“D.A.’s got you being an errand boy?”
Reed shrugged. “Whatever gets the case moving.”
“Crypt must be crazy busy,” said Milo. “I’m having trouble getting my female vic’s autopsy done.”
“They’re busy and it just got worse, Loo. One of their C.I.’s was murdered last night, few blocks away, while I was there. Sheriff’s Homicide was interviewing.”
“I know some of those guys. Who was it?”
“Someone named Bobby,” said Reed.
“Bob Norchow?”
“No, something Hispanic.”
Milo shook his head. “What happened?”
“From what I picked up, attempted robbery gone bad. It’s a tough neighborhood, guess no one’s immune… anyway, I’ve got time, Loo. Anything else?”
“Matter of fact, there is. I’m trying to trace a tip that came in from a pay phone on Venice Boulevard, your old turf. Who at Pacific should I call?”
“Sergeant Sunshine’s okay.”
“Sunshine,” said Milo. “Hope he brings a glow to my damn day.”
Sergeant Patrick Sunshine recommended Milo talk to the car covering that sector of Venice.
A patrolman named Thorpe answered. “That’s one of the last coiners still works, mostly transient dopers use it. Once in a while, street girls when they don’t want to run up their hours.”
Milo said, “My tipster was a male. Older, or trying to sound like it. Pointed me at someone named Monte.”
“Monte,” said Thorpe. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. What time did the tip come in?”
Milo checked the still-thin murder book. “Just after six p.m.”
“Could be anyone. Want me to ask around?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
“Phone booth,” said Thorpe. “Darn thing’s on its last legs, bet the phone company kills it like all the others.”
CHAPTER 16
I woke up at four a.m., inspired. Minutes later, I was at the computer.
Five hours later, I was headed toward Milo’s office.
He was away from his desk. A report from the fingerprint lab sat next to the murder book. Desmond Backer’s latents had been found on a wall of the turret, just to the right of the top step, and near the bottom frame of a window hole. Brigid Ochs, still listed as Jane Doe 014, had left palm prints on the floor.
Backer’s could be explained as reaching for support while he climbed the rickety stairs, then sauntering over to enjoy the view.
The only explanation I could find for hers was a sexual position.
Milo plodded in, drinking coffee.
“Morning.”
“Zippity-do-nothing to you, as well.” He sat, drank. “No one’s budging on telling me who DSD is and I can’t find a judge who disagrees. No call-back from Hal, which isn’t his usual style, no weapons registered to Charles Rutger other than flintlocks and muskets classified as antiques. He might be nuts but he’s never been in criminal trouble. Lab sent over prints from the scene but they don’t mean much.”
“Just read the report.” I offered my interpretation. “Sounds about right.” His phone rang. He clicked to conference. “Sturgis.”
A woman said, “This is Dr. Jernigan from the coroner’s returning your call.”
“Thanks for getting back, Doctor. I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to autopsy my victims.”
“The Holmby double?” she said. “Gunshot for your male, strangulation for your female.”
“That was quick, thanks.”
“No autopsy was done,” said Jernigan. “Not necessary. We also did a rape kit on your female. No sexual assault.”
“So the semen on her leg-”
“What semen?”
“There was a stain on her leg. I saw it at the scene.”
“Not when I inspected the body. How do you know it was semen?”
“I’m not an expert-”
“Exactly.”
“Was it something else, Doctor?”
Silence. “There was no stain of any kind, Lieutenant. Sorry to cut this short, but I need to go.”
“No autopsy necessary,” said Milo.
“You’ve been doing this for a while, Lieutenant, so you know we don’t cut unnecessarily. I x-rayed both of them. There’s a bullet in his head that we’ll pull out soon as we can, no metal in her and ruptures in all the right places. For all the talk about a crime drop, we’re swamped because the powers-that-be refuse to hire any more staff and the bodies are still coming in faster than we can process. Twenty minutes ago, I received four little kids from a house fire in Willow-brook and they
“Okay, thanks. Sorry about Bobby.”
“You knew Bobby?”
“Only Bobby I know is Bobby Norchow.”
“Norchow retired last year, this is Bobby Escobar. Bright kid, spent a couple of years with us then left to get a master’s in bio at Cal State.”
“I heard he got shot near the crypt.”
“Few blocks away, vacant lot that’s actually county property,” said Jernigan. “He was here working, we gave him a little space so he could have peace and quiet. He had three little kids, including a baby.”
“Oh, man.”
“Oh, man, indeed. For three years he goes through DBs’ pockets, now he’s one.”
“How’s the investigation going?”
“Sheriff assigned a couple of rookies and they’re calling it robbery gone bad-hey, how about a quid pro? You solve Bobby and we grant you autopsies on demand for the next five years, even when the body doesn’t merit it?” Dropping her voice. “Wish I wasn’t kidding. Bye, Lieutenant.”
He hung up, stretched his neck, produced crackle and pop. “Welcome to my world.”
I said, “Maybe I can cheer you up. Sranil.”
“What’s that?”
“An oil-rich island near Indonesia.”
“Never heard of it. And…”
“The government is one of Masterson’s clients-major medical center still on the drawing board. Given how intimidated everyone seems by the gag agreement and the rumors of DSD being Middle Eastern, I went searching for petro-VIPs who’d lived in L.A. within the last ten years, co-referenced with Masterson. No Arabs came up but Asian royalty did: Prince Tariq of Sranil, aka Teddy. By
