Evidence (40 page)

“Any
idea what Monte’s last name is?”

“I
just heard his girlfriends calling him Monte.”

“Where’s
the house?”

“Two
blocks east, one block north. He drives a black pickup truck. She drives a
Honda. Gray, the other girlfriend. Never saw the pretty one with a motor
vehicle, always riding with one of the other two.”

“You
wouldn’t have the address by any chance, would you?”

“You
swear on a stack my name won’t appear anywhere?”

“Scout’s
honor, sir.”

“You
were a scout?”

“Actually,
I was.”

“I
would’ve liked to be a scout,” said George S. Kaplan. “No colored scouts in
Baton Rouge back then. I learned to be prepared, anyway.” Denture grin. He
reached for a bureau drawer. “Let me find that address and copy it for you. Do
it in block lettering so no one can trace my handwriting.”

The
house was a flat-face stucco bungalow the color of curdled oatmeal, narrow and
tar-roofed and shuttered tight. Cement square instead of lawn, no vehicles
parked there, no mail pileup.

Milo
and I did a quick drive-by, parked half a mile up. He celled Moe Reed, asked
for an assessor’s check.

Owned
and managed by a Covina real estate firm, rented to a tenant named M. Carlo
Scoppio.

“Looked
him up, Loo. Male white, thirty-two years old, no wants or warrants, no NCIC.
Owners can’t evict him but they’d like to.”

“What’s
the problem?”

“He
always pays his rent but does it chronically late,” said Reed. “Like he’s
trying to irritate them by squeezing out every bit of delay. They say getting
rid of a tenant is a hassle even when you’re faced with a total deadbeat and
Scoppio makes sure not to give them grounds. Top of that, he’s a lawyer, they
don’t want the aggravation.”

“What
are his physical stats?”

“Five nine, one seventy-eight, brown and green. The
picture makes him a guy you’d never notice. You anywhere near a fax?”

“Nope,
but the stats are consistent with Hood-boy. Where does Scoppio practice law?”

“Haven’t
checked yet, but I will.”

“Don’t
bother, I can do it. Thanks, Moses, you can climb back up Olympus, now.”

I
said,
“Monte
Carlo?”

Milo
said, “Smells right but ol’ George really
is
ol’ George. More like
ancient. Scoppio gives him attitude, Kaplan builds up resentment, a few days
later he sees a drawing on TV, convinces himself he just got dissed by a
murderer.”

“Ol’
George seemed pretty lucid to me. More important, you’ve got nothing else and
who knows if that rib joint is still in business.”

“Desperation
time … always been a favorite season of mine.”

A
search for the working address of M. Carlo Scoppio, attorney at law, pulled up
nothing. Same for an inquiry at the bar association.

Milo
said, “He lied, excellent start.”

I
said, “Lawyers can work in other capacities.”

“Hush
your mouth, whippersnapper. Let’s go back to the office, return close to five.
If the timing’s right, I’ll have a little chat with this charmer.”

Googling
m. carlo scoppio
pulled up the website of Baird, Garroway and Habib, an
East L.A. law firm specializing in personal injury civil suits. Scoppio’s name
appeared near the bottom of the staff roster. Paralegal.

“He
didn’t just lie, he puffed himself up,” said Milo. “We’re a little closer to
sociopath.” He scanned. “Hablo Español… and five other languages. Could be one
of those slip-and-fall deals, poor stooges get the whiplash, lawyers get the
dough. Maybe paralegal means Scoppio ropes them in.”

Probing for articles on the law firm produced several
news pieces about an investigation by the city attorney. All three partners
were suspected of setting up phony traffic accidents, working in concert with
corrupt physicians, physical therapists, and chiropractors. No indictments had
been brought.

No
mention of Carlo Scoppio.

Milo
tried a contact at the city attorney’s office. The woman had no personal
knowledge of the case but looked up the current status. “Appears to be pending,
Lieutenant.”

“Meaning?”

“My
guess would be insufficient evidence to file. Looks like they used illegals as
their stooges, try finding witnesses willing to testify.”

“Does
the name M. Carlo Scoppio appear anywhere?”

“Scoppio
… no, doesn’t look like—oh, here it is, he’s a para … suspected of being a
recruiter. He killed someone? We might be able to use that.”

By
four forty-eight we were back on Scoppio’s block, cruising past the bungalow.

Still
no sign of the black pickup George Kaplan had described but a gray Honda sat on
the concrete pad.

Milo
said, “Girlfriend’s here, maybe boyfriend will show up soon.”

Too
few cars on the street made getting close risky. I parked four houses up,
switched off the engine. Milo positioned a pair of binoculars in his lap,
chewed a panatela, paused from time to time to spit shreds of tobacco out the
passenger window.

“We
could be here for a while, you want to put on music, it’s fine with me.”

“What
are you in the mood for?”

“Anything
that doesn’t make my ears bleed—well, looky here.”

A
black Ford half-ton approached from the south and pulled up next to the Honda.

Milo snatched
up the binocs, was focused on the driver’s door as a man exited the truck.

“That’s him—guess what he’s wearing? Gray hoodie.”

Carlo
Scoppio walked around to the truck’s passenger side, retrieved something.

Plastic
bags. Five of them. Scoppio laid them on the concrete.

Milo
said, “Albertsons, ol’ Monte C. does the shopping, how touchingly domestic.”

Scoppio
returned to the driver’s side, reached in, honked the horn.

The
bungalow’s front door opened and a woman stepped out. Tallish, dressed in a
white top and jeans.

Scoppio
pointed to the bags. The woman walked toward them.

Milo’s
shoulders tightened. “You are not going to believe this. Here, take a look.”

“At
what?”

“Her.”

Dual
lenses highlighted a pleasant face framed by long rust-brown hair. Late
twenties to early thirties, rosy-cheeked, clear blue eyes.

Milo
said, “Our rookie C.I., Lara whatshername.”

I
said, “Helpful Ms. Rieffen.”

Carlo
Scoppio lifted three bags, left Lara Rieffen to carry two. No pleasantries
exchanged between the two. No talk, at all.

They
entered the house. The door closed.

Milo
said, “This changes everything.”

During
the drive back to the station, he reached Dave McClellan, the head coroner’s
investigator, asked if Lara Rieffen’s assignment to the turret murders had been
scheduled routine.

McClellan
said, “She screwed up?”

“No,
I just need to know, Dave.”

“Don’t
have the schedule in front of me, I’m at City Hall trying to impress city
council members. Why do you need to know?”

“Who do I talk to about the schedule, Dave?”

“Now
you’re scaring me—tell me the truth, did Rieffen screw up in some major way?”

“Is
she a screwup?”

“She’s
new, tends to be a little lazy.”

“She
gave the opposite impression at Borodi, Dave. Made herself out to be Eager
Annie.”

“Maybe
she likes you.”

“The
burden of charm, story of my life. Where can I get hold of the schedule?”

“You’re
not going to tell me why? All of a sudden, my gut’s churning.”

“It
could be nothing, Dave.”

“Now
my bowels are loosening,” said McClellan. “Call Irma, my administrative aide.
She knows everything. Wish I did, too.”

Irma
Melendez took thirty seconds to come up with the answer: A C.I. named Daniel
Paillard had been next up for the Borodi call.

“He
didn’t take it, Lieutenant Sturgis? My record says he did.”

“Lara
Rieffen did.”

“Her?”
said Melendez. “How come?”

“I
thought you might know.”

“I
have no idea, Lieutenant. The two of them must’ve worked something out—maybe
Dan had an emergency. She doesn’t volunteer for anything.”

“Not
a workaholic?”

“That’s
putting it mildly.”

“Where
can I find Paillard?”

“He’s
off today.”

“Give
me his cell and his home landline, please.”

“Dan
did something wrong?”

“Not
at all.”

“Good,”
said Melendez. “Him, I like.”

Daniel Paillard was at Universal Studios with his
girlfriend.

“This
is a big deal?”

“Probably
not,” said Milo, “but tell me about it.”

“Nothing
to tell,” said Paillard. “She came to me the day before, said she needed time
off next week, was I willing to swap. I said sure, why not.”

“What
day did she need time off?”

“She
never said.”

“She
never collected on the trade?”

Silence.

“Dan?”

“I
guess she didn’t,” said Paillard. “I guess I forgot—looking a gift horse, you
know? Am I in trouble? I mean it was between the two of us.”

“You’re
not in trouble.”

“I
mean, I’d been working my ass off for weeks, all those gang shootings,” said
Paillard. “When she came to me, I didn’t see any problem long as the job got
done—did she screw up?”

“Is
she a screwup?”

“She’s
green,” said Paillard.

“Do
me a favor, Dan. Don’t tell her about this conversation.”

“She’s
in some other kind of trouble?”

“Not
yet,” said Milo. “Be discreet, Dan, and I will be, too.”

“Yeah,
yeah, sure,” said Paillard. “She’s green, maybe a little lazy, that’s really
all I can say about her.”

Milo
swung his desk chair around, faced me. “Lazy rookie but she makes herself out
as gung-ho. A faker like Scoppio. She processed the bodies, made comments about
Doreen’s clothes being cheap. That takes on a whole new flavor now.”

I
said, “Rieffen trading shifts the day before the murder says she knew Backer
and Doreen would be up in that turret. Doreen lived with her and Scoppio, so
that’s no mystery. If Scoppio’s our Port Angeles hoodie, we’ve got fifty grand
of motive. But the scene’s always
reeked of personal
to me, so it could’ve gone beyond the money. Kaplan said the three of them
looked grim when they were together. Maybe the gloss was off the relationship.”

“Threesome
gone bad.”

“Possibly
because threesome had turned to twosome.”

“Doreen
threw her roommies over for Backer,” he said. “Old flame reignited. So to
speak.”

“Backer
and Doreen were paid by Helga to blow up Teddy’s palace, scoped the scene and
found the turret a fun place. Ned Holman saw them use it two months before the
murders, they could very well have turned it into their private party spot,
could’ve even taken Rieffen and Monte up there. Either way they’d be easy to
track. The scene’s always pointed to two killers. Now we’ve got a new pair.”

“Rieffen’s
involved in the murder, makes sure she’s assigned to the scene. Cute. The
obvious reason is monkeying with evidence, as in concealing any record of her
presence and Scoppio’s. She was up there before I arrived, Lord knows what she
did during that time.”

I
said, “One thing she
didn’t
conceal was the semen stain on Doreen’s leg.
On the contrary, she called it to your attention and that makes me wonder if
she was playing head games. Backer always used condoms, we’ve assumed he made
an exception for Doreen. What if he didn’t and the semen came from someone
else?”