smiling, toothy white guys, and similarly antique pitches for Murray’s straightening pomade aimed at the majority black clientele.
Milo liked to brag about the Ike connection.
“Probably a one-shot deal,” I said.
“Why’s that?”
“So Maurice could avoid a court-martial.”
That conversation, we’d been in an Irish bar on Fairfax near Olympic, drinking Chivas and convincing ourselves we were lofty thinkers. A man and a woman he’d been pretending to look for had been nabbed at a traffic stop in Montana and were fighting extradition. They’d slain a vicious murderer, a predator who’d sorely needed killing. The law had no use for moral subtlety and news of the capture led Milo to deliver a cranky, philosophical sermon. Downing a double, he apologized for the lapse and changed the subject to barbering.
“Maurice isn’t
“Wait long enough, and everything becomes
“Maurice is an artist.”
“I’m sure George Washington thought so.”
“Don’t be an ageist. He can still handle those scissors.”
“Such dexterity,” I said. “He should’ve gone to med school.”
His green eyes grew bright with amusement and grain alcohol. “Couple of weeks ago, I was giving a talk to a Neighborhood Watch group in West Hollywood Park. Crime prevention, basic stuff. I got the feeling some of the young guys weren’t paying attention. Later, one of them came up to me. Skinny, tan, Oriental tats on the arm, all that cut muscle. Said he dug the message but I was the stodgiest gay man he’d ever met.”
“Sounds like a come-on.”
“Oh, sure.” He tugged at a saggy jowl, released skin, took a swallow. “I told him I appreciated the compliment but he should be paying more attention to watching his back when he cruised. He thought that was a double entendre and left cracking up.”
“West Hollywood’s the sheriff,” I said. “Why you?”
“You know how it is. Sometimes I’m the unofficial spokesman for law enforcement when the audience is alternative.”
“Captain pressured you.”
“That, too,” he said.
I walked over to where Michaela had been found. Milo remained several feet back, reading the notes he’d taken last night.
A flash of white stood out among the weeds. Another nub of coroner’s rope. The drivers had trimmed the bindings because Michaela had been a slim girl.
I knew what had happened at the scene: her pockets emptied, her nails cleaned of detritus, hair combed out, any “product” collected. Finally, attendants had packaged her and lifted her onto a gurney and wheeled her up into a white coroner’s van. By now she’d be waiting, along with dozens of other plastic bundles, stacked neatly on a shelf in one of the large, cool rooms that line the gray hallways of the basement crypt on Mission Road.
They treat the dead with respect at Mission Road, but the backlog- the sheer volume of bodies- can’t help but leach out the dignity.
I picked up the rope. Smooth, substantial. As it had to be. How did it compare to the yellow binding Michaela and Dylan had purchased for their “exercise”?
Where was Dylan now?
I asked Milo if he had any idea.
He said, “First thing I did was call the number on his arrest form. Disconnected. Haven’t located his landlord. Michaela’s, either.”
“She told me she was running out of money, had a month’s grace before eviction.”
“If she did get evicted, be good to know where she’s been crashing. Think they could’ve moved in together?”
“Not if she was leveling with me,” I said. “She blamed the whole thing on him.”
I scanned the dump site. “Not much blood. Killed somewhere else?”
“Looks that way.”
“Who found the body?”
“Woman walking her poodle. Dog sniffed it out, pronto.”
“Strangled and stabbed.”
“Manual strangulation, hard enough to crush the larynx. The follow-up was five stab wounds to the chest and one to the neck.”
“Nothing around the genitalia?”
“She was fully clothed, nothing overtly sexual about the pose.”
Strangulation itself can be a sexual thing. Some lust killers describe it as the ultimate dominance. It takes a long time to stare into the face of a struggling, gasping human being and watch the life force seep out. One monster I interviewed laughed about it.
I said, “Anything under her nails?”
“Nothing overly interesting, let’s see what the lab comes up with. No hair fibers, either. Not even from the dog. Apparently, poodles don’t shed much.”
“Any of the wounds defensive?”
“No, she was dead before the cutting started. The neck wound was a little stick to the side, but it got the jugular.”
“Five’s too many for impulse cuts but less than you’d expect from an overkill frenzy. Any pattern?”
“With her clothes on, it was hard to see much of anything except wrinkles and blood. I’ll be at the autopsy, let you know.”
I stared at the glossy spot.
Milo said, “So she blamed Meserve for the hoax. Lots of love lost?”
“She said she’d come to hate him.”
“Hatred’s a fine motive. Let’s try to locate this movie star.”
CHAPTER 7
Dylan Meserve had cleared out of his Culver City apartment six weeks ago, failing to give notice to the company that owned the place. The firm, represented by a pinch-featured man named Ralph Jabber, had been more lax than Michaela’s landlord: Dylan owed three months back rent.
We encountered Jabber walking through the empty flat and jotting notes on a clipboard. The unit was one of fifty-eight in a three-story complex the color of ripe cantaloupe. The Seville’s tripometer put it three miles from where Michaela’s body had been found. That placed the murder scene roughly equidistant from the couple’s respective apartments and I said so to Milo.
“What, the two of them reaching some kind of common ground?”
“I’m pointing out, not interpreting.”
He grunted and we walked through unguarded double glass doors into a musty-smelling lobby done up in copper foil wallpaper, pumpkin-colored industrial carpet, and U-build Scandinavian furniture made of something yellow that yearned to be wood.
Dylan Meserve’s unit was on the far end of a dark, narrow hallway. From ten yards away I could see the open door, hear the supercharged whine of an industrial vacuum cleaner.
Milo said, “So much for trace evidence,” and walked faster.
