“However this shakes out, I need to do the routine, Alex. Which in this case is major-league scut: IDing audience members, canvassing the neighborhood for sightings of suspicious strangers, checking the files for recent prowler calls. Too much for one noble soldier. The guys who pulled the case initially are a couple of D-Is, green, no whodunit experience, claim they’re interested in getting their feet wet. They actually seem grateful for Uncle Milo’s council. I’ll sic ’em on the grunt work, get on the phone tomorrow with Levitch’s agent in New York and see what I can learn about him.”
“Hey, boss-man,” I said.
“That’s me,” he said. “Chairman of the Gore. Seen enough?”
“More than enough.”
We walked back to the house, and I thought about Vassily Levitch left to die in the company of garbage cans. Baby Boy, dumped in a back alley, Juliet Kipper’s life terminated in a toilet.
“Demeaning them is the thing,” I said. “Reducing art to trash.”
17
The next day Milo asked me to a meeting. Five P.M. in the back room of the same Indian restaurant.
“I’ll be there. Anything new?”
“Levitch’s agent and mother had nothing to offer. She mostly sobbed, all the agent could say was Vassily was a beautiful boy, amazing talent. The reason I want to put heads together is Petra said Levitch’s wound sounds like a perfect match to Baby Boy’s. Plus, the coroner’s telling me the ligature used on Levitch is the same gauge and consistency as the one used to choke out Julie. And guess what- your idea about Baby Boy’s killer being spooked might be right-on. Turns out there was a witness in the alley, some homeless guy. Pretty well booze-blasted, and between that and the darkness, his description didn’t amount to much. But maybe the killer sensed him and split.”
“What’s the description?”
“Tall guy in a long coat. He came up to Lee, shmoozed, then moved in for what looked like a hug. Guy walks away, Lee falls down. The killer made no move on the homeless guy- Linus Brophy- but you never know.”
“The killer wouldn’t go for Brophy.”
“Why not?”
“Out of his focus,” I said. “We’re talking about someone with very specific goals.”
I gathered together my notes and drove to Cafe Moghul. The same amiable sari’d woman beamed as she ushered me through the restaurant and over to an unmarked door next to the men’s room. “He is here!”
The windowless, green room had probably once served as storage space. Milo sat at a table set for three. Behind him was a sleeper couch pushed up against the wall. On the couch was a tightly curled bedroll, a stack of Indian magazines, and a box of tissues. Curry smells drifted in through a ceiling grate.
I sat down as he dipped some kind of wafer into a bowl of red sauce. The sauce tinted his lips liverish.
“Our hostess seems quite impressed with you.”
“I tip big. And they think my presence offers protection.”
“They’ve had problems?”
“Just the usual- drunks wandering in, unwanted solicitors. Couple of weeks ago I happened to be here when some idiot peddling dried flowers for an instant nirvana cult got unruly. I engaged in diplomacy.”
“And now the U.N.’s requesting your resume.”
“Hey, those clowns could use the help- here she is.”
He stood and greeted Petra Connor.
She looked around and grinned. “You really know how to treat a girl, Milo.”
“Only the best for Hollywood Division.”
She had on the usual black pantsuit, the brownish lipstick and pale matte makeup. Her short, black hair was glossy, and her eyes shone. Like Milo, she’d brought a bulging, soft attache case. His was cracked and gray, hers, black and oiled.
She gave me a wave. “Hi, Alex.” Then she half turned as a round-shouldered man stepped into the room. “Guys, this is my new partner, Eric Stahl.”
Stahl wore black, too. A baggy suit over a starched white shirt and skinny gray tie. He had collapsed cheeks, eyes recessed as deeply as those of a blind man. His spiky crew cut was a deep brown shade one half tone lighter than Petra’s ebony coif, but, hue-wise, that was a fine distinction. A few years older than Petra, but like her, thin with fair skin. In Stahl’s case, a tallowy pallor rendered sickly by contrast to Petra’s crisp, cosmetic kabuki. But for rosy spots on his cheeks, he might’ve been fashioned of wax.
He appraised the room. Flat, inert eyes.
Milo said, “Hey, Eric.”
Stahl said, “Hey,” in a low voice and shifted his gaze to the table.
Three place settings.
Milo said, “I’ll get you fixed up.”
“Just get a chair, Eric won’t be eating,” said Petra.
“Oh, yeah?” said Milo. “Don’t like Indian, Eric?”
“I ate already,” said Stahl. His voice matched his eyes.
“Eric doesn’t eat,” said Petra. “He claims he does, but I’ve never seen it.”
The smiling woman brought platters of food. Milo snarfed, Petra and I picked, Eric Stahl placed his hands flat on the table and stared at his fingernails.
Stahl’s presence seemed to discourage small talk. So did the situation, and Milo got right down to business, passing around Julie Kipper’s case file, then summarizing the little he had on Vassily Levitch.
Both Hollywood detectives took it in without comment. Milo said, “Could you recap Baby Boy?”
Petra said, “Sure.” Her account was concise, focused on the relevant details. The precise delivery emphasized how little she’d unearthed, and when she finished, she seemed bothered.
Stahl remained mute.
Milo said, “Sounds like a match to Levitch, at least. How about the psych wisdom, Alex?”
I summarized the out-of-town cases quickly, glossed over Wilfred Reedy because his murder sounded like a drug hit, and moved on to China Maranga. As I put forth the suggestion that she might’ve been stalked without knowing it, the three of them listened but didn’t react.
A trio of blank faces; if I was right, they were faced with monumental work.
“The night China disappeared,” I said, “she left the studio in a foul mood and quite possibly stoned. Under the best of circumstances, she had a bad temper, was known to unload on people without warning. Here’s a prime example: She refused an interview with a fanzine, but the editor was persistent and ran the story anyway. A puff piece. China’s thanks was to phone the guy and abuse him. Viciously, was the way her band mate put it. She had no sense of personal safety, lived high-risk. That and a major tantrum in the wrong setting could’ve proved fatal.”
“What was the name of the fanzine?” said Petra.
“Something called
Her slim, white fingers on my wrist stopped me midsentence.
“
“Same as China,” said Milo. “Baby Boy turn him down, too?”
“I didn’t ask. He claimed interviews weren’t the magazine’s style, they were into the essence of art, not the persona, or some nonsense like that. He sounded about twelve.”
“What did he want from you?” I said.
