Out came the pack of Rothmans. Another chain light. “I’ll give you an example: There was this zine, dinky little rag that wanted to do a story on us. China told him to fuck himself. They did the piece anyway, without talking to us. So what does China do? She phones the editor and gives it to him.”
He shook his head. “I was there, listening to her end. ‘Your mother fucks scabrous Nazi dicks and drinks Hitler’s cum.’ Granted she’d told them no, but what was the logic behind that?”
“Remember the name of the zine?” I said.
“You think some
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But if the editor was a fan, maybe he’s got some ideas.”
“Whatever,” he said. “You’ve obviously got plenty of spare time…
“What was the gist of the article?”
“We were geniuses.”
“Did you keep a clipping?”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Along with my Grammys and my platinum records.”
He shot to his feet, smoked and coughed and walked, hunch-shouldered to the grape-jelly door. Shoved it hard and went back to work.
14
I drove to a magazine stand on Selma Avenue off Hollywood Boulevard, and looked for
I cruised by the shop, found a CLOSED sign barely visible behind an accordion-grated front, and returned home wondering if Paul Brancusi’s comment about too much leisure time had been on target.
The more I thought about it, the weaker the links between the cases seemed. I considered the three other murders I’d found Web-surfing.
The only other L.A. killing was the old saxophonist, Wilfred Reedy, and there’d been no suggestion he’d been on the verge of a comeback or career-climb. The killer of Valerie Brusco, the Oregon potter, had been caught and jailed, and Angelique Bernet, the ballet dancer- a young woman who
Subtotal: zero. Still no reason to bother Milo; he had his hands full investigating Everett Kipper- by my own reckoning the best bet for Julie’s murderer.
The dinner hour was approaching, but I had no appetite. Another human voice would be palliative, but Allison was working at the hospice tonight.
I might do well by following her example: do some gut-wrenching clinical work that drew me miles from my own self- the kind of work I’d done years ago on the cancer wards of Western Pediatric Hospital.
I’d spent nearly a decade on those wards, a too-young, newly minted psychologist, pretending to know what he was doing. Seeing too much, too soon, feeling like nothing but an impostor.
Paying dues. But that was rubbish; oncologists and oncology nurses devote entire lives to the cause, so who the hell was I to self-aggrandize?
Allison’s husband had died of cancer, and she spent one night a week with the terminally ill.
Not a comforting line of thinking. I returned to pondering China Maranga’s death. Her verbal assault had been business as usual, but some people don’t take well to abuse. And when I’d asked Robin to speculate about the case, her first instinct had been that China had run into someone on the street, accepted a ride, shot her mouth off one time too many.
Despite Paul Brancusi’s dismissal, the stalker element couldn’t be ignored. You didn’t have to be famous to incite irrational attachment. And alternative zines were sometimes little more than glorified fan-club bulletins.
Had the editor adored China from afar? Had the way she’d treated him twisted his passions into rage she’d been ill equipped to handle?
I let my imagination run. Maybe he’d agreed to give China one last chance. Watching, waiting, outside the studio. China, stoned, unstable, angry at her band, leaves, and he follows her.
Pleased to be with someone who appreciated her, she accompanies him.
Then things turn.
China reverting to type.
And he’s had enough.
Thin speculation, but it was that or introspection.
I booted up the computer and searched for
That surprised me. Every self-deluded purveyor of triviality has a Web site. So the zine had been beyond obscure. And, as Brancusi predicted, long out of circulation.
Already on-line, I set out to convince myself that there was nothing more to be learned about the other three murders.
Wilfred Reedy’s name came up nearly a hundred times, mostly in discographies and laudatory reviews. Two references to his “tragic murder.” No speculation. Neither Valerie Brusco nor Angelique Bernet merited notice beyond the hits I’d found initially.
I exited the virtual world, phoned Central Division, and asked for the detective who’d handled Reedy’s case. The clerk had no idea what I was talking about and transferred me to a sergeant who said, “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m a consultant to the department-”
“What kind of consultant?”
“Psychologist. I work with Lieutenant Milo Sturgis in West L.A. Division.”
“Then have him call.”
“All I’m asking for is the name of the detective.”
“You have a case number?”
“No.” I repeated Reedy’s name, gave him the date.
“That’s four years ago,” he said. “You got to call Records, downtown.”
Dial tone.
I knew Records wouldn’t give me the time of day and moved on to the Cambridge, Mass., police and Angelique Bernet. A Southie-accented man instructed me this was the new age of Homeland Security and there were forms to be filled out, requirements to be met. When he asked me for my Social Security number, I gave it to him. He said he’d get back to me and cut the connection.
A phone call to the Oregon State Penitentiary, where I inquired about the status of inmate Tom Blascovitch, Valerie Brusco’s ex-boyfriend, evoked similar suspicion and resistance.
I put the phone down. Enough of amateur hour. Let Milo do his thing with Everett Kipper, and if he hit a brick wall, maybe I’d bring up the rest of it.
I was about to scavenge some dinner from the fridge when the phone rang.
“Tomorrow’s fine,” said Allison, “but guess what, so is tonight. The hospice is bringing in entertainment- a comedian and a bluegrass band. What’s your schedule?”
