symmetry, neatness. The irony. Frosting on the old murder cake.
If Milo was thinking that, he wasn't putting it into words. He trudged steadily but very slowly, mouth set, eyes swiveling from side to side, one arm loose, the other at his belt, inches from his service revolver. More tension than readiness for battle. He'd stashed his shotgun in the trunk of the unmarked.
The path finally ended at an egg-shaped parking area partially edged by large, circular rocks. The border looked like someone's primitive attempt at hardscape, long disrupted by the elements. Two cars: Ulrich's navy BMW and Tanya Stratton's copper-colored Saturn.
Ulrich had told us a tale of another dark BMW stationed on Mulholland.
BMW like ours.
I'd agonized over whether the car had been Richard's. Richard or Eric at the wheel. But it had existed only in Ulrich's lie.
Orchestrating.
The building was just beyond the cars, at the rear of the property, and we approached, trying to shield ourselves behind trees, straining for a better look. Finally, we had a view of the front door. Open, but blocked by a dirty-looking screen.
Ugly little thing, not much more than a shed, shoved up against a mountain wall and surrounded by brush. Tar-paper roof the brown-green of a stagnant pond, the clapboard, once white, now murky as laundry water. Nearly hidden by low branches-one bough swooped within a foot of the door-as if yielding itself to green strangulation.
Up above, barely visible through the sycamores, was a mountain ridge crowned by a thick black coiffure of pines. More state land. No prying neighbors. We advanced to within twenty yards of the cabin before Milo stopped, ducked off the path and into the brush, motioning me quickly to do the same. A second later, the screen door opened and Tanya Stratton stepped out, letting it slam shut with a snare-drum rattle. She wore a long-sleeved tan shirt, blue jeans, white sneakers, had her hair tucked into a red bandanna. No dark glasses this time, but she was too far away for us to see her eyes. She stretched, yawned, went to her car and popped the trunk.
The cabin door opened again, exposing a stretch of arm. Tan arm, male arm. But Ulrich didn't appear. Holding the screen ajar. A good-looking golden retriever bounded out and raced to Tanya Stratton's side.
Duchess. Great nose, thinks she's a drug dog.
'Great,' Milo whispered. 'So much for surveillance.'
Speaking so softly I had to read his lips. But the dog's ears perked and she pivoted toward us, began nosing the ground. Walking. Picking up speed. Tanya Stratton said, 'Duchess! Treat!' and the dog froze in her tracks, shook herself off. Turned and ran toward her mistress.
Stratton had pulled a bag out of the trunk. Now she opened it, reached inside, dangled something in front of Duchess's nose.
'Sit. Wait.'
The dog settled on her haunches, watched the Milk-Bone that Tanya waved near her nose.
Tanya said, 'Good girl,' gave her the bone, ruffled the fur around the retriever's neck. Duchess stayed by Tanya's side, waited till Tanya let her back into the cabin.
'Good dog,' muttered Milo. He looked at his Timex. 'Separate cars. What do you make of that?'
'Maybe Tanya's planning on leaving before him. Work obligations, like her sister said.'
He thought about that. Nodded. 'Leaving him alone to do his thing. Which could be sticking close to base or taking another drive. Maybe he's got stuff stashed here. Buried here. Meaning I can't afford to mess up any of the search rules. Gonna have to coordinate with Malibu sheriffs to keep it kosher… Maybe the best thing is back off, find somewhere to watch the road. See if Tanya leaves, then what he does-if she's not in immediate danger.'
'His pattern with his women friends is to wait until they've gotten ill again, minister to them, then take it all the way. Then again, he may have hastened the process along.'
'Poison?'
'He'd know how.'
'So what are you saying, forget waiting? Waltz right in?'
'Let me think.'
I never got around to it.
The door opened yet again and this time Paul Ulrich showed himself. Fit and well-fed, in a white polo shirt, khaki pants, brown loafers, no socks. Muscular arms, ruddy complexion. Mug of something in one hand.
He drank, placed the cup on the ground, took a few steps forward.
Showed us his face.
Two alert, sparkling eyes, a smudge of rosy skin behind flaring mustaches.
Twin propellers of hair so huge, so flamboyant, that despite my attempt to get past them, to seize upon something-the merest grace note of recognition-that would tie his face into one of the photos in Leimert Fusco's file, my brain processed only mustache.
Facial hair could do that.
He retrieved his coffee, strutted around. Flexed a bicep and inspected the bulge of muscle.
Another sip. Big stretch.
So content. Top of the morning.
The mustache made him look like a Keystone Kop. Nothing funny about him.
Milo's hand was square on his gun, ringers white against the walnut grip, scrambling toward the trigger. Then, as if realizing what he was doing, he drew it away. Wiped his hand on his jacket. Rubbed his face. Stared at Ulrich.
Suddenly Ulrich dropped to the ground, as if avoiding gunfire. We watched him peel off fifty lightning pushups. Perfect form. When he bounced back to his feet, he stretched again, showing no signs of exertion.
He ran a hand over his thinning hair, rotated his neck, flexed his arms, worked on the neck some more. Even killers get stiff… all those hours behind the wheel…
Smoothing one mustache, he reached behind and picked at his seat.
Even killers untangle their shorts.
Watching it-the banality-I felt let down. Human. They shouldn't be, but they always are.
Ulrich finished his coffee, placed the mug on the ground once more, walked to his own car. Popped his trunk. Out came something black. Small leather case, the polished surface reflected the filtered sunlight leaking down through the trees.
Doctor's bag. Ulrich stroked it.
I whispered, 'There you go.'
Milo said, 'What the hell does he need that for right now?'
The cabin door opened again. As Tanya stepped outside, Ulrich moved quickly, shifting the bag behind his back, inching toward his car. She took only a few steps, was looking away from him, up at the treetops. Ulrich slipped the bag into the trunk, lowered the lid, sauntered over to Tanya.
Not acknowledging him, she started to turn, was about to reenter the cabin when he reached her. Slipping one hand around her waist, he kissed the back of her neck.
She was rigid, unresponsive.
Ulrich remained behind her, maintained his grip around her waist. Kissed her again and she twisted away from his lips. He stroked her cheek, but his face, unseen by her, bore no affection.
Immobile.
Eyes hard and focused. Face slightly flushed.
Tanya said something, broke away from him, disappeared back into the cabin.
Ulrich stroked his mustache. Spit in the dirt.
Walked back to the car. Quickly. Face still expressionless. Flushed scarlet. He popped the trunk and retrieved the black bag.
Milo said, 'Not good.'
His hand shot back to his gun and now he was stepping out from behind the tree. He'd barely taken a step when the shot rang out, hard and sharp, like hands clapping once.
From behind Ulrich. Above. The growth of pine at the ridge.
Milo ran back to his hiding spot. Gun out, but no one to shoot at.
