enough.”
“Plus he’s famous,” said O’Shea.
“What does that have to do with it?”
“More of a surprise, El Tee. Probably no one ever bugs him.”
“Famous,” said Milo. “If everything works out, that’ll change to infamous.”
The walk from Prema’s property to Rader’s took six minutes. Sally would’ve preferred to run it in two. Milo had the gate code, courtesy Prema Moon: 10001.
He pushed the buttons, the gate cooperated, we continued along asphalt in need of resurfacing. Longer, steeper access than to Prema’s estate, an easy quarter mile with nothing visible other than greenery. At some points the trees grew so thick that the sky disappeared and day turned to imposed dusk.
O’Shea said, “Man likes his privacy.”
Milo lengthened his stride. O’Shea took that as the
As we kept climbing, Sally’s fur rippled in the breeze. Soft but acute eyes analyzed the world at hand. Her posture was erect, her trot rich with pride. Work-dog heaven.
Then she stopped.
O’Shea said, “Would you look at that.”
The road ended abruptly at a mesa filled with cars. Enough parking space for a dozen vehicles positioned properly but I counted seventeen sets of wheels stacked within inches of one another, some extending to the surrounding brown grass.
Donny Rader’s black Explorer was positioned nearest to the road, slightly apart from the automotive clog. Easy exit for the daily driver. Milo photographed the SUV from several angles, scribbled in his pad.
The other cars, exemplars of high-ticket Italian, German, and British coachwork, were caked with dust, splotched by bird-dirt, fuzzed by leaves. A few tilted on deflated tires.
Sixteen matches to the DMV list. The addition was a red convertible sandwiched in the center of the stack.
Milo squeezed his way over to the BMW, took more pictures, made more notes.
O’Shea said, “Can I ask why that one, El Tee?”
“Victim’s wheels.”
“He kept it? What an idiot.”
“Let’s hope he stays that way. Onward.”
The house was a low, long box that had been stylish in the fifties. My guess was an expat architect from Europe-Schindler or Neutra or someone trying to be Schindler or Neutra. The kind of site-conscious, minimalist design that ages well if it’s kept up.
This one hadn’t been. A roof meant to be flat sagged and dipped. Stress cracks wrinkled white stucco grimed to gray. Windows were pocked with birdshit. Rain streaks and pits blemished the flat facade. Like Prema’s property, Rader’s acreage was backed by forest. But everything else was hard-pack.
We approached the house. Internal shutters blocked off the view the architect had intended. The door was a slab of ash in need of varnish. Solid, though. Milo’s knock barely sounded.
He pushed the doorbell. No chime or buzzer that I could hear.
Louder knock.
The door opened on a girl-woman in a thong bikini. Her hair was a riot of white and black and flamingo-pink. Late teens or early twenties.
She stared at us with bleary, heavy-lidded eyes. White powder smudged the space between her perfect nose and her perfect lips. The bikini was white, barely qualified as a garment with the bra not much more than pasties on a string and the bottom a nylon triangle not up to the job of pelvic protection. Breasts the size of grapefruits heaved a split second after the rest of her chest moved, the mammary equivalent of digital delay. Her feet were bare and grubby, her nails blood-red talons.
She rubbed her eyes. “Huh?”
“Police, ma’am. Is Mr. Rader here?”
She swiped at the white granules above her mouth.
Milo said, “Don’t worry about your breakfast, we just want to talk to Donny Rader.”
The girl’s mouth opened. A frog-croak emerged. Then a squeak. Then: “Don-nee!”
No need to shout, Rader was already behind her, materializing from the left, wearing a red silk robe. The robe was loosely belted, exposing a hard, tan body. The pockets bulged. A bottle of something with a booze-tax seal around the neck poked from one. The contents of the other were out of view. Maybe a bag of white powder. Or just a glass. If he bothered with a glass.
He pushed the girl out of the way, did the same eye rub. “Whus happening?”
Big man, larger and more muscular than he came across on the screen. Coarser, with a near-Neanderthal brow shelf, grainy skin, thickened nostrils that flared like a bull’s.
Long, shaggy, ink-black hair flew everywhere. His eyes fought to remain open. Described in the fan mags as black, they were actually deep brown. Just enough contrast to see the pupils. Widely dilated despite the bright afternoon light.
White powder on his face, too, a thick smear on his lips and chin. Snowy dust littered the red robe’s shawl collar. The top seam of the other robe pocket.
Milo said, “Police, Mr. Rader.”
“Whu the fuh!” Throaty growl. The iconic slur.
“Police-”
“Fuh!” Donny Rader backed away.
Milo said, “Hold on, we’d just like to talk-”
“About whu?”
“We’d like to come in, Mr. Rader.”
“Whu the fu-hey! You ain’t cops, you’re some shit from her, trying to mess with my mind-”
“Sir, I can assure-”
“Assure my asshole, get the fuh outta here!”
“Mr. Rader, we really are the police and we-”
Donny Rader shook himself off hard, hair billowing, a hyena clearing its maws of blood. The girl in the bikini had remained behind him, clutching her face and hyperventilating.
Milo stepped forward, aiming to get his toe in the door.
Howling, Rader jammed his hand into the robe pocket that didn’t hold the bottle, yanked out something metallic and shiny.
He faded back, began to straighten his arm.
The last time Milo had faced madness, he’d been caught off-guard and I’d saved his life. That didn’t fit the script of seasoned cop and shrink and despite his acknowledgment, it would scar him.
Maybe that’s why this time he was ready.
One of his hands clamped like a bear-trap on the wrist of Donny Rader’s gun-arm, pushing down and twisting sharply as his foot shot between Rader’s bare legs and kicked laterally to the left. As Rader lost balance, Milo’s other arm spun him around and by the time Tyler O’Shea was ready with cuffs and a now snarling Sally, Rader was down on the ground and the.22 lay safely out of reach.
Rader foamed at the mouth, turned dirt to chocolate soda.
The girl in the bikini whimpered.
Milo said, “Ty, take care of her.”
O’Shea checked out the tight, tan body. “You’re a pal, El Tee.”
He cuffed the girl displaying no particular reverence. Something to the left caught his eye. “El Tee, you better look at this.” Something new in his voice. Fear.
