CHAPTER 17
'Nor HALF BAD, but no Rembrandt,' I said.
Milo ran his finger along the top of the canvas. We were in the Robbery-Homicide room, second story at West L.A. Half a dozen detectives hunched at their desks, a few sidelong stares as Milo propped the painting on his chair.
Zero Tollrance's masterpiece was all browns and blacks and muted light, just the merest wash of pink where the left arm of the man on the dissecting table had been reduced to tendons and ligaments.
Cadaver with the fussy, soft face of Eldon Mate. Even Tollrance's middling talent made that clear. Seven men, extravagantly robed and ruffed and goateed, surrounded the dissecting table, gazing down at the corpse with academic detachment. The dissector-another Mate-was clad in a black robe, white lace collar, tall black hat, probing the shredded arm with a scalpel, wearing a look of boredom.
In the original, the artist's genius had distracted from the cruelty of the scene. Tollrance's cartoon drove it home. Angry swirling brushstrokes, pigments laid on thickly to the point of impasto, sharp peaks of paint stabbing up from the surface of the canvas.
A smallish canvas-twenty-four by eighteen inches. I'd expected something far more grand.
Reducing Mate to size?
Milo lifted a stack of message slips, let them fall to the desk in disarray. 'Kugler, the art dealer, has been bugging me all day. All of a sudden, he likes realism.'
'Probably got an offer,' I said. 'Same guy who'll pay big bucks for a stained blue dress.'
Phones rang, keys clicked, someone laughed. The room smelled of scorched coffee and gym sweat. 'Got sleazeball talk shows wanting to interview me, too. And a six A.M. memo from the brass reminding me to keep my mouth shut.'
'Tollrance has bought himself some celebrity, too,' I said. 'I wonder how long that'll satisfy him.'
'Meaning he'll want true realism?'
I shrugged.
'Well,' he said, 'so far, he hasn't made any slipups.' He tapped the upper edge of the painting. 'Not a single print. Maybe you're right, a careful head case.' He angled the painting toward me. 'Does seeing this give you any other ideas?'
'Not really,' I said. 'Rage toward Mate. Ambivalence about Mate. You don't need me to tell you that.'
His phone rang. 'Sturgis-Oh yeah, hi.' His expression brightened, as if an internal filament had ignited. 'Really? Thanks. When?… Sure, that would be better than convenient. I've got Dr. D. with me- Yeah, sure, great.
'Talk about karma,' he said, hanging up. 'That was Petra. Seems she came up with some stuff on Donny. She's on her way to a trial at the Santa Monica courthouse, will stop by in ten minutes. We'll meet her out in front.'
We waited by the curb. Milo paced and smoked a Tipar-illo and I thought about the Doss family. A few moments later, Petra Connor drove up in a black Accord, parked in the red zone, and got out with her usual economy of movement. I'd never seen her when she wasn't wearing a black pantsuit. This time it was a slim-cut thing with indigo overtones, some kind of slinky wool that flattered her long, lean frame and looked beyond a D-II's budget. On her feet were medium-heeled black lace-ups. Her black hair was cropped in the usual no-nonsense wedge cut, and slung across her shoulder was a black leather bag the texture of a wind-whipped motorcycle jacket. No gun visible beneath the tailored jacket, so she was probably toting it in the bag.
The bad September light was somehow kind to her ivory skin, setting off her tight jaw, pointed chin, ski-slope nose. Pretty, in a taut way, but something about her always warned, Keep Your Distance. The dedication with which she'd followed Billy Straight's recovery told me there was warmth tucked behind the searching brown eyes. But that was inference on my part; she was all business, never talked about herself. I figured she'd jumped high hurdles to get where she was.
'Hi,' she said, flashing a cool smile, and I knew what I was supposed to ask. 'How's our guy?'
'Doing great from what I can tell. Straight A's, and he tested out a full grade ahead-amazing, considering most of what he knows is self-taught. A true intellectual, just like you said at the beginning.
What about his ulcer?' I said. 'Clearing up slowly. He fusses about taking his medicine, but for the most part he's compliant. He's also making some friends. Finally. Other 'creative' types, quoth the principal. Mrs. Adamson's big worry is he doesn't want to do much other than study and read and play with his computer.'
'What would she prefer him to do?'
'I'm not sure there's anything specific-she just seems to be nervous. About doing everything right. I think she feels she needs to report to me. She calls me once a week.'
'Hey, you're the long arm of the law,' I said.
Small smile. 'I know she really cares about him. I tell her not to worry, he'll be fine.'
She blinked, wanting confirmation.
'Good advice,' I said.
Rosy coins appeared on her cheeks. 'All in all he's getting plenty of attention. Maybe too much, considering that he's basically a loner? Sam shows up like clockwork on Friday, takes him to Venice on weekends. San Marino all week, then the freak scene. How's that for contrast?'
'Multicultural experience. I'm sure he can handle it.'
'Yes-good. If any problems come up, I assume it's okay to call you.'
'Anytime.'
'Thanks.' She turned to Milo. 'Sorry, I know you're waiting for this.' Out of the leather bag came a folder. 'Here's the info on your Mr. Salcido. Turns out he's a known quantity to us. Because of the Hollywood redevelopment thing, Councilwoman Goldstein's office ordered us to keep tabs on transients-the Bum Squad, we called it, lasted a month. Salcido's name came up in one Bum Squad file. No arrest, all they did was canvass squats, find out what the squatters were up to. If they saw drugs or any other crime, they could make an arrest, but basically it was to appease Councilwoman Goldstein.'
Milo flipped the chart open. Petra said, 'Salcido was living in an abandoned building near Western and Hollywood-the one with the big frieze in front, I think Louis B. Mayer or some other film type built it. Later, the Bummers found out he had a felony record and noted it accordingly.'
'Our tax dollars at work.' Milo thumbed the pages of the file. 'Was he living alone?'
'Unless a known associate is noted, he probably was.'
'Says they found him in 'a room full of garbage.'
As you see, he claimed to be gainfully employed but couldn't produce backup. The squad pegged him as mentally ill, probably a dope fiend, suggested he seek some help at a community MH center. He refused.
Why didn't the squad evict him?
Without a complaint from the owner, no grounds. I stopped off at the building this morning but he's gone, everyone is. Just construction workers, big remodeling project. Sorry it's not more.'
'Hey, it's something-thanks for taking the time,' said Milo. 'Squatting by himself…'
I knew he was thinking about the abandoned building in Denver. He turned a page. 'No mug shot?'
'The Bummers didn't carry cameras. But look at the back page, I got a booking photo faxed down from Marin County Jail, not terrific quality.' Milo found the shot, studied it, showed it to me. Eldon Salcido Mate, freshly inducted to penal custody, numbered plaque dangling from a chain around his neck, the mandatory sullen stare leavened by a hard, hot light in the eyes that might've been madness, or just the glare of the room.
Long, stringy hair but clean-shaven. Light-complected, as Guillerma Salcido had said. Round face, weak around the jowls. Small, prissy features that could've made incarceration a greater-than-usual challenge. Premature wrinkles. A young man aging too fast.
Striking resemblance to a face on a dissecting table; Guillerma Salcido Mate had been right. Donny was his father's son.
Milo read some more. 'Says here he claimed to be working in a tattoo parlor on the Boulevard, didn't remember which one.'
'I tried a few places, no one knows him. But the jailer up in Marin said Salcido had done some skin work on other inmates, that was probably what kept him safe.'
