For all we know, the damned
“The owner let it nose the body?”
Milo rubbed his face. “The owner claims she yanked it away the minute she saw what it was. Still…”
I started up the car.
He said, “I need to be careful not to tunnel in on anyone too quickly.”
“Makes sense.”
“Sometimes I do that.”
CHAPTER 9
A DMV check revealed no vehicles currently registered to Reynold Peaty. No California driver’s license. Ever.
“Hard to transport a body without wheels,” I said.
Milo said, “Wonder how he gets to work.”
“The bus. Or a stretch limo.”
“Your attempt at humor is refreshing. If he bears further watching, I’ll check out the bus routes, see if he’s a regular.” He laughed.
I said, “What?”
“He comes across dumb and weird but think about it: He sweeps up at an
“He was playing us?”
“The world’s a stage,” he said. “Sure be nice to have the script.”
“If he was performing, why would he put on a weird act?” I said.
“True…let’s head back.”
I drove toward the West L.A. station as he phoned the MTA and learned which buses Peaty would’ve taken from Pico-Robertson to the PlayHouse. Transfers and the need to cover several blocks on foot stretched a half-hour car trip to at least a ninety-minute journey.
I said, “Michaela’s Honda show up yet?”
“Nope…you’re thinking Peaty coulda jacked her?”
“The hoax might’ve given him ideas.”
“Life imitating art.” He punched numbers on his cell, talked briefly, hung up. “No sign of it yet. But we’re not talking conspicuous. A Civic, black no less. If the plates are off or replaced, it could take a long time to spot it.”
“If Peaty is the bad guy,” I said, “maybe he decided to drive to work this morning and ditched it within walking distance of the PlayHouse.”
“That would be pretty damned stupid.”
“Yes, it would.”
He chewed his cheek. “Mind turning around?”
We cruised the half-mile radius surrounding the acting school, peering up and down streets and alleys, driveways and parking lots. Taking more than an hour, then expanding to another half mile and spending another hundred minutes. Spotting lots of Civics, three of them black, all with plates that checked out.
On the way back to the station, Milo tried the coroner’s office and learned that Michaela’s autopsy was scheduled in four days, maybe longer if the body count stayed high. “Any way to prioritize? Yeah, yeah, I know…but if there’s anything you can do. Appreciate it, this one could get complicated.”
I sat in the spare chair of Milo’s tiny, windowless office as he tried to plug Reynold Peaty into the data banks. His computer took a long time to sputter to life, even longer for icons to fill the screen. Then they disappeared and the screen went black and he started all over again.
Fourth PC in eight months, yet another hand-me-down, this one from a prep school in Pacific Palisades. The last few donated machines had enjoyed the shelf life of raw milk. In between Clunkers Two and Three, Milo had paid for a high-priced laptop with his own money, only to see some glitch in the station’s electrical system fry his hard drive.
As the disk drives ground on, he sprang up, muttering about “advanced middle age” and “plumbing,” and left for a few minutes. Returning with two cups of coffee, he handed one to me, drank his, snatched a cheap cigarillo from his desk drawer, unwrapped it, and jammed the unlit cylinder between his incisors. Tapping his fingers as he stared at the screen, he bit down too hard, splintered the cigar, wiped tobacco shreds from his lips. Tossing the Nicaraguan pacifier, he got himself another.
Smoking’s prohibited anywhere in the building. Sometimes he lights up, anyway. Today he was too antsy to enjoy the fruits of misdemeanor. As the computer struggled to resuscitate, he sorted through his messages and I reviewed the prelim on Michaela Brand, studied the crime scene photos.
Beautiful golden face turned a familiar green-gray.
Milo grimaced as the screen flashed and dimmed and flashed. “If you want to translate
I tasted the coffee, put it aside, closed my eyes, and tried to think of nothing. Sound came through the walls, too murky to classify.
Milo’s space is at the end of a hall on the second floor, set well apart from the detectives’ room. Not an overcrowding issue;
It’s part of a deal he made with the former police chief, a cozy bit of politics that allowed the chief to retire rich and unbothered by criminal charges and Milo to remain in the department.
As long as his clearance rate stays high, and he doesn’t flaunt his sexual preferences, no one bothers him. But the new chief’s big on drastic change and Milo keeps waiting for the memo that will disrupt his life.
Meanwhile, he works.
Whir-whir, burp, click-click. He sat up. “Okay, here we go…” He typed. “No state record, too bad…let’s try NCIC. C’mon baby, give it to Uncle Milo…yes!”
He pushed a button and the old dot-matrix printer near his feet began scrolling paper. Yanking out the sheets, he tore on the perforated line, read, handed them to me.
Reynold Peaty had accumulated four felony convictions in Nevada. Burglary thirteen years ago in Reno, a Peeping Tom three years later in that same city pled down to public intoxication/disturbing the peace, two drunk driving violations in Laughlin, seven and eight years ago.
“He’s still drinking,” I said. “Three beers he admits to. A long-standing alcohol problem would account for no driver’s license.”
“Booze-hound peeper. You see those tattoos?”
“Jailbird. But no felonies on record since he crossed the border five years ago.”
“That impress you mightily?”
“Nope.”
“What impresses
“Breaking in for the sexual thrill,” I said. “All those DNA matches that end up turning burglars into rapists.”
“Booze to lower inhibitions, young sexy girls parading in and out. It’s a lovely combination.”
