A brown-haired girl around sixteen, wearing a white blouse with a starched Peter Pan collar, and a strawberry blonde in long braids, dressed identically. Braces and spots of acne on the brunette. Soft blue eyes and pretty features yearned to get past all that. The other girl was freckled and pug-nosed and brown-eyed, with pixie ears, a wide-open smile, and perfect dentition.
In the white space at the bottom of both photos, a cross of thorny vines was wreathed by a gold ribbon imprinted
Under each picture, Milo’s handwriting:
He said, “Best friends according to their parents. Their classmates knew it was more than that. They came from seriously fundamentalist families, not a cult, but close. The school was all girls, skirts down to the ankles. These two started rebelling in their junior year of high school. A month before graduation, they ran away. Brenda was seventeen and a half, Renee barely seventeen. They confided in some pals that they were going to New York to be Rockettes. The pals spilled and the search concentrated on the East Coast, poor parents tramping all over, hiring P.I.’s, including a couple of “apostolic investigators” who ripped them off gloriously. Whether or not the girls did go east is unclear. So is what they did between the time they split and when they started making movies out here a year later.”
I said, “Byron Stark thought they were older but they were eighteen…they look older.”
“Hair and makeup and surgery can do that.”
“So can attitude,” said Petra, eyeing the film still. “Here they look like hardened pros. From high school to that in a year. Whoa.”
Dave Saunders said, “You got all this from their parents, Milo?”
“No, from the sheriff in Curney, guy named Doug Brenner. Second-generation lawman, his dad was in charge when the girls ran away. Doug was one year ahead of the girls in the church boys’ school, says all the kids knew it was a runaway because Brenda and Renee couldn’t be themselves in that environment.”
“You or he going to notify the families?”
“I told him to hold off until we learn more.”
Kevin Bouleau said, “The good news is your daughters were lesbian porn stars. The bad news is we don’t have a clue where they are.”
“I’d say they were in garbage bags, ten years ago,” said Saunders, flicking a corner of Brenda Hochlbeier’s photo. “Man, that is gross…you’re a little scumbag animal-parts-loving dope-dealer psycho killer like De Paine, Peter Pan, whatever you want to call him, where do you dump the body parts?”
Looking at me.
I said, “A lot of those guys want to revisit.”
Milo said, “We know he liked to revisit Mommy’s film escapades.”
Petra said, “So somewhere relatively close to home…Stark’s dad didn’t see the van being loaded until eight days after the girls were gone. Petey probably kept the bodies in the garage, along with his other toys.”
Saunders said, “Probably cut them up there.”
Petra didn’t blink. “That, too. But he couldn’t leave them there forever. Or bury them in the yard, too risky. So he and Bandini trucked them off. But
Milo said, “If that’s how it happened, it tells us about Mary. Her son hiding some animal parts, I can see, maybe she rarely used the fridge. But two human bodies?”
“Mama love,” she said. “Good God.”
I said, “What if the bags were taken to another property she owned?”
“Her name doesn’t cross-reference to DBAs in the business files.”
“That’s her stage name,” I said. “What about the one she was given at birth?”
“She changed it legally. Why would she continue to do real estate deals as Maria Baker?”
“She could’ve done them before the name change. Myron Bedard told us she owned a home in Carthay Circle. Which is a ten-minute ride to Fourth Street, tops.”
Milo said, “The way Carthay’s designed, no access from main avenues. Be a nice hidey-hole.”
Petra waited for additional comment. When none came, she said, “Worth a try,” and left the room.
Five minutes later she strode in fast, waving a scrap of papers, eyes ablaze. “Two Maria Baker properties for the price of one. Commodore Sloat and Del Valle, and she still owns them
She headed for the door.
“Another nice neighborhood,” said Milo, following.
Saunders and Bouleau were the last to rise. Saunders said, “All this premium real estate, Kev and I are starting to feel West
CHAPTER 38
Carthay Circle is a few square blocks of residential charm combined with denial of urban reality. Bordered by the high-rises on Wilshire to the north and the din of Olympic to the south, the enclave is a mix of beautifully kept Spanish, English, Mediterranean, and Cape Cod houses. Toward the center of the district, just off San Vicente, is an office complex where the Carthay Circle Theater once stood.
At night, the streets of Carthay are dark and still; a motorcade of detectives would stand out like objective reporting. Petra signed a Crown Victoria out of the Hollywood Division lot and the five of us piled in. She drove and Milo rode shotgun. Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau sat in back with me sandwiched between.
The car smelled of wet metal and old vinyl. Bouleau shifted his shoulders and tried to get comfortable. “Hope everyone’s on friendly terms with their deodorant.”
Milo said, “Let’s see after the trip.”
Mary Whitbread’s rental property on Del Valle was a cream stucco, neatly kept Spanish with a tiny, faux-bell- tower over the entry and a small courtyard that hosted a trickling fountain. Low-watt lighting turned the fountain spray to amber mist. A kiddie play-set stood near the basin. Mazda RX7 in the driveway in front of a RAV4. On the SUV’s bumper:
Bouleau said, “And my little psychopath kicks his ass-looks like the porn lady got herself some nice, wholesome tenants.”
Milo said, “Wonder how they’d feel about a cadaver dog sniffing around.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun,” said Petra, “but we’re a long way off. For all we know, the dump site’s in Coachella.”
No longer entertaining the possibility that there was no dump. As the facts had settled in, everyone was assuming two dead girls.
Petra drove to Commodore Sloat Drive. Another Spanish, whitewashed, slightly larger than the first. No courtyard, different window style, stained-glass insets. In this driveway sat a pair of BMWs, a gray Z3 and a black 325i. Lights flickered in a side window. Petra parked two houses up, got out, tiptoed around toward the light, lingered a bit, got back in the driver’s seat.
“Filmy drapes in the bedroom, cute couple in their thirties. The TV’s on, she’s doing a crossword puzzle, he’s plugged into an iPod.”
Dave Saunders said, “Happy family for A, yuppies for B. Conspicuous absence of psycho killers.” He yawned. “I need to get home.”
As the Central detectives drove their cars out of the division lot, Petra said, “Well, that was a whole lot of nothing…Alex, would you do me a favor and try Stark’s dad tomorrow morning? I left three messages, no answer. No doubt he detests the department, can’t say I blame him. Seeing as he’s got a counseling degree maybe he’d relate better to you.”
“I’ll do my best rendition of professional courtesy.”
