Breakdown, p.18
Breakdown, page 18
I said, “Sticking around and hoping for the best.”
“More like clinging to hope, Doctor. Down deep she’s got to know it’s not good. That’s certainly how I feel. Because like Imelda, Alicia was a homebody. Once she was in her room, she rarely went out, Maria even did all the shopping.”
Milo said, “So no reason for her to rabbit without explanation. Unless she and Maria had a big fight.”
“Maria denies it, just the opposite, claims they were getting along great. So now we’ve got two ladies working near each other who’ve slipped off the face of the earth around the same time.”
Milo said, “Right after Zelda Chase was found dead at one of their workplaces.”
“And the morning before Alicia disappeared, she told Maria she didn’t like her job anymore but wouldn’t say why. Maria didn’t push it, that was typical for Alicia. She didn’t like to talk. When Alicia was late coming home, Maria didn’t connect it to a job issue. Still doesn’t, she keeps talking about bad men all over the city.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“No, just a general feeling,” said Mendez. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a rape survivor.”
I said, “When did she start worrying about Alicia not coming home?”
“Not right away because Alicia typically arrived late. Nine, even ten p.m., the commute could stretch out due to traffic, buses breaking down. Around eleven, Maria started to get concerned and tried to phone Alicia. Even then, when she couldn’t get through to Alicia’s phone, she figured Alicia was still on the bus, that’s why reception was bad. But by midnight, Maria’s freaking out because Alicia’s phone is turned off and that hadn’t happened before. Unfortunately, it’s one of those prepaids. Both women use them because they don’t have paperwork for normal accounts and that fleabag has no landlines. Around twelve-thirty, Maria went looking for Alicia on the street, starting with the area around the bus stop. She describes that night as ‘hell.’ The following morning she called the cops. She still walks around asking people if they’ve seen Alicia. I think if she admitted the truth to herself, she’d have a breakdown.”
I said, “Did she search in Bel Air?”
“Nope,” said Mendez. “She wanted to, but she has no idea where Alicia worked other than it’s near Beverly Hills. Her take on the city is pretty poor, I’m not sure she’s ever been west of Vermont. So what now?”
Milo said, “Good question.”
I said, “Something just hit me. Maria says she and Alicia never spent a night away from each other. She describes Alicia’s position as a day job. But Mrs. DePauw told us Alicia was with her in Palm Springs, had earned time off—as she usually did—because of the time it took to drive back to L.A. That sounds like a live-in position.”
Milo frowned. “So it does.”
Mendez said, “Hold on.” Jogging back to the taco stand and heading for the back, she returned a few moments later. “Maria says definitely not, never happened. She and Alicia made a pact when they crossed the border. No more live-in work like they’d done at the spa. And she’s adamant about never sleeping apart. If she’s righteous, and I think she is, your rich lady lied.”
Milo’s jaw tightened. “Ol’ Enid playing fast and loose. Why?”
I said, “I can think of two reasons. It places her out of town when Zelda likely died. And it gets Alicia out of the picture so she can’t contradict her.”
Lorrie Mendez said, “She saw something that contradicted the boss’s story? You’re saying this dowager had something to do with Zelda’s death?”
“Not necessarily homicide,” I said. “Suppose Zelda found the colchicine in DePauw’s garden, ate it, and grew incapacitated. Bernstein told us dying could’ve taken a while. DePauw arrived earlier than she said and discovered Zelda still alive, in agony. She shunted Alicia away, while she figured out what to do.”
“What’s to figure, Doctor? You call 911.”
“In an ideal world,” I said. “But DePauw’s a woman of considerable assets, could’ve been worried about liability. She panicked, waited too long, and Zelda died. The fact that she’s left home and put her lawyer in charge suggests she’s still trying to dissociate herself.”
“She got antsy about being sued so she let someone die? Still, what would be her liability? Zelda didn’t belong there.”
“Having a toxic plant on her premises might’ve seemed problematic. People can sue for anything and deep pockets are a huge incentive. For all we know, DePauw’s been in lawsuits before and got burned.”
Milo said, “DePauw’s landscaper said there was no colchicine on the property and I had Moe and Sean go back with a photo and they didn’t find any matches.”
I said, “It’s an ornamental. DePauw could’ve been growing it in a pot on the patio. Or it sprouted in some obscure corner of the estate and she got rid of it before finally making the call.”
Lorrie Mendez said, “She stands by and watches another human being die. That’s cold.”
Milo said, “Not a pretty death, Lorrie. Ice cold.” He turned to me. “Any panic DePauw might’ve felt was long gone when we spoke to her, Alex. Just the opposite, she was damn composed.”
“Maybe she gave herself time to gain composure.”
“Lying to cover up shameful behavior?” said Mendez. “But then what’s happened to Alicia?”
I said, “There’s where it could get evil.”
“Alicia can blow the boss’s alibi to smithereens and so she got offed? With all due respect, Doctor, that’s pretty darn…imaginative.”
Milo said, “He’s got a terrific imagination. I’ve learned to pay attention.”
“Oh, man,” said Mendez. “This is getting nuts.”
I said, “I could be way off, but the facts are there. DePauw lied about Alicia and the same day Alicia told Maria she didn’t like her job she disappears.”
She shifted her bag to the other shoulder. “An old lady without a record and we’re actually considering a witness elimination homicide?”
Milo said, “Maybe a double witness elimination, Lorrie.”
“Imelda,” she said. “Oh, God, no.”
“We need to consider it, Lorrie. Imelda was a friendly person, old enough to be Alicia’s mother. What if Alicia confided in her and DePauw found out? Or just spotted them talking and got worried?”
“Maria just told us Alicia’s not talkative.”
I said, “Trauma can alter behavior. If Alicia saw Zelda die and realized Enid had acted cruelly, it could’ve troubled her enough to say something to Imelda. She went back to work but might have intended to quit—that’s why she told Maria she wasn’t happy. She didn’t give Maria the details because that was their pattern. They didn’t discuss much. Or she just wanted to protect Maria.”
“There’s another possibility,” said Milo. “She went back to work and tried to exploit the situation.”
“Blackmail?” said Lorrie Mendez.
“Rich woman, poor woman. A solid reason for DePauw to get rid of her.”
“And Imelda died because she was in the wrong place, wrong time? I hope you’re wrong. I hope I never have to tell the family that.” She exhaled. “You pick up anything bad from DePauw? Apart from her lying.”
Milo said, “She said the right things about Zelda. ‘Poor thing,’ but there wasn’t much emotion there. Just the opposite, calm, maybe even snooty. Didn’t take her long to ask how long we needed to be there.”
“Fine,” said Mendez. “But just to play devil’s advocate, that could be nothing more than having big bucks and feeling entitled. Which, granted, is the kind of attitude that fits with covering her affluent ass rather than trying to help Zelda. But morally iffy behavior’s a long way from double homicide.”
“True, but Alicia and Imelda going missing around the same time can’t be ignored, Lorrie.”
“Sure, but that could be due to your first theory—some psycho predator roaming around Bel Air—God, I’m starting to sound like my annoying sister the defense attorney, always with the what-ifs. But the truth is, this is moving too fast for me, guys. The entire scenario depends on Maria being righteous and like I said, anyone can be fooled. What if Maria is utterly unrighteous, she’s the one who killed Alicia and Imelda has nothing to do with it—she got waylaid somewhere between her two buses. If Maria’s guilty and we hassle some zillionaire based on no evidence, we could end up severely career challenged. Or at least I could, you’ve got seniority, Milo. And you’ve got a degree and a private practice. Am I totally being self-serving—God, I feel a migraine coming on. And I don’t even get them.”
Milo said, “No reason to rush into anything but we do need to educate ourselves. You have time for any follow-up on Maria? See if her story starts to crack?”
“I can ask patrol to do a loose watch on her, but sorry, no. My own El Tee’s breathing down my neck on a bunch of cold robberies.”
“Would it help if I talked to him?”
“Uh-uh, just the opposite. He doesn’t like suggestions and he’s a whole lot less benevolent than you.”
Milo hitched his trousers. “If you only knew, kid. Okay, what I do ask is that you and I continue to share info.”
“I get any, you’ll be the first to know.”
We got back into the car and headed to the park. As Milo pulled up to Lorrie Mendez’s unmarked, she switched her purse to the other shoulder and opened the passenger door.
“From a missing to all this potential weirdness,” she said. “At least your rich lady will have plenty of documentation.”
CHAPTER
27
By three-thirty p.m., we were back in Milo’s office, not talking much as he prepared to learn about Enid Lauretta DePauw.
“Got to tell you,” he said, logging on, “I’ve got the same bad feeling you do but I hope to hell this ends up a big-time wrong turn because Lorrie’s right. A rich, respectable suspect and no evidence ain’t a formula for joy.”
Nothing in the criminal databases contradicted “respectable.” DePauw’s first California driver’s license had been issued thirty-two years ago when she was thirty-eight. The most recent renewal was three months ago, on her seventieth birthday.
Two vehicles currently registered, a one-year-old black Porsche Panamera GTS and a brown-over-tan 1956 Silver Cloud I Rolls-Royce sedan. The older car’s registration had lapsed eleven years ago, renewed fourteen months later. No wants, warrants, moving violations, or parking tickets.
The trust deed to the house on St. Denis Lane was dated the same year Enid had been certified legal to drive. The property had been purchased from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios, Inc., and titled to the Averell D. and Enid L. DePauw Family Trust. Eleven years ago a new trust had been established in Enid’s name only. A death certificate for Averell Dunham DePauw five months earlier provided the explanation. It also clarified lapsed papers on the Rolls.
The deceased had been seventy-one, twelve years older than his widow, when he’d succumbed to “atherosclerotic coronary artery disease.”
Milo kept probing, limited to city and county data in the public domain because he lacked grounds for a peek at Social Security or income tax records.
The DePauws’ wedding license was dated thirty-seven years ago, five years prior to purchase of the estate. Their address at the time, a rental in the Malibu Colony.
No record of children born to the couple, no co-beneficiaries, charitable foundation, or obvious source of income for Enid. When Milo logged onto a directory of old business listings, he found several dating back to the sixties for Averell DePauw and Associates, Ltd., first on South Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills and later on North Canon Drive in that same city. Stockbrokers, asset managers, financial advisors.
He said, “Guy bought the house from a studio. Maybe moneyman to the stars?”
I said, “Some kind of inside track. Enid told us ‘interesting people’ had lived there, including Jean Harlow. Back then the studios kept luxury properties as crash pads for A-list actors. The kind of asset that got kicked loose when money was tight. If MGM was having cash-flow issues, they might not want it publicized. A private sale to an insider would benefit all concerned.”
“You follow that world?”
“I’ve had patients in the business.”
“Ah.” He searched for foreclosures and forfeitures, found none. “Looks like ol’ Av managed his own money well. Let’s see if he got sued for anything.”
Moments later, he was shaking his head. “Not a single day in court for Mr. D. so that didn’t turn Enid gun-shy. Next stop: Palm Springs. We get lucky and someone verifies her time line at the condo, we’ll put her fib down to being flustered and get back to conjuring up an ignoble savage slavering in the shrubbery.”
He typed, made several calls, pushed away from the desk.
No listing of any property deeded to Enid DePauw or her trust in Palm Springs. Same for the neighboring desert communities—Palm Desert, Rancho Mirage, La Quinta, Indian Wells.
“Too bad. I was hoping to forget about her.”
I said, “She might rent. Or keep a unit in a development or a time share in a hotel where the deed’s registered to a corporation.”
“Gated paradise with a Greg Norman course? She said, ‘My condo.’ That doesn’t sound like renting.”
“Pay enough monthlies and you start feeling like an owner.”
“If that’s the case, I’m screwed.”
I said, “On the positive side, a resort or hotel might have detailed documentation of comings and goings.”
“Optimism at this time of day is unseemly, lad.”
“Late afternoon should be gloomy?”
“Anytime’s the right time for gloomy. I’ve got my homework assignment, leave me to it and enjoy a normal life. I come across something, I’ll let you know.”
“How about I stay and we divide it up. You take developments, I try hotels. My end shouldn’t take long, I don’t see her bunking in a Motel 6. Or you could call that assistant at the law firm and see if she’s still talkative.”
“That would be nice…nah, don’t wanna push it with her. Just in case ol’ Enid has been bad and her lawyer finds out I’m snooping and battens the hatches tighter.”
He turned back to his keyboard.
I sat there.
“Fine,” he said, “you twisted my arm.”
—
We went downstairs and he asked to borrow a civilian laptop from a clerk named Kanesha.
“The doctor here won’t screw it up, I promise. I’ll repay you with a humongous lunch, you choose the place.”
She said, “You like vegetarian?”
“I could pretend.”
“Secret of a happy life, Lieutenant. Like when we tell guys they’re perfect.” To me: “You’ll be careful? I’m out of here in two hours, need to take it with me. And no downloads of monkeys who look like Hitler, please. Got enough of that with my kids.”
—
Milo worked at his desk and I sat on a chair in the hallway outside his door, typing away and calling on his personal cell.
Lots of luxury lodging in the desert communities. An hour later, both of us had come up empty.
He said, “Never worked so hard trying to verify an alibi. Maybe I will try that assistant but I want to sleep on it, see if there’s some other way to go. You up for a drink? Or two or three? Either way, I’m indulging. Or as you guys call it, self-reinforcing.”
I phoned Robin. Her voice competed with background machine noise. “Oh, hi, hon, just started working, had to fix some jigs and got held up. I could use an hour or two, if you don’t mind.”
“Perfect timing. I’ll be hanging out with you-know-who.”
Milo said, “That’s the best I get?”
Robin said, “I hear him back there. Hanging out as in distilled spirits? I was hoping we could share a bottle of wine out by the pond.”
“I’ll have a beer.”
“There you go, a guy thing.”
—
During the last case we worked together, Milo took me to a bar a few blocks from the station, a place I’d never been. He was greeted by name. I thought I knew all his haunts. Live and learn.
I figured we’d head to the same place but he pocketed his car keys and said, “Separate vehicles, save you some time,” and scrawled an address on south Westwood Boulevard. “Right on your way home. Call me responsible.”
I arrived first; a restaurant named Bosco’s just north of Pico. The tricolor neon sign above the door roughly approximated a map of Italy. One of the few pre-mall holdovers on Westwood. Happy Hour lasted until three.
I was checking out the posted menu when Milo drove up and said, “Buena sera, Alessandro.”
—
We entered a world based on nitrogen, oxygen, and marinara. Snug, dim, too warm, an oppressively low ceiling. A warped lattice partition divided the space into red Naugahyde booths for eating and red Naugahyde stools lined up at a scarred wooden bar. Every stool was occupied, mostly by older men who looked as if they were waiting for a casting call on the next mob movie. No one in the booths until we took one at the back.
An ancient waitress wearing a too-short dress and intense red hair ambled over. Her mouth moved as if she were chewing gum but she wasn’t. If you called her a “server” she’d probably slap you.
“Hiya, Lieutenant.”
“Hey, Mary.” Milo ordered a double shot of whiskey, iced tea, and a large pizza with everything on it.
Mary said, “The usual. And you?”
My Grolsch order elicited a wink and a shimmy. “I figured you weren’t a Bud guy. We might even have that.” To Milo: “Class act, your friend.”
“Doing my best to improve the neighborhood.”
