A big hand slapped the dashboard. “About the same as my being invited to the next Suss reunion.” Shaking his head. “
“Chronic gluttony?”
“I was thinking ‘constant’ but that’ll do.”
I took Benedict Canyon over the mountains as Milo checked his messages. A sheriff named Palmberg had phoned ten minutes ago.
Squinting, he made out the number. “Malibu station. Can’t think of any reason for a day at the beach.”
The Malibu desk officer said, “No one by that name works here.”
“He called me from there.”
“Hmm.”
“Lieutenant Sturgis. LAPD.”
“Hold on.” Moments later: “He’s from Downtown but he was here this morning. Here’s his cell.”
One beep before a bass rumble said, “Larry Palmberg.”
“Milo Sturgis returning your call.”
“Milo,” said Palmberg, as if digesting the name. “Got a murder out here in Topanga I thought you might be interested in. Less than a mile north from where you had one last week and the body seems to be about from that same time, give or take. Might not be related, then again.”
“Male or female?”
“Male, two gunshot wounds to the back, magnum load. Blew out his spine and everything in front of it.”
“Any sign of a shotgun?”
“Nope, just two bullet wounds. There’s a good amount of decomp but what I can tell you is he was a decent-sized fellow, dyed his hair blond, his driver’s license claims his mama named him Steven Muhrmann. I looked him up, fellow’s got a checkered past. Know him?”
“I know of him, Larry,” said Milo. “Can’t wait to make his acquaintance.”
Sheriff’s Homicide Investigator Laurentzen Palmberg was six four, two hundred and fifty solid pounds, in his midfifties, with a gray crew cut and firm, rosy cheeks. Gold-rimmed, small-lens eyeglasses creased a serious nose. He was smoking enthusiastically, snubbed out his cigarette as we stepped out of the Seville.
Introductions were quick. Palmberg took out a hard-pack of Parliaments, kept passing it from hand to hand. Otherwise, he looked serene. Deputies in tan uniforms abounded, Palmberg was the only person in civvies: well-cut gray pin-striped suit, white tab-collar shirt, orange tie patterned with the noble heads of Irish setters. One dusty- toed black loafer tapped the eastern edge of the road.
He pointed to where white-clad crime scene techs fussed over something, around thirty feet down. The object of their attention lay on a ten foot mini-mesa chunked out of the hillside by eons of erosion. If the body hadn’t landed there, it would’ve rolled another hundred feet into dense brush.
“Here’s where it started.” Palmberg walked to a nearby evidence marker and nodded at a large brown patch spreading over asphalt, dirt, and grass. Clumps of what looked like pemmican littered the brush.
Once vital organs, drying in the sun. We all end up nonvital.
I said, “What’s he wearing?”
“Black suit, what used to be a white shirt. Black tie. Guess his last night was fancy.”
Same outfit I’d seen outside the Fauborg. I waited for Milo to comment but he just said, “Who found him?”
“Helicopter,” said Palmberg, “some real estate guy checking out large plots of vacant land. The pilot got as low as he could to verify it was what he thought it was, then called us.”
“Good eye.”
“He used to fly traffic for you guys, guess old habits die hard.”
Palmberg smoothed down an already impeccable lapel. “The movie that’s playing in my head until something better comes along is this: Muhrmann was with someone in a car, they stopped to enjoy the view. He’s looking out that way, the shooter gets behind him, does the deed. Muhrmann either rolls down by himself or gets a little push. There’s no sign of any big struggle and no drag marks so I’m figuring gravity was on the shooter’s side, it really wouldn’t take much propulsion once you put things in motion. Body stopped where it did because it snagged on some branches. Without that, we’d never have found him.”
Milo said, “Any idea how far the shooter was standing?”
Palmberg gazed at the white-suits. “Their best guesstimate is ten feet away, give or take. Due to the decomp it’s hard to be sure, but no obvious stippling, so probably not a contact or close-up. I can see the shooter suggesting they stop for the view then making some excuse to go into the car where he gets the weapon and blasts Muhrmann before Muhrmann knows what’s up. Your vic was shotgunned, huh? But you’re here?”
“Shotgunned but also nailed by a .45.”
“Two bad guys?” said Palmberg. “No sign of that with mine and the shell we recovered was a .357. So what do you know of
Shadowing his eyes with a palm, Milo peered down into the crime scene. “He was a prime suspect in my murder but now I might have to recast my own movie. How’d you know about my vic?”
“What do you think?” said Palmberg. “I’m a dedicated detective, pore over the daily stats like it’s my cholesterol report.” He rumbled a long, deep laugh. “Nah, I saw it on TV, then when I found out where this one was dumped, I started wondering. So tell me, Milo, if Muhrmann was your prime, how come he wasn’t mentioned on the news?”
“All I had on him was a feeling.”
“Feelings are good, I’ve closed a lot of cases with feelings.”
“Tell the bosses that,” said Milo. “The ruling was I didn’t have enough to go public.”
Palmberg clucked. “My bosses would probably say the same. Anyway, it wouldn’t have helped much, seeing as Muhrmann’s been down there rotting for days, maybe got nailed the same night as your Jane Doe did.”
“Jane’s got a name, now. Tiara Grundy, did some call girl work and ended up as a mistress to a Sugar Daddy.”
“Daddy on your radar?”
“Also dead, half a year ago, natural causes.”
“Boy, this town chews ’em up. What kind of natural?”
“Heart, he was pushing seventy, didn’t watch
“Any leads at all?”
“Muhrmann’s body could be a lead, Larry. He was seen with Tiara the night she died and we’re thinking she was on a date but not with him.”
He nodded at me.
I recapped the scene at the Fauborg.
Palmberg said, “Fake movie star with a fake bodyguard. Some sort of game, huh? You’re thinking another rich mark?”
Milo said, “A rich sociopath mark who colluded with Muhrmann to shoot Tiara, then took care of Muhrmann a mile later in order to tie up loose ends. Any tire tracks around here?”
“If there were any, they’re long gone.” Palmberg removed his glasses, checked the lenses, scratched away a speck of something. “Any specific candidates for this crafty death dealer?”
“We’ve been looking at the Daddy’s heirs, thinking maybe Tiara tried some extortion when she lost her means of support.”
“Rich folk like to delegate.”
“They sure do,” said Milo. “Problem with a contract killer is how do I access the money trail?”
Palmberg put his glasses back on. “Sounds like we’re both in great shape. You have problems sharing your file?”
“Soon as I get back, it’s faxed to you.”
“I’ll do the same, buddy. Once I have a file.”
They exchanged cards.
Milo said, “My file has Muhrmann’s mother’s info in there, lives in Covina, nice lady.”
“Aren’t they all,” said Palmberg. “Your lucky day, missing out on notification by a mile.”
“Aw shucks.”
