Compulsion

CHAPTER 5

“Mafia hit because her name was Mancusi?” said Milo.

We were in Cafe Moghul, around the corner from the station. The restaurant’s owners view him as a human rottweiler and are all too happy to create personal buffets. I watched him make his way through plates of lamb curry, tandoori lobster, spicy okra, lentils and rice. A pitcher of iced clove tea sat at his elbow.

After all that blood in Ella Mancusi’s driveway, the mental pictures I’d drawn of the murder, it was all I could do to pour myself a glass.

I said, “Moskow didn’t say so but that was probably part of it. But maybe he’s on to something. The setup – knowing when she came out to get her paper, leaving the car idling, planning the escape route – smells of pro. So does the killer’s demeanor: brutally methodical, no hurried escape.”

“Grampa bad guy,” he said. “Doing her in broad daylight and giving himself less than three hours to get the car cleaned up and back in place is professional? Not to mention driving it back to Beverly Hills in full view?”

“Where’s the rent-a-car lot?”

“Alden Drive near Foothill.”

“B.H. industrial zone,” I said. “Pretty quiet on Sunday morning.”

“It’s also five minutes from the B.H. Police Department.”

“But a black Mercedes wouldn’t attract anyone’s attention. Neither would a car entering the lot. Any blood in the Benz?”

“At first glance, no. Let’s see what the lab turns up.”

“He wiped the knife on the front of his pants, careful not to make a mess. Two and a half hours was enough time to clean the car before he returned it. Maybe he’s got a safe place, somewhere between the crime scene and the drop-off.”

“That’s half the Westside,” he said. “Think I’m gonna get some media coverage on this one. Geriatric knife man, how many of those can there be?” Forking lobster, chewing, swallowing. “Nervy knife man, doing it in broad daylight.”

“Maybe in his mind a daytime hit was safer because a night-prowl would’ve meant breaking into her house. Did she have an alarm system?”

“Dinky. Front and back doors, no windows.”

“For an old guy, climbing through windows could be a problem,” I said. “He figured that early on Sunday, most people are sleeping. We’re also talking a victim unlikely to put up serious resistance, and a silent weapon. He blitzed her so fast she never had time to scream. If Moskow hadn’t forgotten to take his Ambien last night, the whole thing might’ve gone unnoticed. Any other neighbors have information?”

He covered his ears with his hands, repeated the gesture with his eyes and mouth.

“Moskow come up clean?”

“Spotless.” He pushed his plate away. “Wiping the blade on his pants. What’s that all about?”

“Could be an expression of contempt,” I said.

“Those arterial wounds, no way he’d avoid leaving some trace in the car.”

“He cleans up the obvious, the Benz gets steamed by the company, he’s home free.”

“I’m definitely buying contempt,” he said. “Lotta rage, here. The question is what did a seventy-three-year-old retired schoolteacher do to incite that.”

“People have secrets.”

“Well, none of hers have turned up, so far. The house was neat, clean, real grandmotherly.”

He drew his plate closer, began bolting his food.

I said, “Hot rage but cool planning. Maybe he wasn’t quite so careful last time.”

“What do you mean?”

“The stain in the Bentley.”

“No body associated with the Bentley, Alex. I’m not ready to connect the two.”

I kept quiet.

“Yeah, yeah, there are parallels,” he said. “Now give me another homicide that ties it together and explain to me how such a careful guy could leave a stain in full view.”

“It was dark when he brought the Bentley back and he missed it. Or something made him nervous and he left quickly.”

“That’s weak, Doctor.”

“Another possibility is he left it there on purpose.”

“Another contempt message?”

“Look what I got away with. Maybe the Bentley was a rehearsal for today.”

“A senior-citizen psychopath who likes to play games.” He drummed the table with his fork. “Or the Bentley has nothing to do with Ella.”

“Or that.”

“You don’t believe it.”

“Do you?”

He sighed. “I’ve got Records checking violent crime reports during the hours the Bentley was missing. Nothing so far.”

Spooning lentils into his mouth, he said, “Someone that old. Weird.”

“You know what they say. Seventy’s the new fifty.”

He reached for a lobster claw. “And up is down and low is high.”

I said, “If we are talking some kind of organized crime link, that could mean teamwork. One person steals the car, passes it along to the killer, and is available to help scrub it down afterward, maybe drive it back. Combine all that with the killer making sure to limit his contact to the front seats, and the time pressure would reduce.”

“Homicidal pit crew,” he said. Cracking the claw along the joint, he sat motionless, as if taking in the sound. “The goodfellas haven’t been a major factor since Mickey Cohen, but there are some loan sharks floating around the Valley and over in that arcade on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills.”

“Canon’s also close to the rental lot.”

“So it is.” He pulled a tube of meat from the claw, ate, repeated the process with another leg. “So what, our nice little retired schoolteacher has a dark past as a moll?”

“Or a hidden vice. Like gambling.”

“She managed to rack up a big enough debt on her pension to get sliced and diced? Make no sense, Alex. The last thing a shark wants to do is snuff the minnow and end any hope of getting paid.”

“Unless the shark has given up on collecting,” I said. “Or she wasn’t the gambler, someone else was, and they used her as an example.”

I described the unhappy exchange Moskow had witnessed between Ella and the blond man he assumed was her son.

“Arguing,” he said.

“Nothing causes conflict like money. Maybe Junior asked Mom for money and she turned him down.”

“What I don’t see is even a big-time shark butchering an old lady just to strike terror into her mope kid’s heart.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “But it is a new, cruel age.”

“Meaning?”

“Turn on the news at random.”

He dove back into his food.

I said, “Here’s another way to spin it: The blond man’s not her son, he’s the collector.”

Removing a blue plastic binder from his attache, he handed it over. Inside was a prelim crime report form yet to be filled out, a few of what looked to be Ella Mancusi’s personal papers, and an envelope that held a three-by-five color photo.

In the snapshot, a tiny white-haired woman in a belted floral dress and high heels stood next to a flabby- looking fair-haired man in his forties. Behind them was mint-green stucco. Ella Mancusi had a bird-face and sparkling dark eyes. Her lips were rouged and her nails were polished. Smiling, but something was missing from the