himself in Mate's place. Literally. Choosing the bedroom's consistent with that: the most personal space in the apartment. Think of it as a rape of sorts. Which is consistent with the violation of Mate's genitalia. Someone into power, domination. Playing God-a psychopathic monotheist, there can only be one deity, so he needs to eliminate any competition. On the competition's home base. I can see him walking around, exhilarated by triumph. Enjoying the extra bit of thrill of sneaking into an official crime scene. Maybe he came at night to minimize the chance of discovery, but still he couldn't be sure. If you or anyone else from the department had shown up, he'd have been trapped. The bedroom's at the back of the apartment and there's no rear exit. No place to hide except that bedroom closet, so to escape he'd have had to cross the front room, hide in that maze of bookshelves. I think he's jazzed by the danger element. It's the same first impression I had of the murder itself. Choosing an open road to perform surgery on Mate. Removing the cardboard so Mate's body would be discovered. Cleaning up carefully but leaving the scene naked. The note. Extreme meticulousness combined with recklessness. A psychopath with an above-average IQ. He's bright enough to plan precisely in the short term, but vulnerable in the long run because he gets off on danger.'
'Is that supposed to comfort me?
He ain't Superman, Milo.
Good. 'Cause I ain't got no kryptonite.' He stood there thinking and swinging the bag. The woman across the street looked up. Our eyes met. She returned to her paper.
'If the guy walked around,' said Milo, 'maybe he touched stuff. After the apartment was printed. Now you and I just mauled it… Asking for new prints is gonna be fun.'
'I doubt he left any. That careful, he is.'
'I'll ask anyway.' He began trudging down the stairs. Stopped midway. 'If this is a message, who's it aimed at? Not the public. Unlike the body and the note, there was no way he could be sure it would be found.'
'At this point,' I said, 'he's talking to himself. Doing anything he can to enhance the kick, evoke memories of the kill. He may very well want to return to the scene of the murder but views that as too dangerous, so breaking into Mate's home, directly or by surrogate, would be the next-best thing.'
I thought of something Richard Doss had told me… dancing on Mate's grave.
'Broken stethoscope,' I said. 'If I'm right about his taking the black bag, the message is clear:'I get the real tools, you get broken garbage.''
We resumed our descent. At the bottom of the stairs, Milo said, 'The idea of a confederate gets me thinking. About Attorney Haiselden, who should be in town but isn't. Because who spent more time with Mate? Who'd be more familiar with the apartment, maybe even have a key? The guy's behavior is wrong, Alex. Here we are, Mate's cold for a week, Haiselden should be throwing press conferences. But not a peep out of him. Just the opposite-he rabbits. Collecting coins from laundromats? Gimme a break, this asshole's hiding from something. Zoghbie said representing Mate was the only thing Haiselden did as a lawyer. That says overinvolve-ment. Mate was Haiselden's ticket to celebrity. Maybe Haiselden got hooked on it, wanted more, no more second fiddle. He watches Mate I.V. enough travelers, figures it qualifies him as a death doc. Hell, maybe Haiselden's one of those guys who went to law school because he couldn't get into med school.'
'Interesting,' I said. 'Something else I pulled off the computer fits that. Newspaper account of a press conference Haiselden did call after one of the trials. He said Mate deserved the Nobel Prize, then he added that as Mate's lawyer, he deserved part of the money.'
His free hand balled. 'I've been delegating finding him to Korn and Demetri, but now I'm handling it personally. Going over to his house, right now. South West-wood. I can drop you at the station or you can come along.'
I looked at my watch. Nearly five. It had been a long day. 'I'll call Robin and come along.'
We crossed the street to the unmarked. Milo locked the evidence bag in the trunk, circled to the driver's side, stopped. Glancing to his left.
The Hispanic woman hadn't moved. Milo turned. Her head flipped away, quick as a shuffled card, and I knew she'd been watching us.
Eyes back on the newspaper. Concentrating. The paper waved. No breeze, her hands had tightened. Her bag was a macrame sack that she'd placed on the grass.
Milo studied her. She ignored him. Licked her lips. Buried her nose deeper in newsprint.
He began to turn away from her, and her eyes flicked-just for a second-toward Mate's apartment.
He said, 'Hold on.'
I followed him as he strode toward her. Her hands were clenching the paper, causing it to shimmy. She folded her lips inward and drew the newsprint closer to her face. I got near enough to read the date. Yesterday's paper. The classifieds. Employment opportunities…
Milo said, 'Ma'am?'
The woman looked up. Her lips unfolded. Thin purplish lips, chapped and puckered, bleached white around the edges. The rest of her complexion was nutmeg brown. Bags under the eyes.
She was somewhere between fifty and sixty, short and heavy with a plump face and big, gorgeous black eyes. She wore a navy polyester bomber jacket over a blue-and-white flowered dress that reached to midcalf. The dress material looked flimsy, riding up her stocky frame, adhering to bulges. Thick ankles swelled over the top seams of old but clean Nike running shoes. White socks rolled low exposed chafed shins. Her nails were square-cut. Her black hair was threaded with gray and braided past her waist. Her skin was slack around neck, jaw and chipmunk cheeks, but stretched tight over a wide brow. No makeup, no jewelry. A rural look.
While working at Western Peds, I'd known several Latin women who'd chosen that same unadorned appearance. Long hair, always a braid, dresses, never pants. Devout women, Pentecostal Christians.
'Something I can do for you, ma'am?'
'Are you… you're police, right?' The old mouth emitted a young voice, breathy and tentative. No accent; the merest softening at the end of each syllable. She could've found employment giving phone sex.
'Yes, ma'am.' Milo flashed the badge. 'And you are…'
She reached into the macrame bag and brought out a red plastic alligator-print wallet. Producing her own I.D., as if it had been demanded of her many times.
Social Security card. She thrust it at Milo.
He read, 'Guillerma Salcido.'
'Guillerma Salcido Mate,' said the woman defiantly. 'I don't use his name anymore, but that doesn't change a thing. I'm still Dr. Mate's wife-his widow.'
CHAPTER 10
GUILLERMA MATE STOOD straighter, as if fortified by the claim. Took the Social Security card from Milo's fingers and slipped it back into her purse.
'You're married to Dr. Mate?' He sounded doubtful.
Another dip into the bag, another thrust of paper.
Marriage license, fold marks grubby, photocopied lettering faded to the color of raw plywood. Date of issue, twenty-seven years ago, City of San Diego, County of San Diego. Guillerma Salcido de Vega and Eldon Howard Mate wagering on nuptial bliss.
'There,' she said.
'Yes, ma'am. Do you live here in L.A.?'
'Oakland. When I heard-it's been a long time, I didn't know if I should come. I'm busy, got a job taking care of the elderly at a convalescent home. But I figured I should come. Eldon was sending me money, this pension he had. Now that he's gone, I should know what's going on. I took the Greyhound. When I got here I couldn't believe it. What a mess this place is, all the streets dug up. I got lost on the city bus. I've never been here.'
'To L.A.?'
'I been to L.A. Never been here.' Jabbing a stubby finger at the duplex. 'Maybe the whole thing was a sign.'
'What happened to Eldon. I don't mean I'm some prophet. But when things happen that aren't natural, sometimes it means you have to take a big step. I thought I should find out. Like who's burying him? He had no
