“Anything happen while I was gone?”
“Not much, sir.”
“Not much or nothing?”
“Pretty quiet, overall, sir,” said Ramos-Martinez. “That security guard came back, said he was still officially on the job. I told him he could stand out on the street but couldn’t gain access. Or park his car anywhere on the street. He usually pulls up here on the dirt, wanted to again. I told him it was part of the scene. He decided to leave.”
“God forbid
Silence.
“He put up any fuss?”
“No, sir.”
“You pick up any ulterior motive on his part? Like wanting to get back in there and alter evidence?”
“He didn’t argue, sir. Guess guarding it now’s kinda horse after the cart, sir.”
Milo stared at him.
“My dad says that all the time, sir.”
“Can I assume your fellow officers searched the entire premises-house and yard-as I instructed?”
“Yes, sir. Thoroughly. I was part of that. We found some soda cans toward the back of the property, dented and rusty, like they’d been there for a while. They were tagged and bagged appropriately and sent to the lab, sir. No weapons, or narcotics or blood or nothing like that, sir. CS techies said nothing interesting up in that room, either, sir.”
Milo turned to me. “Where’s the nearest hardware store?”
“Nothing’s really close. Maybe Santa Monica near Bundy.”
Back to Ramos-Martinez. “Officer, here’s what I need you to do: Drive to the hardware store at Santa Monica near Bundy, buy a good-quality padlock and the shortest chain you can find, and bring all that back A-sap.” Fishing out his wallet, he handed bills to the young officer.
“Right now, sir?”
“No sweat, sir,” said Ramos-Martinez. “I don’t mind fuss.”
“That so?”
“Yes, sir. Takes a lot to get me worried, sir.”
The day had remained warm and the turret should’ve reflected that. Instead, it felt chilly and dank and my nose filled with stink that didn’t exist. The same stench I’d carried around for days after my first visit, years ago, to the crypt on Mission Road. Some old cluster of olfactory brain cells, activated by memory.
Milo slouched and chewed his dead cigar. “Okay, we’re here. Give me some thunderous insight.”
“If the killer stalked Backer and Jane, I’m wondering why he chose to strike here. The staircase is pretty well hidden and he’d have to sneak his way up in the dark, be careful not to make noise. If Backer and Jane were close to the staircase, he’d risk being seen or heard well before getting to the top. And with them higher than him, he’d be at a serious disadvantage. One good shove and our boy’s tumbling.”
He said, “So maybe our boy knew Backer and Jane came up here regularly to mess around, and had the lay of the place-pun intended. Hell, Alex, if the two of them were bumping around, heavy-breathing, that would’ve blocked out footsteps.”
“Familiarity with the site could also mean someone who’d worked here, a tradesmen assigned to the job. Maybe someone who knew Backer through construction. If you find a history of violence, stalking, sexual offenses, you’ve got something to work with.”
“Jane’s jealous sig-oth just happens to be Joe Hardhat?”
“That or someone who’d seen Des with Jane and grew obsessed with her.”
“Job’s been dormant for two years, we’re talking a tradesman who moved on.”
“Maybe not far enough.”
He looked at his watch. “You go on home, I’m gonna do my own walk-through of the grounds, stick around until Ramos-Martinez brings the lock and chain.”
“Keeping Doyle Bryczinski out.”
“Keeping
Robin was waiting for me in the living room, all sixty-three inches of her curled on the couch, listening to Stefano Grondona play Bach on old guitars. A white silk dress played off against her olive skin. Auburn curls fanned on the cushion. Blanche snuggled against Robin’s chest, knobby blond head resting near Robin’s left hand.
Both of them smiled. It can be jarring when a French bulldog’s flat face takes on an unmistakably human expression, and some people startle when Blanche switches on the charm. I’m used to it, but it still makes me wonder about the standard evolutionary charts.
I said, “Hey, girls,” and kissed them both. Lips for Robin, top of the head for Blanche. Unlike our previous dog, a feisty brindle male Frenchie named Spike, Blanche has no jealousy issues. I gave her bat-ears a scratch.
“You look tired, baby.”
“I’m fine.”
“Do you mind going out?”
I was still stuffed with Italian, said, “Not at all.”
We drove to a place at the top of the Glen where good jazz was mixed with decent food and a generous bar. The band was offset and the stand-in sound track was low-volume sax, something Brazilian-tinged, maybe Stan Getz. We drank wine, settled in.
Robin said, “What’s the case?”
I told her.
“Holmby. That’s close.”
“No danger, Rob. This was personal.”
I summed up Backer’s proclivities, the interviews of Holman, Sanfelice, and Passant.
She said, “They all sound like soap opera characters.”
“Don Juan and his fan club.”
“If he was a woman, he’d be labeled a slut.”
“Or a courtesan,” I said. “Or ambassador to a major ally. It’s always a matter of pay grade.”
“ Borodi Lane is serious pay grade, Alex. Maybe he took Jane there because she was a rich girl.”
“Her clothes didn’t say that. I was wondering about someone who worked in the neighborhood. Anyone who spent time there knew the job was inactive and security was lax.”
The food came. The band approached the stage.
Robin took hold of my hand. “Guess I should give you credit.”
“For what?”
“Not being a Don Juan.”
“That deserves a prize? Fine, I’ll take what I can get.”
“Hey,” she said, stroking my cheek. “Handsome dude with a fancy degree and no mortgage? Not to mention other… ahem… attributes. You could be partying like it’s 1999.”
“Bring on the platform shoes.”
“That’s the seventies, dear.”
“See,” I said. “I’m out of touch, would never survive the meat market.”
“Oh, you’d thrive, sweetie. It would be one thing if you were a twerp with no libido, but I know
