stuff.
The mail-drop lady had told Petra that Drummond was gay. Stahl wondered if she’d told Sturgis. How Sturgis would take to learning about Kevin’s proclivities.
She’d told
Which was ridiculous because he never remarked about anything, even this early in their partnership she should’ve seen that.
He made her nervous; when they rode together, she was jumpier than a sand flea.
This case was working out well. Both of them, happy to be going their separate ways.
Connor wasn’t a bad sort. Career woman. No family ties.
Superficially tough, but new situations made her antsy.
He knew he did that to people.
He couldn’t have cared less.
He completed the search of Kevin Drummond’s apartment, finding no personal papers or trophies, nothing criminal or suggestive of criminality. Hoarding all that paper was consistent with the guess the shrink had worked up: Drummond was highly obsessive. Drummond’s choice of magazines said the obsession was personality, celebrity.
The break-in had accomplished two things: Stahl knew, now, that the lack of a warrant wasn’t hurting them. All this search would’ve added to the mix was verification of Drummond’s homosexuality, and he couldn’t see where that fit in… maybe the S & M stuff? Drummond being into his own S, other people’s M?
The other thing: spending time in Drummond’s digs, feeling the cold solitude, he was willing to bet Drummond had rabbited a while back, had no intention of returning. Even with all that computer equipment left behind.
Daddy’s dough, easy come, easy go.
No copies of
Moving on to a new hobby?
Flicking off the Maglite, he stood in Drummond’s pathetic little room, making sure no one had been alerted by his presence. Just in case, he pulled out the mask and slipped it over his face. Army-issue, black Lycra, two eyeholes. This way, if anyone accosted him during his departure, all they’d remember would be a central-casting, night-stalking burglar.
The mask would scare any rational person off and lessen the chance of confrontation.
Stahl would do anything to protect himself. But he preferred not to have to hurt anyone.
27
The call came in as Milo and I were having breakfast on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. A sky the color of lint promised rain, and few pedestrians passed our outdoor table. The weather didn’t dissuade a scrawny man playing bad guitar for spare change. Milo slipped him a ten, told him to find another spot. The man moved twenty feet down and resumed howling. Milo returned to his Denver omelette.
It was two days after my visit to Charter College, Kevin Drummond still hadn’t shown up at his apartment, and Eric Stahl’s feeling was that he wouldn’t be returning soon.
“Why not?” I said.
“Stahl’s gut feeling, according to Petra,” he said.
“Is that worth much?”
“Who knows? Meanwhile, the only new thing we’ve learned about Drummond is that he’s gay. Petra found out that he used his POB primarily to get gay porn.” He put his fork down. “Think that’s relevant?”
“We were talking about someone sexually confused-”
“So maybe he resolved his confusion. What about Szabo and Loh? Rich gay men living the good life. There’s a focus for jealousy.”
“Szabo and Loh weren’t targeted, and their house was the scene of only one murder. Whoever killed Levitch was after what Levitch had.”
“Talent.” He glanced at the howling guitarist. “There’s a guy in no danger.”
“Anything new on Kipper?” I said.
“He has a girlfriend. Much younger- late twenties, very good-looking, name of Stephanie. She works as a legal secretary for a firm in his building. For the last few days, Kipper’s been squiring her around in public. This one’s blond, too, so Kipper’s neighbors could’ve been mistaken about his visitor being Julie. If I didn’t have the
“Julie makes waves, he shuts her up.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Too bad. I don’t like the guy- something about him…”
He forked omelet, gulped coffee.
“Stephanie,” I said. “You spoke to her?”
“I heard her friend call her that when they went to the ladies’ room.”
“You’ve been staking out the building?”
“At the time, it seemed prudent.” He shrugged. His phone went off. “Sturgis… hi…
He clicked off, pocketed the phone, looked at my half-eaten toast. “That was Petra. How about taking that to go?” Pinning money under his plate, he waved to the waiter, pushed away from the table.
“What’s up?” I said, following him out to the Promenade.
“Dead woman,” he said. “Dead redhead.”
The autopsy room was spotless tile and stainless steel, silent and pleasantly cool. Petra and Milo and I stood next to a shrouded mass on a stainless table as a soft-spoken attendant named Rhonda Reese checked paperwork. Reese was thirtyish, chestnut-haired, curvy, with the open face of a tour guide.
I’d sailed to Boyle Heights on the 10, but Interstate 5 had been jammed by the proverbial jackknifed big rig, and the backlog had turned the drive to the coroner’s office to an hour-long ordeal. During that time, Milo had dozed, and I’d thought about women. Petra met us in the lobby.
“I’ve already checked us in,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Rhonda Reese drew the sheet back and folded it neatly at the foot of the table. The corpse was long and rawboned and female, waxy flesh tinted that unique green-gray. Eyes and mouth, shut. Peaceful expression, no obvious signs of violence. A scatter of pimples and fibroid lumps filled a flat expanse of chest between small, deflated breasts. Inverted, corrugated nipples, sharp hips, wide pelvis, skinny legs covered with curly, auburn down. The ankles crusted by red skin, hardened and crackled like alligator hide.
Street ankles.
The woman’s soles were black, as were the dirty, ragged nails on her toes and fingers. Fungus grew between
