Compulsion

upturn of lip.

The blond man stood with his arms at his sides. Tight around the shoulders, as if posing for the picture had been an imposition.

I said, “Fits the guy Moskow described.”

“Read the back.”

I flipped the photo.

Anthony and me, my birthday. I baked a chocolate cake. The writing was elegant cursive. The date was December, two years ago.

“Devoted son lets her bake her own birthday cake,” I said.

I studied Ella Mancusi’s smile some more and realized what was missing. Maternal pride.

Milo said, “I’m figuring he’s an only child because the few photos in the house were all of him, mostly when he was a kid, all the way back to grade school. She held on to his birth certificate and twelve years of report cards. C minus student when he applied himself. There’s one Anthony Mancusi in the county and the only thing on his record is a DUI six years ago, pled down to misdemeanor. If he’s got a drinking problem, doesn’t look to be genetic. The only booze Ella had was a bottle of sherry, unopened, dust all over it.”

He rubbed his face. “She didn’t own much, Alex. All her important papers were in three cigar boxes near her bed. Eighteen years ago she retired from L.A. Unified. Her last job was teaching social studies at Louis Pasteur Junior High, they wrote her a nice letter. She was widowed way before that – when Anthony was a teenager. Husband was Anthony Senior, supervisor at a dairy in Santa Fe Springs, died on the job of a heart attack. The house has been paid off for eleven years, between her pension and Senior’s she did okay. Your basic upstanding, middle- class lady living out her days in a low-crime neighborhood. Why the hell would she end up this way?”

I took another look at the photo. “It’s his mother’s birthday but he wants to be anywhere else. Toss in Moskow’s account of the irate conversation and there’s some kind of issue here. Was there a will in the box?”

He thought. “No. Junior bumps her off to inherit?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Sure, it has, but what kind of beast would have his mother carved like a holiday roast?” He motioned for the check. The smiling, bespectacled woman who always serves him hurried over and asked how the meal was.

“Everything was delicious,” he said, slipping her some bills. “Keep the change.”

“This is far too much, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I give you credit,” she said. “For next time.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I bother.”

Outside the restaurant, he hitched up his trousers and looked at his watch. “Time to talk to Tony Mancusi Junior, our misdemeanor drunk.”

“The lack of a serious record says nothing about a gambling problem,” I said.

“Yeah, but why get involved with living, breathing sharks when you can boot up and use PayPal?”

“Why would a movie star staying at the Four Seasons go trolling for thirty-dollar streetwalkers on Sunset when he’d have access to call girls who look better than his leading ladies? Sometimes dirty and dangerous is part of the thrill.”

“Games,” he said. “All right, let’s talk to this joker. At the very least, I’ll be the bearer of really bad news.”

Anthony James Mancusi Jr.’s phone was disconnected, which made Milo more intent on finding him.

The papers on his eight-year-old Toyota listed a residence on Olympic, four blocks east of Fairfax. The address matched a pink neo-Regency six-plex built around a compact, green courtyard. Vintage charm, blooming flowers, spotless pathways. If you discounted the brain-sapping traffic roar, not bad at all.

The landlord, a sixtyish Asian man named William Park, lived in one of the ground-floor units. He came to the door holding a copy of Smithsonian magazine.

“Tony?” he said. “He moved out three months ago.”

“How come?” said Milo.

“His lease was up and he wanted something less expensive.”

“Money problems?”

William Park said, “The units are two-bedrooms. Maybe Tony felt he didn’t need so much.”

“In other words, money problems.”

Park smiled.

Milo said, “How long did he live here, sir?”

“He was already here when I bought the building. That was three years ago. Before that, I don’t know.”

“Easy tenant?”

“Mostly,” said Park. “Is he in trouble?”

“His mother just passed away and we need to find him.”

“Passed away… oh.” Park studied us. “Something… unnatural?”

“Afraid so, Mr. Park.”

“That’s terrible… hold on, I’ve got Tony’s forwarding address. Sometimes I still get mail for him.”

“Have any of his mail now?”

“No, I mark it forward and the mailman takes it away.” Park disappeared into his apartment, leaving an open view of a neat white room.

Milo said, “The observant Mr. Moskow, now him. Law enforcement and the citizenry, working hand in hand. Maybe the world ain’t so mean, after all.”

Strange thing to say after viewing Ella Mancusi lying in a quart of her own blood. Still, it was nice to hear him positive.

I said, “Global warming.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Park returned and handed Milo a scrap of paper.

Post office box, L.A. 90027.

East Hollywood. Good chance it was a mail drop. Milo smiled through his disappointment and thanked Park.

“Anything I can do to help. Poor Tony.”

“So he was a good tenant,” said Milo. “Mostly.”

Park said, “Sometimes he was late with the rent, but he always paid the extra fee without griping.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He told me he used to work for the studios – a grip, moving scenery. A few years ago, he hurt his back and had to live on disability. His mother helped him out. Sometimes, the rent check was hers. Someone killed her?”

“How well did you know her, Mr. Park?”

“Me? I didn’t know her at all, just cashed her check.”

“Did Tony talk about her?”

“Never. Tony didn’t talk much.”

“Quiet guy.”

“Really quiet,” said Park.

“How often did his mother pay his rent?”

“Hmm… I’d say about half the time. Maybe more the last few months.”

“How much more?”

“I believe out of the last six months, she paid four.”

“Did she mail you the checks?”

“No, Tony gave them to me.”

“What was the nature of Tony’s disability?”