Gone (25 page)

Someone had forgotten to remove the bling. Milo went over and rectified the situation and the iron-pumper cops seemed abashed. The suspect looked up as Milo fiddled, heavy lids tenting. When Milo got the chain off, the kid smiled and said something. Milo smiled back. He checked behind the kid’s ears. Waved the cops on and handed the necklace to an evidence tech who bagged it.

As the uniforms got the shooter into one of the idling cruisers and drove away, Mrs. Ertha Stadlbraun stepped out of her ground-floor flat and walked to the sidewalk. Standing just right of the taped perimeter, she shivered and hugged herself. Her dressing gown was custard-yellow and quilted. Fuzzy white mules encased her feet and yellow rollers turned her hair into white tortellini. Shiny bright skin; some kind of night cream.

She shivered again and tightened her arms. Tenants stared out of windows. So did a few residents of the dingbat next door.

Milo beckoned me over. His face was sweaty. Sean Binchy stayed behind, not doing much of anything. When I got there, he said, “Doctor,” and chewed his lip.

Milo said, “Hot town, summer in the city.”

“In February.”

“That’s why we live here.”

I told him about seeing the suspect before. Described the kid’s demeanor.

He said, “That fits.”

A coroner’s attendant slammed the van’s doors shut, got in, drove away.

I said, “How close is his apartment to Peaty’s?”

“Two doors down. His name’s Armando Vasquez, he’s got a sealed juvenile gang history, claims to be a steadily working, church-going married man for the past four years. Has a landscaping gig with a company that maintains some of the big B.H. properties north of Sunset. He used to just mow grass but this year he learned to trim trees. He’s pretty proud of that.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-one. Wife’s nineteen, three kids under five. For the most part they stayed asleep while I tried to chat with their daddy. One time the oldest toddled in. I let Vasquez kiss the kid. Kid smiled at me.” He sighed. “Vasquez has no adult sheet, so maybe he’s telling the truth about finding God. The neighbors I’ve spoken to so far say the kids can be noisy but the family doesn’t cause problems. No one liked Peaty. Apparently, everyone in the building’s been jabbering about him, since we met with Stadlbraun.”

He glanced at the old woman. Still hugging herself, staring out at the darkened street. She seemed to be fighting for composure.

I said, “She spread the word Peaty was dangerous.”

Milo nodded. “The ol’ gossip mill was chugging along. Before Vasquez dummied up, he told me Peaty always rubbed him the wrong way.”

“Prior conflict?”

“No fights, just lots of tension. Vasquez didn’t like Peaty living so close. The term he used was ‘fuckin’ crazy dude.’ After he said that, he started moving his head back and forth and up and down. I said, ‘What’re you doing, Armando?’ He says, ‘Crossing myself. You got me cuffed so I’m doing it this way.’”

“Did Peaty ever bother his wife?”

“He stared at her, which is consistent with what everyone else says. ‘Fuckin’ crazy stare.’ Unfortunately for Vasquez, it’s not justification for blowing Peaty’s brains out.”

Sean Binchy came over, still looking uneasy. “Need me for anything more, Loot?”

“No, go home. Relax.”

Binchy flinched. “Thanks. Hey, Doc. Bye.”

Milo said, “You did fine, Sean.”

“Whatever.”

When he left, I said, “What’s bothering him?”

“The lad has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He worked a robbery case all day, got off at eleven, and decided on his own to watch Peaty. He started here, didn’t see Peaty’s minivan, went out for a burger at a twenty-four-hour spot, got back just after midnight and spotted the van a block up that way.”

He pointed east. “He was looking for a watch spot in the alley when he heard the three shots. Peaty caught all of ’em full-faced. You wouldn’t figure that physiog could get any uglier but…”

“Sean’s feeling guilty about not being here.”

“About the burger. About nothing. No way he could’ve prevented it.”

“Did he arrest Vasquez?”

“He called for backup then went up the stairs. Peaty’s body was out on the walkway between the apartments. At that point, Sean waited for the blues and they went door to door. When they got to Vasquez’s apartment, Vasquez was sitting on his couch watching TV, the gun’s right next to him and so are the wife and the oldest kid. Vasquez puts up his hands and says, ‘I killed his ass, do your thing.’ The wife starts bawlin’, the kid stays real quiet.”

“How’d it happen?” I said.

“When I got to specifics, Vasquez got laryngitis. My sense is he’s been stewing on Peaty for a while, started bubbling over when ol’ Ertha told him about my visit. For some reason, tonight he got tired of doing nothing, saw Peaty come home, and went out to tell him to stay away from Mrs. Vasquez. As they say in the papers, a confrontation ensued. Vasquez claims Peaty made a move on him, he needed to defend himself, boom boom boom.”

“Vasquez went out there armed.”

“There is that minor detail,” he said. “Maybe some lawyer will try to twist it as evidence Vasquez was scared of Peaty.”

“Alcohol or dope involved?” I said.

“Vasquez admits to four beers and that fits with the empties in his trash basket. With his body weight that might or might not be relevant, depends what the bloodwork turns up. Now let’s see if the techies are through with Peaty’s domicile.”

A room and a half bath, both tiny and putrid.

Fetid mélange of old cheese, charred tobacco, body gas, garlic, oregano.

An empty, grease-stained pizza box sat open on the metal-frame double bed. Crumbs dandruffed rumpled sheets the color of wet newsprint and green bedcovers printed with a repeating pattern of top hats and bowlers. Several, large, unpleasant stains on the sheets. Wads of dirty laundry filled most of the floor space. A waist-high stack of Old Milwaukee six-packs and the bed filled what was left. Fingerprint dust everywhere. That seemed unnecessary —
the body had fallen outside —
but you never knew about lawyers’ creativity.

Milo kicked his way through the jumble and approached a wooden packing crate that served as a bed stand. Cluttering the top were oily takeout menus, balled-up tissues, crushed empty beer cans —
I counted fourteen —
a gallon bottle of Tyger fortified wine two-thirds empty, an economy-sized flask of Pepto-Bismol.

The only real furniture other than the bed was a ragged three-drawer dresser that supported a nineteen-inch TV and a VCR large enough to be quaint. Rabbit-ear antenna.

I said, “No cable box,” and opened a dresser drawer. “His entertainment needs were simple.”

Inside were boxed videotapes, stacked like books in a horizontal shelf. Loud colors. Lots of X’s.
Not-So Legal Temptresses,
Volumes 1 through 11.
Shower Teen, Upskirt Adventures, X-Ray Journey, Voyeur’s Village.

The bottom two drawers held clothing that looked no fresher than the mess on the floor. Under a tangle of T-shirts, Milo found an envelope with $600 in cash and a small plastic box marked
Sewing Kit,
filled with five tightly round joints.

The half bath was a cubicle in the corner. My nose had accommodated to bedroom stench but this was a new challenge. The shower was fiberglass, barely big enough for a woman, let alone a man of Peaty’s bulk. Originally beige, now brown, with a blackish-green crop of something flourishing at the drain. A streaked, spotted mirror was glued to the wall over the sink; no medicine cabinet. On the floor next to the cracked, grimy toilet was a small wicker box. Inside was an assortment of antacids and OTC analgesics, a toothbrush that looked as if it hadn’t been used in a while, an amber pharmacy bottle containing two Vicodin pills. The original prescription had been for twenty-one tabs, prescribed by a doctor at a Las Vegas clinic seven years ago and filled at the clinic’s pharmacy.

“Saving it for the bad times,” I said. “Or the good.”

“The occasional highball,” said Milo. “Trailer-park style.”

He returned to the bedroom, searched under the bed, came up dusty and empty-handed. Held his hands away from his slacks, glanced at the bathroom. “I’m not sure using that sink would make me cleaner… let’s see if there’s a hose outdoors.”

Before we descended the stairs, he took me for a look at the kill-spot. Peaty had shed a lot of red. The spot where he’d fallen was demarcated by black tape.

A uniform stood outside the Vasquez apartment. Milo saluted her and we found a hose near Mrs. Stadlbraun’s apartment. She was back inside, drapes drawn tight.

When he finished washing off, he said, “Any insights?”

“If Peaty’s our bad guy, he didn’t keep trophies or anything else of interest,” I said.

But I was wrong.

In the rear of the rust-spotted red minivan, Milo found boxes of cleaning supplies, tarps, brooms, mops, washcloths. Buried under the tarps was a brown, double-decker toolbox. A key-lock dangled from the hasp but it had been left unbolted.

Milo gloved up and opened the box. In the top foldaway rack were screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, pliers, little plastic cylinders of screws and nails. In the compartments below were a set of burglar picks, two rolls of duct tape, a box cutter, a wire cutter, a push-button stiletto, a spool of thick, white nylon rope, four sets of women’s panty hose, a blue steel automatic pistol wrapped in a grubby pink washcloth.

Loaded gun. Plenty of ammunition left in the box of .22-caliber bullets wedged into a corner of the toolbox.

Next to the bullets, something else wrapped in terry. Round, firm.

Milo unwrapped it. Souvenir snow globe. The pink plastic base read
MALIBU, CALIF. SURF’S UP!

He upended the sphere. White flakes fluttered over a cobalt ocean. He examined the underside of the base. “Made in U.S.A. New Hampshire. That explains it. Sons of bitches wanted to think of us frozen just like them.”

He returned the globe to the box, walkie-talkied one of the techs at the murder scene. “Lucio? Drive up a ways. There’s more.”

While the crime scene crew did their thing with the van, Milo located the VIN number and did a search.

Stolen four years ago in Highland Park and never recovered, the registered owner Wendell A. Chong. Chong had a home address in South Pasadena that Milo copied down.

I said, “Peaty cleans lots of buildings on the east side, probably spotted an opportunity a year after he arrived in California and never bothered to tell the boss. Brad Dowd’s paying for van-pool pickup. Peaty used the service most of the time. Meanwhile, he had an option.”

“Equipped with a burglary/rape kit.” He frowned. “Okay, let’s boogie.”

It was twelve thirty-four when I followed him to a Coco’s at Pico and Wooster. He spent a long time in the men’s room, came out with hands scrubbed pink and damp hair.

“Didn’t know they provide showers,” I said.

“I prayed to the sink.” He ordered Boston cream pie and coffee for both of us.

I said, “Not hungry.”

“Good. This way I get two without looking like a pig. So Peaty’s an extremely bad guy. What does the globe mean?”

“The globe Dylan gave to Nora could’ve been part of a duo. Or a collection. One got left in Dylan’s car because Peaty was bragging. The other he kept for masturbatory memories.”

“Meaning, if you’re Prudential, don’t write a policy on Nora and Meserve. Any guesses where to start looking for their bodies?”

I shook my head. “The van and the kit say Peaty could’ve traveled anywhere. They also provide a scenario for Michaela. He targeted her at the PlayHouse, followed her home, found out she lived close to him. After that, it was easy for him to watch her from the van. When the time was right, he snagged her, drove her somewhere secluded, and strangled her. Maybe even in the van.”

He frowned. “Abduction and seclusion sounds like bringing Dylan and Michaela’s hoax to life. You think that’s what stimulated Peaty?”

“He’d probably been watching Michaela for a while but the hoax clinched it. And Michaela getting kicked out of class meant she spent more evenings at home alone.”

“Wherever he did her, Alex, he brought her back to the neighborhood. What’s that, staying in his comfort zone?”

“Or just the opposite,” I said. “Whoever killed Tori Giacomo dumped her in Griffith Park and concealed her body quite efficiently. The park’s miles from Tori’s apartment in the Valley and even farther from Peaty’s. It’s also a brief freeway detour from the Valley to Pasadena —
get off the 101 and take the 5 for one exit, do your thing, get back on.”

“Dropping her off on the way to work,” he said. “Same way he stole the van.”

“But getting away with Tori could’ve made him more daring with Michaela. With everyone thinking he had no wheels, he didn’t worry about the body being traced back to him. So he left her right out in the open.”

“The no-wheels lie wasn’t hard to uncover.”

“Wanting to brag overrode his caution,” I said. “He was no criminal genius. Like most of them.”

The pie arrived. He ate his, reached for mine. “Maybe with Michaela, he was just being lazy. Seeing as she lived so close to him, no reason to roam. Tori was in North Hollywood, no sense bringing her home. So what about the Gaidelases? Peaty’s video collection is consistent with his Peeping Tom arrest. Good-looking young women.”

I said, “It’s hard to square the Gaidelases with that, but like I said before, he could’ve had other kinks. The car recovered in Camarillo’s a tougher fit. If he left his van near the murder site and drove the Gaidelases’ rental to the outlets, how’d he get back to Malibu?”

“To me that’s no problem. He hitchhiked, stole another set of wheels, took a bus —
or he never drove the rental in the first place. All he needed to do was leave it parked on Kanan Dume, windows wide open, keys in the ignition. Open invitation for some joyriding kid.”

“Joyride to the outlets?” I said. “Juvenile delinquents looking for bargains?”

“Why not? Shoplift some cool Nikes and hip-hop sweats. Any way you look at it, having Mr. Peaty swept off this mortal coil is no loss.”