Breakdown, p.16
Breakdown, page 16
He said, “Eight days missing. Anyone taking bets she’s okay? So the question is where did it happen? What’s more likely, a Bel Air lurker nabbing her during a lunchtime stroll or she encountered a lowlife during her commute through a bunch of high-crime neighborhoods?”
I said, “Probability-wise, no contest.”
“What’s the ‘but’?”
“There’s logic and there’s intuition.”
“You’ve got a feeling.”
“Two dead women within yards of each other, days apart? You don’t?”
“I’m not seeing anything in common between them and Zelda was most likely an accident.”
“Bernstein came to that conclusion by process of elimination. What if someone deliberately fed her the colchicine?”
“Pretty resourceful Bel Air lurker.”
“This is the perfect environment for a lurker.” I told him about the coyote. “It was there one second, gone the next, no big deal for a human predator to slip out of sight. Ironically, the fact that it’s a high-end neighborhood full of security features makes it hospitable to squatting: huge properties, a lot of them rarely occupied. Scale a wall or slip through a security glitch and you could live undetected for a long time. If we’re talking a bad guy with survival skills, he could know something about foraging plants for all kinds of purposes.”
“Or he’s a bum with gout—scratch that, it’s a rich person’s thing, right?”
“Nope,” I said. “It used to be called the disease of kings because eating too much meat and shellfish can bring on attacks and the peasants didn’t have much of either. But anyone with a tendency can develop it. And now that I think about it, there’s nothing like chronic pain to make someone hostile.”
“A sore-toed, angry lunatic taking it out on the world, just what I need.” He drummed the dashboard. “You spotted this coyote because you were…”
“Running.”
“Ah,” he said. “A random exercise spot.”
“Fine,” I said. “You want a confession, here it is: I came back trying to get Zelda’s death and Ovid’s disappearance out of my system. That didn’t work very well and on the fourth day, I drove up to Bel Azura. The woman whose house Zelda trespassed happened to be outside. We talked and she told me something not on the police report: While Zelda was pawing the dirt, she cried out for her mother.”
“So your theory was right.”
“Right but useless. At that point, I resolved to really get past it.”
“Then I call you about Imelda and bring you back here. Hey, what are friends for? Okay, let’s get out of here.”
“Two women days apart,” I said. “Imelda worked here for months, making her an easily spotted target. And now I’m wondering if Zelda put herself in the crosshairs by wandering around for a couple of days. I checked the distance between here and Bel Azura on my odometer and it’s shorter than I’d figured, less than three miles. Meaning she could’ve easily covered it on foot. What do they sell a few blocks down on Sunset? Maps to the stars’ homes. She could’ve fixated on Bel Air because she’d convinced herself Mommy had been a Hollywood luminary, not a washout working as a call girl. Unfortunately, she attracted a predator.”
“Bad guy emerges from the bushes and offers her nasty herb tea? I can see someone in Zelda’s state falling for that but how does Imelda figure in?”
“Nothing says she did. He discovered he liked killing people and decided to repeat a couple of days later using a blitz attack.”
“Pulling her into the bushes.”
“It would explain her body not being found.”
“Moldering on one of these properties,” he said. “If he exists.”
“Maybe we’re on the wrong track,” I said. “Not a survivalist squatter, someone who’d blend right in.”
“Twisted rich guy living behind high walls. Now all I have to do is go mansion to mansion asking residents if they grow poisonous plants…I’m gonna call Lorrie Mendez and let her know I’ve got squat.”
“Confession without the benefit of pastoral guidance.”
“Take your atonement where you can, lad.”
—
The following afternoon, he phoned to let me know Manfred Stoeller had come through with the camera feed.
“Three months of Imelda’s employment but I got through it. Not that hard—nothing much happens there and she was a creature of habit. Coffee breaks were usually taken on the property, same for most of her brown-bag lunches. But eighteen times she did take the bag offsite, was always back within twenty-five minutes. The camera catches her heading down the drive and turning right, which makes sense, left is the dead end. Unfortunately, Stoeller was right about the restricted range. No way to know how far she went.”
“She couldn’t have gone too far and returned in twenty-five.”
“True, but it still leads nowhere. Literally and metaphorically. Lorrie agrees. She feels bad for the family but is moving on. Not a bad idea for all concerned, no?”
“Not bad at all.”
—
The moment he hung up, I ran to St. Denis Lane and clocked the walk from the Aziz estate to Enid DePauw’s front gate. Even slowing my pace to that of a strolling fifty-eight-year-old woman, just short of four minutes.
Leaving plenty of time to linger at the bottom of the road, noshing, or chatting with someone.
Ample opportunity to be spotted by a stalker.
To return to work, unawares.
Until the day you didn’t.
Jogging back home, I showered and changed into respectable clothes. Pocketing my consultant badge and a photo of Imelda Soriano, I drove back.
Parking near the big Tudor on the south side of the street, I rang the call button. A male voice said, “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but the police are investigating a missing person and I wonder if I could show you a photo. We can talk at your gate.”
“Who’s missing?”
“A woman who worked as a maid across the street.”
“Those people,” he said. “Hold on.”
Moments later, the mansion’s front door opened and a white-haired figure began a slow, tottering descent down the flower-lined driveway, aided by a pair of elbow-grip aluminum canes.
It took a while for details to come into focus. Sparse gray hair, leprechaun face, eyes buried in a network of creases. Warm day but he wore a tweed suit, a checked shirt, a green wool tie knotted huge, and high, bubble-toed hiking boots, one heel noticeably higher than the other. My guess was childhood polio compounded by age. By the time he reached me, he was breathing hard.
I said, “Sorry for the imposition, sir.”
“No problem, they say I should exercise. That place, eh? You manage to get in? I never have.”
“Yesterday, briefly.”
“Power of the constabulary. What’s it like?”
“Think of the Pentagon on growth hormones.”
He laughed. “Contemporary fortress, eh? What’s next? Radioactive moat, computerized bow-holes, and nuclear-powered crocodiles. Doesn’t surprise me, back when they were building the monstrosity they were insanely secretive. Put the walls and the gate up first, then the house. Trucks would roll in and out but the gate was never left open long enough to see what was happening other than a growing pile of ice cubes. Which unfortunately don’t melt. I suppose that type of furtiveness is necessary when you’re raping the earth.”
He shifted his weight from one cane to the other. “I can’t see tearing down a perfectly good—but you don’t care about that.” Corn niblet smile. “I’d shake your hand, but I need both of mine for balance. Charles McCorkle. How can I help you?”
“How long have you lived here, Mr. McCorkle?”
“Forty-two years, going on forty-three. Had only two neighbors before those people. The first was Sidney Lanscomb, the director. He sold it to Earl Muggeridge, the Cadillac dealer. Both were all-about-the-money types but they had decent enough families, I believe Lanscomb had a son who went to Yale…the children played with each other, we even had lemonade stands. Not that anyone but our households bought or sold the stuff. The point is, sir, this was a neighborhood. Furthermore, the house they destroyed was a classic Paul Williams Georgian Revival. Gorgeous thing, very well balanced, with a normal wrought-iron fence with quite acceptable finials, the air moved through freely, the environment was fresh. Then they came and sealed everything up. For what purpose, God only knows. Maybe Allah knows—am I allowed to say that? Or is there a new amendment to the Constitution that has eluded me since I retired from the practice of law?”
I slipped Imelda’s picture through a gate slat.
“Certainly I recognize her, one of their domestics. In the odd event our paths crossed, she’d always smile and say hello. I say odd because I don’t get out much. Give me my books and my Amati—that’s a violin—and I’m content. She’s the one missing? For how long?”
“Nine days. She left for work, didn’t show up here, never returned home.”
“Oh, dear,” said McCorkle. “That doesn’t sound promising does it? And you think they did something?”
“Not at all,” I said. “We’re just trying to retrace her steps.”
“Where was the home she never returned to?”
“Pico-Union.”
“Ooh,” said Charles McCorkle. “Did she drive a car?”
“She took the bus.”
“Exactly what I assumed. Now, think about it, young man: A bus from there to here would pass through slums, ghettos, whatever you choose to call them. Why would you think something happened here?”
“We’re being thorough, Mr. McCorkle.”
He passed the photo back. “Can’t help you, sorry. Darn shame, she seemed like a nice girl.”
“Did you ever notice her talking to anyone?”
“Never,” said McCorkle. “Except for other domestics.”
As if that didn’t count.
I said, “Any domestics in particular?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you aware who they worked for?”
“Why would I be? They’re all the same to me. Walking dogs, shooting the breeze with other domestics walking dogs…I don’t believe I ever saw this girl with a dog.” He glanced across the street. “Does that culture allow dogs?” He winked. “Or do they eat them?”
I said, “Any other problem neighbors?”
“Besides them? I’ve had no personal run-ins, but one does hear more and more of beautiful classic homes destroyed only to be replaced by grotesqueries.”
His eyes sailed past me. “Look at that gate. Hermetic. Plastic. When you were inside, did you spot anything aesthetically redeemable?”
“I’m no expert, Mr. McCorkle. Thanks for your time.”
“I should thank you. Now I can tell my meddling children that I got my daily exercise.”
As he began the tortured climb back to his house, I returned to the Seville. Just as I shifted into drive I realized what had been missing from the conversation.
He’d been eager to gossip, but had made no mention of Zelda’s death.
Too trivial an event to merit neighborhood murmurings? Not that this was really a neighborhood, because isolation is the ultimate luxury, and despite McCorkle’s reminiscence I doubted it had ever been much different.
But still, it felt sad.
A brief, tortured life. Its termination not even a blip.
CHAPTER
25
Over the next few days, with no illusions of success, I continued running on St. Denis Lane.
With two women dead, what could it hurt to look around?
Of course, I knew the real reason: my chronic issues with unfinished business.
When helping patients assess their problems, I often use life-disruption as a yardstick. If symptoms don’t disrupt your life, don’t worry about them.
I convinced myself I was doing a fine job maintaining a healthy balance: making time for Robin, doting a bit more on Blanche because our morning walks had lost out to aerobic reconnaissance.
I organized my files, cleaned the garage, spent half a day on an overdue pond water change, picked up a new referral from family court.
No disruption but for the questions I kept to myself.
On the morning of my eighth consecutive run—eighteen days since the death of Zelda Chase—I noticed a white van paused at the front gate of the DePauw estate. A female arm reached out from the driver’s side and punched a code on the call box.
Nothing mysterious about the vehicle, its purpose proclaimed in metal-flake turquoise lettering topped by a cartoon of a pretty, smiling woman meant to evoke the fifties: blouse tucked tightly into pedal pushers, knotted bandanna atop coiffed blond hair, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other.
WHITE GLOVE CLEANING
Your Wish, Our Command
A toll-free number.
The gate clunked open and the van drove through, offering a view of the pathway I’d climbed the night I’d seen Zelda’s corpse. As it rattled shut, a mental burr lodged in my brain.
Worth telling Milo about? Or just another symptom of neurotic tenacity?
During the run back home I tossed the question back and forth. Showered and shaved and dressed and drank coffee and ate some toast, before heading back to Robin’s studio and making small talk with her and petting the dog, then settling in my office and going through email.
Taking plenty of time to see if the burr fell free.
I picked up the phone.
—
Milo said, “A cleaning service. That’s significant because…?”
“When we spoke to Enid DePauw she said she had a maid. A woman who’d been with her at the desert. Who she gave the night off to when they got back to L.A. Why would she need a service?”
“It’s a big place. She wants additional help.”
“That’s probably it.”
“Alex,” he said, “what the hell is this about? And why the hell are you still going back there?”
“Forget I called—”
“Whoa, whoa. What’s bugging you?”
“We know Imelda was sociable and that she left the Aziz property occasionally for lunch breaks. The only people I routinely see when I’m running are domestics talking to each other. The neighbor across the street from the Azizes—yes, I talked to him—confirmed it. He rarely saw Imelda because he’s housebound. But when she was talking to someone, it was another housekeeper. DePauw lives moments away so there’s a good chance—”
“The DePauw maid schmoozed with Imelda. So?”
“What if DePauw hired a service because now her maid has failed to show up? What if there really is a stalker picking off women in uniforms?”
He sighed. “Back to the lurking loony…are you saying his tastes extend to homeless psychotic women? Because I spoke to Bernstein and he says he’d need strong evidence to be convinced Zelda’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“Like I said, forget it, sorry for wasting your time.”
“You never waste my time,” he said. “That’s what bugs the hell out of me. You keep life interesting and I’m phobic about ignoring you.”
He laughed. “All this because you happened to see a van. Your mind’s a scary place, Dr. Delaware.”
“A call to DePauw could clarify easily. Extra help versus no-show.”
“Last thing I need is freaking out the locals. These people have clout and their complaints get heard. Besides, how am I supposed to explain my sudden interest in her personnel issues? Transfer from Homicide to Labor Relations?”
“Good question,” I said. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“You always do.”
—
An hour later, I’d come up with a feasible approach to Enid DePauw: Milo following up, post-Zelda, just to ask how she was doing, had she or anyone on her staff noticed anything in the neighborhood they wanted to discuss.
All in the name of diligent public service.
But instead of telling Milo, I made an uneducated guess about when White Glove Cleaning would be finishing their St. Denis Lane chores, drove back to lower Bel Air at three forty-five p.m., and parked south of the DePauw estate.
Uneducated because I had no idea how many cleaners were in the van or the details of the assignment.
I endured thirty-five minutes without spotting another human being and began to wonder if I’d missed a brief drop-in to polish furniture or something along those lines. I decided to leave at five p.m., was about to start up the Seville when the gates to the DePauw estate opened and the van’s blocky white nose edged toward the street.
I jumped out and went over, smiling and waving and making myself conspicuous.
The van stopped. The driver’s window was down. Young Latina at the wheel, an even younger Latina in the passenger seat, both drinking bottled water. They wore pink button-down shirts with White Glove and a broom logo sewn in black on the breast pocket. The driver had wrapped a bandanna around long black hair.
Pretty girl. Both of them were. A tattoo on the driver’s neck read Tonio.
She said, “Hi!”
“Hi. I live around here and I’m looking for someone to clean.”
“That’s what we do.” Wink. “We’re good.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Two weeks?” She turned to her companion.
The other girl thought. “Yeah, around.”
I said, “It’s a big house.”
“We’re used to that,” said the driver.
“Will Mrs. DePauw give you a reference?”
Puzzled looks.
“Who?” said the passenger.
“The woman who owns the place.”
“I dunno her.”
The driver reached behind, lifted a purse, searched, handed me a stiff white business card.
J. Yarmuth Loach, Esq.
Revelle, Winters, Loach, Russo, LLP.
The address, a Seventh Street penthouse, downtown.
I said, “This man owns the house?”
“He let us in, gave the key.”
“Mrs. DePauw’s not home?”
