Chasing Darkness (17 page)

I SAT
in my car in the strip mall parking lot, watching the women come and go without seeing them. The heat was suffocating. It baked down from the sky and bounced up from the parking lot and soaked into the car until the car became part of the oven. The heat came from all sides, and didn't let up, but I still did not move. I didn't like what I had learned from Dowling or what those things led me to think.

The manila envelope with the articles and files I had collected was behind the passenger seat. I fingered through the printouts until I found the one I wanted, and reread it.

Marx had investigated the murder of the first victim, Sondra Frostokovich, almost seven years ago. Described as an administrator for the city, her body had been found by workmen in an empty building on Temple Street, four blocks from where she worked in the city administration building. She was twenty-four years old, and had been strangled to death with an extension cord. Lindo had pointed out the blood dripping from her nose in the death album Polaroid. Three drops that, when compared to the coroner investigator's crime scene pictures, established the Polaroid had been taken within moments of her death. When I closed my eyes, the frozen image returned to life, and the red pool continued to grow.

The short article provided no personal information of any kind. No family members, spouse, or children were mentioned, nor was a place of birth or school affiliation. The article ended with the plea from Marx for anyone with knowledge of the crime to come forward. He had almost certainly worked the case with a partner, but the only officer identified was Detective-Sergeant Thomas Marx of Central Bureau Homicide.

It was a long road from sergeant to deputy chief, and Marx had traveled that road in only seven years.

I dialed Information and asked for any listing in any city area code for Frostokovich. It took a moment, but the operator found five listings scattered over three area codes—two male, one female, and two showing only initials. Good thing Sondra wasn't a Jones or Hernandez.

I called Edward Frostokovich first, but got no answer, not even a message machine.

Grady Frostokovich was my second call. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding young and polite. I identified myself, and asked if he knew of or had been related to a Sondra Frostokovich.

He said, “The one who was murdered?”

“That's right. I'm sorry to disturb you like this.”

“Hey, no worries, I barely knew her. They found the guy. All this time later, they got him. How cool is that?”

“I'm looking into the original investigation back at the time of her murder. Think you could help with that?”

“Well, I would if I could, but she was my cousin, you know? Our family isn't the closest family in the world.”

“Was Sondra from here in L.A.?”

“Oh, yeah. They lived in Reseda.”

“Are her parents or sibs still here?”

“That's my Aunt Ida. Uncle Ronnie died, but her mom was Aunt Ida. You should talk to Aunt Ida.”

There was an I. L. Frostokovich on my list.

“Is that I. L. Frostokovich?”

“Yeah, that's her. She's really nice. My mom hates her, but she's really nice.”

Grady was right. Ida was nice. I explained I was working with the family of the seventh and final victim, Debra Repko, and asked if she would be willing to tell me about her daughter. Five minutes later I was heading for Reseda.

IDA FROSTOKOVICH
lived in a small tract home in the center of the San Fernando Valley, north of the Los Angeles River and fifteen degrees hotter than the basin side of the city. When Ida was a child, orange groves covered the valley floor as far as she could see with Zen perfection—identical rows of identical trees, each tree identically distant from its neighbors; row after row of low green clouds heavy with orange balls that smelled of sunshine. She remembered those times, and thought often of the trees, but during the boom years after the Second World War, the groves were bulldozed and the trees replaced by row after row of small, low-cost houses. Most of the houses were much the same in size and shape as the thousands of other houses there on the valley floor, but none of them smelled like sunshine.

Ida had probably let the house go after losing both her daughter and her husband. The small stucco house with its composite roof, faded paint, and ragged yard seemed weary. A single orange tree from the original grove stood in the front yard like a lonely reminder of better times. Two more trees were in her backyard, the crowns of the trees visible past the roof. I circled the block twice before I stopped, checking to see if someone was watching her house, but found no one. The paranoia.

I was walking up the drive when she opened the door. Ida had been waiting for me to arrive.

“Mr. Cole?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Come in where it's cool.”

Ida Frostokovich was a sturdy woman with big bones, a fleshy face, and nervous hands. Like the Repkos, she had created a shrine to her daughter, which I saw as soon as I entered. A poster-size portrait of Sondra hung on the wall over the television, with smaller pictures around it and still more pictures on a nearby credenza. The pictures preserved Sondra's life from birth to death, and dominated the room. I had seen similar shrines when I returned from the war and sought out the parents of friends who had died. A husband or wife could be lost and you would never know they were gone, but losing a child left an emptiness so large it screamed to be filled with memories.

“You say the Repkos want to know about the original investigation?”

“They're trying to understand why it took so long to catch this man.”

She settled into a Barcalounger and cupped one hand with the other, but the hands never quite rested.

“Oh, I understand, believe me, and I don't blame them. If the police would have caught this lunatic sooner, their daughter would still be alive.”

“Something like that. Were you satisfied with the way Sondra's investigation was handled?”

“Ha. Seven years, and they still wouldn't have him if he hadn't blown his own brains out. I guess that should tell you something about my satisfaction level.”

“Who notified you of the discovery in Laurel Canyon?”

“A Detective Bastilla. She told me the newspeople might come around, but they didn't. No one came. I guess it was too long ago, what with so many others.”

“I'll get back to the police in a minute, but first let me ask you this—do you know of a firm called Leverage Associates?”

“I don't believe I do. What is it?”

“They're a political management firm downtown. Debra Repko worked for them.”

“Ah. Uh-huh.”

She nodded without comprehension, probably wondering what this had to do with anything.

“Sondra and Debra had a lot in common. More with each other than with the other five women. They both had college educations. They both worked downtown in fields involved with the government. Was Sondra interested in politics?”

“Not my Sondra. She was an account administrator with the planning commission. She called herself a bean counter.”

“She ever attend political events, like a fund-raiser or dinner?”

“Oh, my, no. She hated that kind of thing. Is that what the Repko girl did?”

“She was at a political dinner on the night she died.”

“Sondie was off having fun with her friends. At least she was enjoying herself.”

“Do you remember how the police handled the original investigation?”

“Every word. I lie in bed at night, remembering. I can still see them sitting here, right where you're sitting now.”

“The detective conducting the investigation was Chief Marx?”

“At the beginning, but he left. Then it was, oh, I think it was Detective Petievich. A Serbian, that's why I remember. Ronnie was so glad when a Serb took over. Frostokovich is a Serbian name.”

“How long was Marx involved?”

“Four or five weeks, was all, then he disappeared. Got a promotion, they said.”

“After four or five weeks.”

“Ronnie was just furious, but he calmed down. Marx and that other one hadn't caught anyone, so we thought the new people might get results.”

“Who worked on the case with Marx?”

“Let me think—”

She stared at the ceiling, trying to remember.

“That was Detective Munson. He never said much. Ronnie called him The Zombie. Ronnie was always making up names like that.”

I tried not to show a reaction.

“Did Munson stay on the case with Petievich?”

“For a while, but then he moved on, too. They all moved on, sooner or later.”

“But Marx and Munson were the first investigators?”

“The day they found her body. They sat right where you're sitting.”

“Did they have a suspect?”

“Oh, no. That first day they asked if
we
knew who did it. I will always remember that, them asking if we knew. Ronnie went straight up right through the roof. He told them if he thought anyone was going to kill Sondie, he would have killed them before they had the chance.”

“Was there anyone you suspected?”

“Well, no. Why would we suspect anyone?”

“Maybe something Sondra had said.”

The nervous hands held each other. It was a sad move, as if her hands were keeping each other company.

“No, nothing like that. We were shocked. It was like being swept away by a wave. We thought they must have made a mistake.”

“Did they ask many questions?”

“They were here for hours. They wanted to know if Sondra was seeing anyone or had complained about anyone, that kind of thing. Sondie had gone out with her friends from work that night, so the police wanted to talk to them. We had to look up their names and numbers. It just went on and on like that.”

She suddenly smiled, and her face was bright with living energy.

“Would you like to see?”

“See what?”

“Her friends. Here, they took a picture together—”

She pushed up from the well of the Barcalounger and waved me with her to the credenza.

“Carrie gave this to us. Ronnie called it The Last Supper. He would cry like a baby when he looked at it, but then he would call it The Last Supper, and laugh.”

She grabbed a framed snapshot from the forest of pictures on the credenza and put it in my hands.

“They took this at work that day. That's Sondie, second from the right, that's Carrie, that's Lisa and Ellen. They used to cut up and have so much fun. They went out together that night after work.”

I stared at the picture.

“Her friends at work.”

“Well, the girls, not the gentlemen.”

The four young women were standing shoulder to shoulder and smiling in a professional, businesslike manner. They were in what appeared to be a city office, but they were not in the picture alone. A middle-aged African-American man stood at the left end of their line, and Councilman Nobel Wilts stood to their right. Wilts was next to Sondra, and appeared to be touching her back.

Ida tapped the African-American man.

“Mr. Owen here was Sondie's boss, and this was Councilman Wilts. He was so kind to her. He told her she had a bright future.”

I couldn't take my eyes off the picture. I stared at it as if I was falling into it.

“I thought her job wasn't political.”

“Well, it wasn't, but they worked in the budgetary office, you know. The councilman stopped by for one of the bigwigs, but took time to tell them what a great job they were doing. Wasn't that nice of him?”

I nodded.

“He was very impressed with them, Sondie in particular. He even remembered her name that night.”

I let go of the picture and watched her put it back on the credenza. She placed it perfectly onto a line in the dust.

“Did she see him again that night?”

“At dinner.”

“Sondie and Wilts had dinner.”

“Sondie and her friends had dinner. They bumped into the councilman at the restaurant, and he was just so nice again. He told them how much he enjoyed meeting them, and he even remembered Sondie's name. I have voted for that man ever since.”

“When did Carrie give you the picture?”

“Must have been a year or so after what happened. She found it one day and thought we'd like it.”

“Did Marx and Munson see it?”

“They were long gone by then.”

I studied the picture in the little forest of pictures on the credenza, and knew by the smudged dust lines it had been moved more than once.

“Did Detective Bastilla see it when she was here?”

Her smile grew even brighter.

“She thought it was so pretty of Sondie. She asked if she could have it, but I told her no.”

I took Ida's hand and gave her an encouraging squeeze.

“I'm glad you told her no, Ida. It's a good picture. Let's keep it safe.”