Compulsion

Tasha said, “It’s – to be honest, no one invited me.”

When we got to the rear door at Hollywood station, she said, “You don’t need to lock me up, I promise.”

Milo whistled “ Dixie.”

“Sir, there’s a problem, a real problem, usually they only got one girl cell free ’cause all the troublemakers are boys and if the girl room’s all full, they put you in a boy room and it’s dangerous.”

“You have equipment for the girl room?”

Silence.

“Do you?”

Barely audible: “Not yet, I’m saving up.”

“Nothing I can do, then. You know the rules.”

“I am human, sir, not plumbing.”

“What can I say.” Tough tone but his cheek muscles twitched.

“Please, sir. Other policemen are nice to me, I don’t make trouble, they put me in the girl room. The girls like me there, ask anyone, I don’t cause no problems, check your files.”

“When’s the last time you were here?”

“A year, sir. Maybe more. I swear. You put me in the right place and I’ll do anything you-”

“Tell you what,” said Milo. “You cooperate, I won’t book you for the blade even though you were already warned. Or for resisting, even though you made me exercise.”

“Yes, sure, of course… what does cooperate mean?”

“You’re a material witness. I might even get you a snack.”

“That is so kind, sir… you did lose my Oreos.”

Hollywood Division obliged with an empty interview room where Milo stashed Tasha. He brought her a donut and a Coke, phoned Raul Biro at the murder scene on Rodney.

Biro was still waiting for access to the apartment, had some forensic guesses to pass along.

Tony Mancusi’s head had been sawed off right beneath the chin, leaving most of the neck’s internal structure intact. Care had been taken to sever vertebrae without breaking them.

Clean work; the coroner’s investigator’s guess was a large, extremely sharp, nonserrated blade, consistent with the weapon that had dispatched Ella Mancusi. The same weapon had probably been used on Tony’s fingers. Exploratory cuts on the other hand suggested intent for a bilateral amputation.

“Maybe he got bored,” said Biro. “Or ran out of time.”

Final disposition was the coroner’s purview but the C.I., a registered nurse with twenty years’ experience, admitted off the record that the hyoid cartilage appeared ruptured. Pinpoint hemorrhages in the eyes could’ve been due to a number of causes but, combined with the neck injury, strangulation was a “decent possibility, let’s see if the doc agrees.”

Milo looked for the Altair Terrace address in a Thomas Guide, found a single block of curving, dead-end tributary off the northeastern edge of Beachwood Drive.

Not far from a rent-a-horse ranch where I used to ride when I worked at Western Pediatric. Walking distance from Franklin Avenue, but heavily wooded and freakishly quiet. I remembered how bends in the trail opened abruptly to dry, flat mesas. The vulgar message of the Hollywood sign.

Milo said, “I’m starved,” and called out for four barbecued beef sandwiches from a place on Western. I had one, he ate two, he passed the last one to Tasha, who said, “Normally I stay away from red meat, but that smells yum.”

By six forty the sky was felt-gray deepening to black and we put her back in the Seville.

She said, “I’m still tasting that lovely sauce.”

Milo said, “Behave yourself and you can have dessert.”

“So kind, sir. I do like this car.”

I drove up Beachwood, parked two blocks south of Altair Terrace.

Milo unbelted. “Time for a little hike.”

“Sir, it’s uphill, you sure you’re okay?”

“Your concern is touching. Let’s go.”

“Is this guaranteed safe?”

“What are you worried about?”

“He could see me.”

“What makes you think he’s here?”

“You’re taking me here.”

“This is to jog your memory.”

“I already told you, this is definitely the place.”

“We’re not on the street yet.”

“This is it, I feel it.”

“ESP?”

“I get feelings,” she said. “In my hair, the roots get all tingly, means I’m getting a message.”

“Out of the car.”

One block later: “Can we at least go slow, sir? My poor little feet are so sore.”

“I offered to get you some sneakers.”

“With this dress? As if. Can we just go slow?”

Milo exhaled and shortened his steps.

Tasha winked at me.

Ebony night; no sidewalks or streetlights, wide spacing between the properties filled with unruly greenery and old-growth trees.

A world in silhouette.

Tasha said, “That’s the party house, I’m sure. Let’s go.”

“Whisper.”

“Sorry. That’s the party-”

“I heard you. Which one?”

“Um, we’re not there yet.”

“Forward march.”

Ninety seconds later: “That’s the one! All the way on top!”

“Whisper, dammit!”

“Sorry, sorry. That’s it. For sure.”

A long-nailed hand pointed to a low, pale box perched on the uppermost rim of the cul-de-sac.

Milo motioned us to stay in place, hiked past three houses, then four more. Stopped just short of the target. Waited. Hazarded a quick flashlight wash of the facade.

Blank but for a single shuttered window. Garage to the left, with a corrugated aluminum door.

The flashlight beam dipped to a cement walkway. Pines and eucalyptus towered behind the flat roof. Sparse vegetation in front: a spindly yucca plant and a stunted palm.

Milo padded back. “You’re sure?”

Tasha said, “Absolutely, sir. That stupid spiky thing, got a run in my stocking. And over there’s where if you step out in back you can see the sign and over there is where Tony – rest-his-soul – and me walked.”

Tracing the curve of the cul-de-sac. “It’s all coming back to me – out there is where all the coyote screaming came from, I got so scared, sir, it was dark just like it is now. I hate the darkness, can we go?”

“Stay put with my partner.” He retraced his climb, got closer to the pale house.