He had on a fuzzy-looking green tweed jacket, brown twill pants, white shirt with a twisted collar, string tie with a big, misshapen turquoise clasp. The tie looked like tourist junk. A new fashion statement; I knew he'd put it on to needle the brass at this morning's meeting.
'Going cowboy?'
'My Georgia O'Keeffe period.'
'Natty.'
He gave a low, rumbling laugh, pushed a lick of dry black hair off his brow, squinted off to the right. Focusing on a spot that told me exactly where the van had been found.
Not up the dirt road, where untrimmed live oaks would have provided cover. Right here, on the turnoff, out in the open.
I said, 'No attempt to conceal.'
He shrugged and jammed his hands in his pockets. He looked tired, washed-out, worn down by violence and small print.
Or maybe it was just the time of year. September can be a rotten month in L.A., throat-constrictingly hot or clammy cold, shadowed by a grimy marine layer that turns the city into a pile of soiled laundry. When September mornings start out dreary they ooze into sooty afternoons and sickly nights. Sometimes blue peeks through the clouds for a nanosecond. Sometimes the sky sweats and a leaky-roof drizzle glazes windshields. For the past few years resident experts have been blaming it on El Nino, but I don't recall it ever being any different.
September light is bad for the complexion. Milo 's didn't need any further erosion. The gray morning light fed his pallor and deepened the pockmarks that peppered his cheeks and ran down his neck. White sideburns below still- thick black hair turned his temples into a zebra-striped stunt. He'd gone back to drinking moderately and his weight had stabilized – 240 was my guess – much of it settling around his middle. His legs remained skinny stilts, comprising a good share of his seventy-five inches. His jowls, always monumental, had given wayaround the edges. We were about the same age – he was nine months older – so I supposed my jawline had surrendered a bit, too. I didn't spend much time looking in the mirror.
He walked to the kill-spot and I followed. Faint chevrons of tire tracks corrugated the yellow soil. Nearby lay a scrap of yellow cordon tape, dusty, utterly still. A week of dead air, nothing had moved.
'We took casts of the tracks,' he said, flicking a hand at them. 'Not that it matters. We knew where the van came from. Rental sticker. Avis, Tarzana branch. Brown Ford Econoline with a nice big cargo area. Mate rented it last Friday, got the weekend rate.'
'Preparing for another mercy mission?' I said.
'That's what he uses vans for. But so far no beneficiary's come forth claiming Mate stood him up.'
'I'm surprised the companies still rent to him.'
'They probably don't. The paperwork was made out to someone else. Woman named Alice Zoghbie, president of the Socrates Club-right-to-die outfit headquartered in Glendale. She's out of the country, attending some sort of humanist convention in Amsterdam -left Saturday.'
'She rented the van and split the next day?' I said.
'Apparently. Called her home, which also doubles as the Socrates office, got voice mail. Had Glendale PD drive by. No one home. Zoghbie's message says she's due back in a week. She's on my to-do list.' He tapped the pocket where his notepad nestled.
'I wonder why Mate never bought a van,' I said.
'From what I've seen so far, he was cheap. I tossed his apartment the day after the murder, not much in the way of creature comforts. His personal car's an old Chevy that has seen better days. Before he went automotive he used budget motels.'
I nodded. 'Bodies left on the bed for the cleaning crew to find next morning. Too many traumatized maids turned into bad publicity. I saw him on TV once, getting defensive about it. Saying Christ had been born in a barn full of goat dung, so setting doesn't matter. But it does, doesn't it?'
He looked at me. 'You've been following Mate's career?'
'Didn't have to,' I said, keeping my voice even. 'He wasn't exactly media-shy. Any tracks of other cars nearby?'
He shook his head.
'So,' I said, 'you're wondering if the killer drove up with Mate.'
'Or parked farther down the road than we checked. Or left no tracks-that happens plenty, you know how seldom forensic stuff actually helps. No one's reported seeing any other vehicles. Then again, no one noticed the damn van, and it sat here for hours.'
'What about shoe prints?'
'Just the people who found the van.'
'What's the time-of-death estimate?' I said.
'Early morning, one to four A.M.' He shot his cuff and looked at his Timex. The watch crystal was scarred and filmed. 'Mate was discovered just after sunrise-six-fifteen or so.'
'The papers said the people who found him were hikers,' I said. 'Must've been early risers.'
'Coupla yuppies walking with their dog, came up from the Valley for a constitutional before hitting the office. They were headed up the dirt road and noticed the van.'
'Any other passersby?' I pointed down the road, toward Encino Hills Drive. 'I used to come up here, remember a housing development being built. By now it's probably well-populated. That hour, you'd think a car or two would drive by.'
'Yeah, it's populated,' he said. 'High-priced development. Guess the affluent get to sleep in.'
'Some of the affluent got that way by working. What about a broker up early to catch the market, a surgeon ready to operate?'
'It's conceivable someone drove past and saw something, but if they did they're not admitting it. Our initial canvass produced zip by way of neighborly help. How many cars have you seen while we stood here?'
The road had been silent.
'I got here ten minutes before you,' he said. 'One truck. Period. A gardener. And even if someone did drive by, there'd be no reason to notice the van. No streetlights, so before sunrise it would've been pure black. And if someone did happen to spot it, no reason to give it a thought, let alone stop. There was county construction going on up here till a few months ago, some kind of drain line. CalTrans crews left trucks overnight all the time. Another parked vehicle wouldn't stand out.'
'It stood out to the yuppies,' I said.
'Stood out to their dog. One of those attentive retrievers. They were ready to walk right past the van but the dog kept nosing around, barking, wouldn't leave it alone. Finally, they had a look inside. So much for walking for health, huh? That kind of thing could put you off exercise for a long time.'
'Bad?'
'Not what I'd want as an aerobic stimulant. Dr. Mate was trussed up to his own machine.'
'The Humanitron,' I said. Mate's label for his death apparatus. Silent passage for Happy Travelers.
Milo 's smile was crooked, hard to read. 'You hear about that thing, all the people he used it on, you expect it to be some high-tech gizmo. It's a piece of junk, Alex. Looks like a loser in a junior-high science fair. Mismatched screws, all wobbly. Like Mate cobbled it from spare parts.'
'It worked, 'I said.
'Oh yeah. It worked fine. Fifty times. Which is a good place to start, right? Fifty families. Maybe someone didn't approve of Mate's brand of travel agency. Potentially, we're talking hundreds of suspects. Problem one is we've been having a hard time reaching them. Seems lots of Mate's chosen were from out-of-state-good luck locating the survivors. The department's lent me two brand-new Detective-I's to do phone work and other scut. So far people don't want to talk to them about old Eldon, and the few who do think the guy was a saint- 'Grandma's doctors watched her writhe in agony and wouldn't do a damn thing. Dr. Mate was the only one willing to help.' Alibi-talk or true belief? I'd need face-to-faces with all of them, maybe you there to psychoanalyze, and so far it's been telephonic. We're making our way through the list.'
'Trussed to the machine,' I said. 'What makes you think homicide? Maybe it was voluntary. Mate decided it was his own time to skid off the mortal coil, and practiced what he preached.'
'Wait, there's more. He was hooked up, all right-I.V. in each arm, one bottle full of the tranquilizer he uses-
