven, one seventy, brown and brown, apartment on
California Avenue in Santa Monica, an address that put it three blocks from the
beach.

The
wallet held two hundred dollars in fifties and twenties, two gold credit cards,
a couple of wheat-colored business cards, a photo of a little blond girl around
two wearing a lace-trimmed, red-velvet dress. TAG Heuer sport watch around left
wrist, no other jewelry. No pale stripe of skin suggesting a wedding band,
removed discreetly or otherwise.

Milo
showed me the handwritten inscription on the back of the child’s portrait.
Samantha,
22 mo
. No one else would’ve caught the twitch in his eyelid.

He
flipped to a business card. Desmond E. Backer, AIA,
Gemein, Holman, and
Cohen, Architects
. Main Street in Venice.

“Nice
watch,” he said, checking the back of the TAG for an inscription. Blank.
Checking the leather label on the jeans. “Zegna.”

The
C.I. said, “But her dress looks a little low-rent, don’t you think?”

She inspected the label. “Made in China, polyester …
short and snug. Could she be a working girl?”

“Anything’s
possible.” Milo returned the wallet. As he bagged, took notes, he continued to
study the bodies.

No
sign of the female victim’s purse. Generic gold hoops in her ears, three
similarly nondescript silver bangles around one slender wrist. Light makeup.

He
got down close to her right ear, as if wanting to impart some secret. “She
shampooed recently, I can still smell it.”

The
C.I. said, “I also smelled it. Suave. I use it myself.”

“Expensive?”

She
chuckled. “With my pay scale?” Growing solemn as she took in the dead woman’s
pale face.

Even
degraded, an extremely nice-looking woman with a taut, full-breasted, somewhat
low-waisted body, a smooth, oval countenance, and huge eyes, slightly
down-slanted. Brown in life, filmed the color of dirty pavement by death.

Pink
gloss on slack lips. Clean nails, no polish. The C.I.’s probing had revealed no
bullet holes anywhere on her body, but the sclera of the woman’s eyes were
marbled and speckled by hemorrhage and her long neck was swollen and bruised
and bisected by an angry magenta line.

The
C.I. pointed out the crusty, milky blotch on her thigh. Checked fingernails.
“Doesn’t look like anything under there. Poor thing. Is it okay if I pull her
dress down?”

“Do
that,” said Milo. “Soon as our techies get here and print them and the room,
you can transport.”

“Any
idea how long that’ll take?”

“You
in a hurry?”

“We
do have another call, but no problem, Lieutenant.”

“Your
drivers are paid by the hour.”

“Yes,
sir. Anything else?”

“Nothing
comes to mind, Ms….” Squinting to make out her I.D. badge. “Rieffen.”

“Lara. You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do for
you, Lieutenant?”

“I’m
open to suggestions, Lara.”

“Well…
I’m just feeling my way around, don’t want to miss anything.”

“You’re
doing fine.”

“Okay,
then.” To me: “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

Milo
said, “This is Dr. Delaware. He’s a consulting psychologist.”

“Psychologist,”
she said. “For a profile?”

Milo
knows I rate profiling just below reading tea leaves and political polling.
“Something like that.” Glancing at the rickety spiral framework that led down
to the second floor, he said, “We’re okay here, Lara, go take your next call.”

C.I.
Rieffen gathered up her stuff and hurried down.

When
her footsteps had stopped echoing, he pulled a panatela from a pocket of his
forlorn, lint-colored windbreaker, jammed it in his mouth but didn’t light up.
As his jaw bunched, the cigar tilted upward. He stared at the bodies some more.
Got on the phone and searched for Desmond Backer’s registered vehicle.

Five-year-old
BMW 320i. He put a BOLO on it, with instructions to transport but not search
until processed forensically.

Pocketing
his cell, he said, “Caught in the act but maybe staged to reconstruct.” Half
smile. “The little death followed by the big one.”

He
studied the sky. “No casings says our boy was careful, unless he’s nostalgic
and likes revolvers. No bullet holes anywhere but the one in Mr. Backer’s head,
and the diameter says probably small caliber. With her purse gone and no
vehicle in sight, I’d say a jacking might indeed be part of it. Except Backer’s
wallet is full of cash and that watch is serious money.”

I
said, “Maybe this was about her and the purse has nothing to do with robbery.”

“Such
as?”

“This
early I’m better with questions than answers.”

“Join the club. Now all I need to do is find out who
the hell she is. Any insights? Won’t hold you to them.”

“No
sign of struggle and a contact wound says the bad guy achieved control early
on. That could be the result of good planning. My bet is they were
staged—there’s almost a theatrical quality to the position.”

“Something
personal.”

“Strangling’s
about as up close and personal as it gets,” I said.

“Control
with a small-caliber gun? Shoot him, first, she’s too freaked out to resist,
just lays there and gets choked out?”

“Maybe
there were two killers.”

“Repositioning
them,” he said. “That could be a statement—jealous rage. Ex-boyfriend follows
them here, watches them do it, goes bananas.”

“If
this was a tryst-spot, it’s pretty unromantic. No wine, no weed, no chocolate,
not even a blanket.”

“Maybe
the bad guy took all that with him. Getting rid of the evidence. Or wanting a
trophy. Or both.”

“Leaving
them this way could also be a way of demeaning them further. Which could mean
jealousy.”

“Or a
sadistic psychopath.”

“Maybe,”
I said, “but what doesn’t fit that is the lack of overkill, her not being posed
with her legs spread. There’s something subtle here. Possibly victim-specific.
Taking her purse points to her being the main target. Wanting to hold on to a
part of her.”

He
circled the turret, took in the view to the west, lit up and blew out a blue
stream that ribboned up through the rafters. “Hot date under the stars. Why
here, specifically?”

“Backer
was an architect, maybe he’d worked the site. Maybe he had a key, brought her
up here to impress her.”

“I
designed the Taj Mahal, baby, so do me? If so, Backer’s involvement was at
least two years ago because that’s when the job went on ice. And he wouldn’t
need a key, the chain’s long enough to swing the gate wide. That from the
rent-a-cop who discovered the bodies. According
to him,
he reported it to his bosses but they shined him on. Which is consistent with
security being a joke: one guy, seven to ten a.m., nothing on weekends, and the
most lethal weapon they let him use is a flashlight.”

“Why’d
construction stop?”

“Guard
asked about that, too, was told to mind his own business.”

I
said, “An abandoned site would suit Backer if he liked to party here. With this
woman, or others. Given the discrepancy between his clothing budget and hers,
I’d start with lower-paid employees of his firm.”

“Office
romance with the receptionist, unfortunately she’s got a possessive significant
other. One thing: The guard says he’s never seen evidence of other trysts.”

“We’re
talking the nervous-looking, skinny fellow with the limp.”

“Doyle
Bryczinski. Applied to the department, got into a serious T.A., messed up his
leg.”

“Milo
made a new friend?” I said. “What’s his favorite food?”

“Begrudging
me the occasional helpful citizen?”

“God
forbid.”

“Bryczinski
came across nervous to you?”

“When
I drove up, he watched me. When I made eye contact, he pretended he hadn’t been
watching. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t point out that you just described
Bryczinski as a wannabe cop who sounds extremely frustrated about the lack of
control in his life. Guy like that, girlfriend throws him over for someone
cuter, smoother, richer? In the exact spot you brought her, yourself?”

“The
guy tries to help, all of a sudden he’s a prime suspect?”

“Like
the song goes,” I said, “suspect the one you’re with.”

He
took a long sour look at the bodies, made his way toward the rickety spiral
staircase. “Let’s get to know ol’ Doyle a little better.”

Doyle
Bryczinski said, “Oh, man, they look … worse.”

“Worse
than when you found them?” said Milo. Bryczinski turned away. “They’re more
like … people.”

“And
less like …”

“I
dunno, it was like … unreal. When I found them, I mean.”

“Helluva
way to start your day, Doyle.”

“My
day starts at four thirty,” said Bryczinski. “Take care of my mother before her
attendant shows up at six, then I got to drive straight out here.” Head shake.
“Then I find
this.”

“Mom’s
sick?”

“She’s
all kinds of sick. Used to live with my brother then he moved to Nome. That’s
Alaska.”

He
licked his lips. Small, fragile-looking man, nervous as a rabbit. Without a
gun, he’d have trouble controlling anything.

Before
bringing him up here, Milo ran background. Bryczinski had accumulated several
unpaid traffic tickets. The disabling traffic accident was a one-car, which
usually means DUI, but Bryczinski’s blood alcohol had fallen short of the
criterion.

When ask to come up for a second viewing, he said,
“Sure.” Then: “How come?”

“We
could use your help, Doyle.”

The
guard’s limp turned the three-story climb into a plodding ordeal.

Milo
let him stand there for a while, getting an eyeful of the bodies. Sweat beaded
Bryczinski’s hairline. His back curved in an unhealthy way. Forty but he looked
fifty, with wispy sandy hair gone mostly gray and a narrow face sunken in all
the wrong places. Five seven, one thirty soaking wet. Small, cheap flashlight
hanging from a belt drawn to the last hole. No one was serious about keeping
this site secure.

“Anyway,”
he said.

“You’re
sure you don’t know them.”

Bryczinski’s
eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”

“Now
that you can see their faces, I mean.”

“I
see ’em but I sure don’t
know
’em.” Backing away toward the wall. Just
before he made contact, Milo took hold of his arm.

Bryczinski
tensed. “Hey.”

“Sorry,
Doyle. We need to print everything. I’m sure you know the drill.”

“Oh,
yeah. Sure.”

Milo
said, “This kind of situation, I have to ask all kinds of questions. You’re up
here more than anyone. Meaning if anyone comes by, messes the place up, you’d
be in the best position to know.”

“I’m
here but I ain’t up
here
much.” The guard stamped his foot lightly.
Plywood thrummed. “Once I check up here, I don’t come back.”

“Don’t
like the view.”

“I’m
working, got no time for views.”

“So
no one ever messes around up here.”

“Like
who?”

“Anyone,”
said Milo.

“Like
some homeless guy? You’re thinking it was one of those idiots, they surprised
him, he went nuts?”

“Anything’s possible, Doyle.”

“Well,
that hasn’t happened for a long time,” said Bryczinski, chancing another look
at the bodies. “A homeless, I mean.”

“You’ve
had problems with squatters?”