“Those could be out in the trash, soon as we’re out of here, I’ll check.” He took another look at the bathtub. Sagged. “Yeah, it’s murder. You know it, I know it, His Grace knows it.”
“But he’d love it if you could say otherwise.”
“No signature on the note that came with the disc, but I know his handwriting. Even when he prints.”
“Thought he had integrity.”
“Everything’s relative.”
I said, “Who sells frozen CO2 around here?”
“Let’s find out.”
CHAPTER
3
Two plastic garbage cans at the rear of the house were empty. Milo phoned the sanitation department, found out pickup wasn’t for three days. Ten minutes of bureaucratic-maze-running got him talking to a lab supervisor downtown. Yes, all trash and other items from the crime scene had been taken for analysis; not a clue on when that would start, the case had been marked non-emergency.
When Milo asked if empty dry ice bags and Elise Freeman’s computer were part of the haul, he got put on hold. The answer, several minutes later, raised lumps on his jaw.
He clicked off, strode toward the unmarked. “No access to that information at this time.”
We got in just as Captain Stan Creighton returned, necktie loose, jacket flapping, talking on a cell phone.
As we drove away, he was still on the phone. Talking faster.
¦
A trio of ice-rental outfits were situated within five miles of the murder scene. At the closest two, no one had purchased any frozen CO2 for weeks. Both clerks said, “We do that mostly in the summer.”
At Gary’s Ice House and Party Rentals on Fulton and Saticoy, in Van Nuys, a muscular, puffy-faced kid with three eyebrow rings and a barbed-wire biceps tattoo studied Milo’s card and said, “Yeah, dude bought a whole bunch.” Staring closer. “Homicide? He’s like a killer?”
“When did this happen?”
“I’d have to say Monday.”
“What time of day?”
“I’d have to say seven.”
“Morning or evening?”
“Evening, I close at eight.”
“You sell a lot of dry ice?”
“Tailgate parties, long trips, not that much. Most places don’t sell nuggets, just block. I asked Dude which one he wanted, he’s like dry ice, thirty pound, in this Spanish accent. I gave him nuggets because we don’t sell so many of those, why not get rid of ’em.”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Latino guy.”
“Yeah.”
“How old?”
“I dunno, thirty, forty? Looked like one of them dudes waits for day jobs outside the paint store over there.” Pointing west.
“How’d he pay?”
“Three tens.”
“How much dry ice did that buy him?”
“Thirty pounds of nuggets. They come in special bags, slows down the sublimation a little. That means the stuff turns to gas. Even with bags and an ice chest, you’re gonna lose ten percent a day.”
“This guy have an ice chest?”
“Not that I saw, he just carried the bags away.”
“What was his demeanor?”
“His what?”
“His mood. Was he nervous, friendly?”
“I’d have to say kinda confused. And in a hurry.”
“Confused how?”
“Didn’t know squat about what he was buying,” said the kid. “Took nuggets when most people like blocks and we even trim to size.”
“How many bags of nuggets are we talking about?”
“Three ten-pounders. Dude really killed someone with D.I.? What, like froze someone to death? Or burned ’em? You gotta be careful with it, it touches you, it burns bad.”
“How else could you hurt someone with it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is there anything besides freezing or burning that makes it dangerous?”
“Well,” said the kid, “I use it to kill ants. You get something in a closed-off space, you put a piece of D.I. in and they get so cold their bodies stop working and also they breathe in the sublimation and die. It’s carbon dioxide, that’s the global warming gas.”
“Plants breathe carbon dioxide,” said Milo.
“They do? Well, ants ain’t plants.” Laughter. “My sister had an ant problem in her basement and I stuck in a piece of D.I. block, taped off everywhere, couple days later millions of dead ants all over, she had to vacuum them, it was gross. So what did the dude do?”
“We’re not sure. Do you still have the bills he paid you with?”
“Nope. Armored car came yesterday, collected everything from the register and the safe.”
“Can you describe this guy a little more?”
“Mexican, like I said. Like thirty, forty. Little guy.”
“Facial hair?”
“Like a beard? Nope, clean.”
“What makes you think he was one of the day laborers?”
“He was wearing those white painter’s pants.” Nodding in appreciation of his own insight. The eyebrow rings jangled.
“Remember his shirt?”
“Um, let’s see… T-shirt, like too big for him… um—oh, yeah, white, from a college, UC something… had a weird-looking animal on it, like a big rat with a long tongue.”
“Oversized,” said Milo. “Like a gangbanger might wear?”
“Dude was no gangbanger. No tats, no attitude, just a confused little dude in painter’s pants. I figured he wanted the D.I. for a job. Killing ants or something.”
“Wearing a college shirt but not a college guy.”
The kid laughed. “Dude’s waiting for day labor he probably didn’t even get a GED.”
As we left, I said, “The UC Irvine mascot is an anteater.”
“And here I was thinking skunks were finally getting some respect.”
We walked the two blocks to the paint store. Lots of boarded-up businesses punctuated the journey, with others on the brink. Five day laborers idled by the curb, looking bored and defeated. When times are bad, the trickle-down switches to misery.
All five men wore baggy white painter’s pants, two had on white tees. One shirt was printed with the Disneyland logo, the other was paint-specked but blank. The first man who spotted us tried to walk away. Milo bellowed: “Stop.”
When that didn’t work:
