“Make sure what?”
“That everything has been done.”
“I see,” said Carmeli. “You're a careful man.”
“I try.”
“And your predecessors?”
“I'm sure they tried, too.”
“Loyal, too,” said Carmeli. “A good soldier. After all this time, the clothes being in my wife's car, what use are analyses?”
“I never touched them,” said Liora. “I never opened the bag. I wanted to, but…”
Carmeli looked ready to sting, said only, “Ah.”
Liora said, “I'll get them for you. May I have them back?”
“Of course, ma'am.”
She got up and went outside.
Unlocking the minivan's rear hatch, she lifted up a section and revealed the spare-tire compartment. Next to the wheel was a plastic bag still bearing an LAPD evidence tag. Inside was something blue- rolled jeans. And a white patch- a single sock.
“My husband already thinks I've gone crazy because I've started talking to myself- like Iriti's singing.”
Carmeli stiffened, then his eyes went soft. “Liora.” He put his arm around her. She patted his hand and moved away from him.
“Take it,” she said, pointing to the bag.
As Milo reached for it, Carmeli returned to the house.
Watching him, Liora said, “Maybe I am sick. Maybe I am primitive… What will you be analyzing? The first police told us there was nothing on it.”
“I'll probably repeat what's been done,” said Milo. He held the bag in both hands, as if it were something precious.
“Well,” she said. “Good-bye. Nice to meet you.”
“Thank you, ma'am. I'm sorry we upset your husband.”
“My husband is very… tender. You will return it?”
“Absolutely, ma'am.”
“Can you say when?”
“As soon as possible?”
“Thank you,” she said. “As soon as possible. I would like to have it with me again when I drive.”
21
She trudged back into her house and closed the door.
Milo and I returned to our cars. “I love my job,” he said. “Those light and airy moments.” The evidence bag was nestled against his barrel chest.
“Poor woman,” I said. “Both of them.”
“Looks like things aren't great between them.”
“Tragedy will do that.”
“Any other insights?”
“About what?” I said.
“Her, them.”
“He's protecting her and she doesn't want to be protected. Pretty standard male-female pattern. Why?”
“I don't know… the way she talked about being crazy, primitive. She's… something about her made me wonder if she has a psychiatric history.”
I stared at him.
“Like I said, light and airy, Alex.”
“Stalking her own child in the park and strangling her?”
“Strangling gently… could be a boyfriend, I've seen
His arm dropped and the bag dangled. “I've seen too many kids killed by mama. Can't be effective if I avoid the shadows.”
“True,” I said. “My guess is that she might have been wound up pretty tight- a diplomat's wife- and has unraveled. She probably used to put on a happy face, suppress things, now she says to hell with it.”
He looked down at the bag. “What do you think about her keeping this in her car all this time?”
“A shrine. There are all sorts of them. She knew her husband would be offended so she created a private one but she's willing to risk his disapproval in order to cooperate.”
“Offended,” he said. “She talked about her culture. As opposed to his? Moroccan as opposed to wherever he comes from?”
“Probably. He looks European. When I was in private practice, I had a few Israeli patients and the East versus West thing came up. When Israel was created it became a melting pot for Jews and sometimes there was conflict. I remember one family with just the opposite situation. The husband was from Iraq and the wife was Polish or Austrian. He thought she was cold, she thought he was superstitious. Maybe Mrs. Carmeli didn't want Mr. to think she was engaging in primitive rituals. Maybe she just knew he'd be grossed out by the clothes. Whatever the reason, she had no hesitation telling you she had the bag.”
“One thing for sure, I'm talking to the neighbors. Carmeli will freak but so be it. Worse comes to worst, he gripes and they pull me off the case and someone else gets to feel useless.”
I looked up the block. The electrician's van was the only vehicle at the curb.
“Are you really planning to run new lab tests?”
“Maybe. First things first.”
I met him at the West L.A. station, upstairs in the detective room, relatively quiet now, with one other D, a young black woman, filling out forms. She didn't seem to notice as Milo sat at his metal desk, cleared papers, and placed the bag next to a stack of messages weighed down by a stapler. He scanned the slips, put them down. Then he put on surgical gloves and unsealed the bag.
Removing the jeans first, he turned each pocket inside out. The denim gave off smells of earth, mold, and chemistry lab.
Empty.
Turning the pants over, he pointed out some very faint brown stains that I'd have missed.
“Dirt, from when she lay on the ground.”
Refolding the pants neatly, he took out the white sock and its mate, then a pair of white cotton underpants printed with small pink flowers, the crotch cut away cleanly.
“Semen analysis,” he said.
Next came tennis shoes. He peeled the insoles free and peered inside, saying, “The Ortiz boy's shoes were obviously bloody but let's check these out anyway- size six and a half, made in Macao,
A white cotton training bra caused him to pause for a second before removing the last garment- the lace- trimmed white T-shirt I'd seen in the photos. The front was clean but the back bore brown stains, too. Two breast pockets.
He put a thumb and forefinger inside the first, looked inside, moved on to the second and pulled out a small rectangle of paper, the size of a fortune-cookie slip.
