my thing.”
“You work there on a volunteer basis.”
She laughed harder. “Did it look like there was any serious money to be made there? Yes, I volunteer. I was a scholarship student at Immaculate Heart and the archdiocese helped with my med school tuition. They ask for a favor, I say sure. So what did this Huggler actually do?”
“It’s nasty,” said Biro.
“Then forget I asked, Detective, I trained at County, saw more than enough nasty. I certainly hope you catch him and if I ever see him again, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Couple more things,” said Raul. “You said Dr. Shacker showed up after Huggler. So Huggler came in by himself?”
“Technically I guess he did,” said Mendes. “A few minutes later, Shacker showed up, said he’d been parking the car. I got the clear impression they’d arrived together. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got patients waiting.”
Parking the car. Small point to her but Raul’s brain was screaming A Vehicle. Ripe for a BOLO.
He said, “One more question. How come you referred Huggler to North Hollywood Day?”
“Because Dr. Shacker recommended it. You should get the details from him, he really seemed to care about Huggler. Then again, he’d probably have confidentiality issues. So do I, but murder’s different.”
Biro filled Petra in.
She said, “It’s a good bet Shacker spotted Eccles at that clinic. I’ll go back to the uniforms who busted Eccles, see if there’s anything else they remember about Loyal Steward. And seeing as Harrie directed the doctor to North Hollywood Day and he’s an insurance whore and they’re an insurance mill, it’s obvious my charm didn’t work as well with Ostrovine as I thought and he’s still holding back. You up for bad-copping him?”
“More than up,” said Raul. “Raring to go.”
On the way to the Valley, he phoned in and reported to Milo.
Milo said, “Good work, Raul. Onward.”
I’d just stepped into his office. He wheeled his chair back. “See how supportive I am with the young’uns?”
“Admirable.”
“Not that anything they’ve learned adds up to a warm bucket of spit until we locate these freakoids.”
He summarized.
I’d been up late, trying to answer some questions of my own. Mentally reviewing my brief talk with James Harrie to see if I’d missed something.
Understanding why someone like Huggler would welcome Harrie’s caretaking but not getting what was in it for Harrie, because if a man that calculated was able to exact his own brand of vengeance, why raise the risk of discovery by collaborating with someone so deeply disturbed?
Engaging in twenty-plus years of what was effectively foster-parenting.
What was in it for the parent?
The small questions had resolved quickly but the big picture remained clouded and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d made several wrong turns.
I said, “The pension angle didn’t work out?”
“The pension board is absolutely certain that no checks are mailed from any government agency to James P. Harrie, same for the welfare office regarding assistance payments to Grant Huggler. I tried out a whole bunch of spelling variations because paperwork gets messed up. Even checked under Shacker’s name, because he’d also been a state employee, maybe Harrie had stolen his benefits as well as his identity. No such luck, those checks are sent to a cousin in Brussels. So maybe we’re dealing with free-enterprise criminals, intent on making it the old- fashioned way.”
I said, “How much money are we talking about?”
“Best estimate I could get was someone in Harrie’s situation could pull a pension of three to four grand a month, depending if he claimed stress or disability. No way to know exactly what Huggler’s qualified for, there’s an alphabet soup of welfare goodies for someone who knows how to work the system. Top estimate was two or so a month.”
“The two of them pool their funds, they can rake in as much as sixty, seventy thousand a year, tax-free. I don’t see them forgoing that, Big Guy, even with Harrie making money as a fake psychologist. He put up serious money for that office, must’ve started with some sort of stash. So the checks are going somewhere. What if Harrie stole I.D.’s other than Shacker’s? For himself and for Huggler?”
“Someone cross-checks Social Security numbers, they’d get found out.”
“Big if,” I said. “But okay, what if they went the legal route and changed their names in court? Any switch for Huggler would have to be within the last four years because he was still using his real name when he got arrested behind Wainright’s office.”
“Send the check to Jack the Ripper and his lil pal the Zodiac? Some computer obliges without a squawk? Wonderful.”
He called a Superior Court clerk he’d befriended years ago, hung up looking deflated.
“Guess what? Court orders are no longer required for name changes. All you have to do now is use your new moniker consistently while conducting official business and eventually the new data’s ‘integrated’ into the county data bank.”
He yanked a drawer open, snatched a panatela, rolled it, still wrapped, between his fingers. “But you’re right, no way they’d pass up that much easy dough.”
His cell phone played Erik Satie. He barked, “Sturgis!” Then, in an even louder voice: “What!”
He turned scarlet. “Back up, Sean, give me the details.”
He listened for a long time, scrawled notes so angrily the paper tore twice. When he clicked off he was breathing fast.
I said, “What?”
He shook his head. Attacked the phone with both thumbs.
The image appeared moments later, a grainy gray peep show on the phone’s tiny screen.
Tagged at the top with rolling digital time and the I.D. number of a Malibu Sheriff cruiser’s dash-cam.
Six thirteen a.m. Malibu. Pacific Coast Highway. Mountains to the east, so north of the Colony where the beach city turns rural.
The deputy, Aaron Sanchez, justifying the stop on the fifteen-year-old Acura.
Not because of the BOLO; the tags matched a recent theft from the Cross Creek shopping center.
Felony stop. Extreme caution.
Six fourteen a.m.: Deputy Sanchez calls for backup. Then (on loudspeaker): “Exit the vehicle, now, sir, and place your hands on your head.”
No response.
Deputy Sanchez: “Exit the vehicle immediately, sir, and place-”
Driver’s door opens.
A man, small, thin, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, emerges, places his hands on his head.
Flash of bald spot. Bad comb-over.
Deputy Sanchez exits his own vehicle, gun out, aimed at the driver.
“Walk toward me slowly.”
The man complies.
“Stop.”
The man complies.
“Lie down on the ground.”
The man appears to comply then whips around, pulling something out of his waistband. Crouching, he points.
Deputy Sanchez fires five times.
The man’s small frame absorbs each impact, billowing like a sail.
He falls.
Sirens in the distance gain volume.
Backup, no longer needed.
