“Whatever Leona’s involvement,” I said, “she gave you two good leads: an address on Lloyd Place and a doctor on San Vicente who does STD testing.”
He pulled his phone out aggressively as if dislodging a burr, punched in speed dial for
Dr. Richard Silverman answered, “Big Guy.”
“You home or at work?”
“Work. You miss me?”
“Always. Free for a sec?”
“Perfect timing, I just finished operating. Semi-necrosed gallbladder, brink of explosion, a life was saved, cue in the triumphant beating of medical breasts.”
“Congrats.”
“Now that I’ve painted that appetizing picture, how about coffee? Where are you?”
“On the road. Sorry, jammed up.”
“Oka-ay … planning to make it home for dinner?”
“Hard to tell. Alex is here.”
“Ah.” Two beats. “Hi, Alex. See if you can send him home for dinner.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Like he’s a movable object.”
Milo said, “Who in a building on San Vicente tests for STDs?”
“Any physician can test.”
“How about someone who specializes in it?”
“And here I was thinking this was a pleasant domestic chat.”
“Forget I brought it up.”
“Toothpaste back in the tube?” Rick chuckled. “I have no idea who’s on San Vicente and I don’t imagine anyone who tests would breach confidentiality.”
“You’re right, it was stupid.”
A beat. “I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank me by being home for dinner.”
The next call was to a friendly judge whom Milo beseeched for a warrant on the Lloyd Place residence.
Friendliness only goes so far.
“Are you
“Sorry to bother you, sir, I just thought you might be interested.”
“Why would I be interested?”
“Particularly nasty case, sir. Your tough line on crime.”
“How do you define nasty?”
Milo filled in details.
The judge said, “It does sound ugly. Anyone else living at this address?”
“Not to my knowledge, Your Honor.”
“No one to squawk to the ACLU. All right, these are the parameters: You must establish or prove you’ve made a serious attempt to establish your victim’s identity prior to verifying that she actually lived at the address. Upon your satisfying that contingency, consent to enter the premises will need to be granted by any current permanent occupant, including tenants, and the objects of your search will be limited to personal belongings and body fluids left behind by said victim.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Yeah, yeah, knock yourself out. With all the suit-crazy cretins running around, I probably still gave you too much.”
Dipping toward Sunset, we passed the raspberry-sherbet bulk of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Heading east, I turned onto Doheny, rolled downhill, and searched for Lloyd Place.
Milo’s GPS put it closer to Santa Monica than it was and I nearly overshot. One of those easy-to-miss turnoffs dead-ending just short of West Hollywood’s border with Beverly Hills.
Narrow and shady, Lloyd was packed with small pride-of-ownership houses, many of them blocked by ivy- covered walls and hyperactive landscaping.
I said, “Marilyn Monroe lived around here during her early days.”
“How do you know stuff like that?”
“Some lonely kids read a lot.”
I cruised up half a block before finding the address. One-story front–back duplex, nearly concealed by palm fronds. Green building; not philosophically, literally: mint-hued stucco below the midline, lime wood above.
Quiet, seldom-traveled street. Perfect for a love-nest.
The nest Mark Suss had feathered was Unit B, at the rear. No name on the mailbox. Unit A was marked Haldeman. An old black Mercedes convertible sat in the driveway. Milo ran the plates. Erno Keith Haldeman, Malibu address.
We walked past the car, along an oleander-shrouded brick path littered with fronds and seeds and pods and toxic pink petals. The air smelled like Tahiti. If Erno Haldeman was in his front unit, he wasn’t letting on; no one interrupted our progress to B.
Plain wooden door, blinds drawn. The
We retraced our steps to Erno Haldeman’s double-width door, elaborately carved, with an elephant centerpiece that spanned both panels. A brass knocker hung from the pachyderm’s trunk.
Milo used it, four times, hard. The wood—teak or something like it—responded with a dull thud.
He tried again.
A male voice, deep and boomy, said, “Go away.”
“Mr. Haldeman—”
“Not interested in what you’re selling.”
“We’re not—”
“That includes salvation if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“Police, Mr. Haldeman.”
“That’s a new one.”
“It’s true.”
“Read off your badge number and I’ll verify with the Sheriff’s.”
“L.A. police, sir. Lieutenant Milo Sturgis.” Reciting his stats.
Ponderous footsteps preceded the crack of the door. A gray eye peered out from a spot well above Milo’s sight line. “For real?”
“Very real, sir.”
“What’s this about?”
“Your tenant.”
“Tara? What’s up with her?”
“She’s dead, sir.”
The door swung open on a mountain of white linen.
Midforties, slope-shouldered, as broad as two men and stretching to an easy six six, Erno Haldeman had hairless pink hands the size of rib roasts, a bullet head shaved clean, a fleshy ruddy nose that drooped to a petulant upper lip, hound-dog cheeks that vibrated as he breathed. Straw-colored eyebrows were big and coarse enough to scour greasy pots. The gray eyes were rimmed with amber, disproportionately small, bright with curiosity.
The linen was a two-piece ensemble that had to be custom: blousy V-neck shirt, drawstring pants. Mesh sandals barely contained massive, prehensile feet. Haldeman’s toenails were yellow and ridged, the consistency of rhino horn, but his fingernails were impeccably shaped and coated with clear polish.
“Tara?” he said. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish we were, sir.”