Breakdown, p.20
Breakdown, page 20
The house was a hulking, dark-green Craftsman. Tony Bonhomme was visible from the curb, sitting in a lounge chair at the rear of the driveway, reading. As we got closer, I saw the charge cord from a laptop on the ground snaking through the open doorway of a smaller, rear structure. Inside was a kitchenette, dishes stacked neatly on a counter. Work space or guesthouse.
The book Bonhomme grasped with both hands was a large-format paperback with a bright yellow cover. Riveting; he didn’t notice our approach.
Slight and bespectacled with thinning hair, he wore a white T-shirt and jeans. Earbuds trailing to an iPod in his lap made me reassess the book’s page-turning qualities. So did the title: Prep for the LSAT Exam. As Bonhomme underlined in yellow, he chewed his lip.
It took the shadow cast by Milo’s looming form to make him look up. He removed the buds, took in Milo’s badge, and relaxed. Not the usual reaction.
“The form was sent in. I faxed it myself. They’re not here to verify.”
Milo said, “Where are they?”
“Venice,” said Bonhomme. “Italy, not California. Don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Oh, man—the request. Fine, I’ll send another.”
“Who’s in Venice?”
“You’re kidding—who? The owners. Chad and Darren. They go every year, buying trip. C’mon, gentlemen, let’s not start from scratch. Every time a new one of you comes on, it’s inventing the wheel.”
Milo said, “Mr. Bonhomme—”
“Fine, I’ll go over it. Again. The burglary you know about. What you obviously haven’t been informed about is that the insurance company keeps being obstructionist by insisting on a detailed list of stolen items with an official police sign-off before Chad and Darren can ask for an outside appraisal. Even though they’re certified antiques appraisers. I keep sending you guys an official request, it keeps getting lost, no one admits anything.”
Milo said, “The burglary was here?”
“No, the shop—” He sat up. “Hold on, who are you?”
“LAPD. It’s you we’re here to see.”
“About what?” Bonhomme held up his book. “Studying without a license?”
“You’re not in trouble—”
“Well, I should hope not! What now?”
“Sorry for the intrusion,” said Milo. “We called but no one—”
“I turn off my phone when I’m studying. You have any idea what this is?”
“For law school.”
“I take it next week, that’s why I need to concentrate.”
“This won’t take long, Mr. Bonhomme—”
“Bone-ome. It means ‘good man.’ I’d like to think that’s accurate. So you’ve probably confused me with some random black male who—”
Milo said, “We’re here about a death at Revelle, Winters, Loach, and Russo.”
“And I’m supposed to know about that because…”
“You told someone about it.”
“What? No way.”
“You made a joke about a hex at the firm.”
Bonhomme removed his glasses, squinted up at us, grimaced. “Oh, shit, Blondie. You’re kidding. She took that seriously?”
“She took the fact that someone died seriously. She took your comment as tasteless levity.”
“Levity…well, that’s exactly what it was. Tasteless? Ear of the beholder.”
“So it never happened? No one died?”
“It happened,” said Bonhomme. “But the hex thing was…just silly stuff. It was an accident, anyway. Least that’s what I heard. I was just giving her a hard time because she invited it.”
“What kind of accident?”
“That’s all I know, an accident.” He shifted higher. “Are you telling me that’s not true?”
“What’s the name of this accident victim?”
Tony Bonhomme shot us a knowing smile. “You’re just poking around because Blondie freaked out. That was like months ago. A joke, gentlemen. Which, as I said, her manner invited.”
“What manner was that?”
“Being so uptight and superior about everything. As if she was too good to be there. As if anyone’s too good for anything. She made sure I knew she was going to be an actress. You can always tell the dramatis personae. They’re utterly incapable of regulating their emotions. So I messed with her. A hex? That’s kid stuff, she should’ve known better.”
Milo pointed to the book. “Looks like you’re planning on leaving the firm.”
“Soon as I can,” said Bonhomme. “But not because I think it’s below me. I moved to L.A. to get a Ph.D. in physical anthropology and found anthropology’s been taken over by politically correct nitwits. I also realized I hadn’t evolved to the point where I no longer need to eat or drink and so far, I’m not happy with my practice test results. So may I study in peace and try to aim for the affluent class?”
Milo laughed.
Bonhomme said, “See, Officer? Levity. It’s my thing. Now, please. Allow me to resume Fifty Shades of Dull.”
“One more thing, sir. How’d you find out about the accident?”
“Talk around the dungeon—that’s what we call the mailroom and everything else on the lower floor. I can’t remember who said what, it was more ‘poor guy, stuff happens.’ ”
“Poor guy,” said Milo. “The person was male.”
“Hmm,” said Bonhomme. “I believe I did hear the word ‘guy,’ so probably. But don’t hold me to it. It was months ago.”
“How many months?”
“You’re really taking it seriously.”
“Pays to be careful,” said Milo. “We were working your burglary, stuff wouldn’t get lost.”
“Touché,” said Bonhomme. “How long ago…two months, give or take.”
Perfect sync with the onset of Britnee Fauve’s probation.
“Again, don’t hold me to it,” said Bonhomme. Already thinking like a lawyer.
Milo was thinking like a detective. “You met Britnee but not the assistant who died.”
Bonhomme thought. “Yes, that is interesting. Assistants of senior partners rarely descend to the dungeon. They tend to make their requests by text or phone. Perhaps Blondie didn’t know the drill. Or she was hired at a lower pay grade. They’re doing a lot of that. Belt-tightening.” He flexed the book. “Another reason to keep my options open.”
Milo said, “Good luck with that.”
“Good luck to all of us,” said Tony Bonhomme.
CHAPTER
29
As we returned to the car, I said, “Britnee went down there because Loach planned on fun with Enid and gave her a make-work assignment mission. Unfortunately for him, she got back early.”
“Yeah…an accident. If it wasn’t classified as a crime, we won’t have it. I’ll check with the crypt.”
“One way to find out.”
“Soon as we get back.”
I had other ideas. No sense arguing.
—
He drove and I played with my phone.
L.A. murders are cataloged in several places. There’s the LAPD roster, the list kept by the coroner, and supplemental files, mostly for statistical purposes, maintained by a host of state and federal agencies.
All of which require a password or other evidence of official approval.
Anyone with Internet access can log onto the Los Angeles Times Homicide Report, a regularly updated cache that promises to provide “a story for every victim,” and does a fine job of fulfilling that pledge.
I had the name in less than a minute. Told him and read him the summary, verbatim.
“ ‘Roderick Salton, thirty-four, a white man, was found dead in a warehouse district near the courthouse on 1945 South Hill Street in Historic South Central. Though Salton worked as a legal assistant at a downtown law firm, his employers said his job wouldn’t have included court business. His family had no ready explanation for what Salton, a Utah transplant slated to enter law school this fall, would be doing in a warehouse district at night. Anyone with information is requested to contact Detective Roger Enow, LAPD Southwest Division.’ ”
An attached color photo showed a full-faced young man with short dark hair and an open smile. Date of death: sixty-eight days ago.
Milo said, “Enow. Good luck.”
“Not an ace?”
“You’d never mistake him for someone who cares. I gave testimony in that court, what a dump.”
“I’ve been on the stand there, too.”
“Custody cases get heard there?”
“They do when the main court’s overloaded.”
“So you know the neighborhood, like they said—industrial and storage. Supposedly respectable citizen ends up dead like that, it’s usually sex, dope, or both. But everything around there closes up at night. Never heard of hookers or dealers congregating.”
I said, “Which would make it the perfect dump spot. So would being relatively close to Salton’s work downtown. And a lawyer would be familiar with the area.”
“Back to that damn firm. Something bad starts there and finishes a few miles south? Did I miss cause of death?”
I re-read. “None listed.” My chest got tight. “Do me a favor and call Bernstein now.”
“Why?”
I told him.
He went bone-white.
—
The pathologist’s voice boomed through the hands-off speaker. “Correct, Victim Salton is the only other adult poisoning of uncertain manner in the county other than Victim Chase. I already told you it wasn’t the same toxin so don’t get all heated up.”
“You have any feelings about manner?”
“I don’t deal in feelings, I deal in data. If I was a betting man, I’d go for suicide as most likely, then homicide. But until I get some evidence, it will remain undetermined.”
“Enow’s on the case, you’re unlikely to get anything close to evidence.”
“I’m aware of that, not my problem,” said Bernstein. “How’d you come across it?”
Milo explained, leaving out Alicia and Imelda and concentrating on the link to J. Yarmuth Loach.
“DePauw’s lawyer?” said Bernstein. “You’ve got a connection between him and Victim Chase?”
“He’s got business and personal relationships with DePauw. Is managing the property in her absence.”
“That’s a connection?” said Bernstein. “What, you’re thinking she’s absent because he wants her to be? Be careful, too much creativity erodes the soul.”
Milo and I looked at each other. That possibility hadn’t entered our minds.
He said, “Anything’s possible, Bill.”
“Hopefully not,” said Bernstein. “A universe of possibilities is the definition of hell. Well, this isn’t probative but I suppose it’s provocative. You’ve complicated my life.”
“Complicated my own. Could you please fax Salton’s file?”
“I don’t fax, my assistant does and she’s gone home. I should be gone, too—all right, I’ll bring it to your office, you’re on the way. I’m talking the original, you’re responsible for copying and getting it back to me.”
“Great. When?”
“Confirmation: You’re at your office.”
“On the way.”
“I beat you there, I’m not waiting around.”
—
Milo raced back to the station, we ran up the stairs to his office, and he pulled up the file on Roderick Salton.
“Typical Enow,” he said, reading. “The bare minimum. He even spelled the guy’s name wrong, here. R-O-D-R-I-C-K, in one place, an E in the next paragraph.”
His desk phone rang.
Bill Bernstein said, “Come down immediately.”
The coroner idled a car in the entrance lane of the staff lot, wearing a white baseball cap over the same brown tweed suit and a bright-orange tie patterned with silver scalpels. The car was a sixties Corvette Stingray convertible, electric blue, the white canvas top lowered, chromed tailpipes growling.
Bernstein said, “Finally.” He revved the car. Smoke unfurled around him.
It had taken us all of a minute to reach him.
Milo held out his hand.
Bernstein said, “We’re going to discuss this. Get me in the lot.”
Milo used his card to open the gate and Bernstein sped into a slot marked Reserved Deputy Chief. He stepped out hatless, carrying a larger version of a black leather doctor’s bag, continued past us, and crossed the street without apparent caution.
Milo said, “Thanks for taking the time, Bill.”
“You need to work on your parking situation. I shouldn’t have to make a special request. No way am I leaving my other girl on the street.”
“Nice wheels. You actually drive it to East L.A.?”
“Why not? I’ve got a designated space there in full view of the camera.” Bernstein hefted his bag hard. Something thumped. “I’ve also got a Glock nicer than the ones you get and a carry permit, let some scum try to jack me.”
Milo grinned at me. “We should start calling you Wild Bill.”
“My fraternity brothers beat you to it.”
Bernstein threw open the station door, bounded up the stairs, stopped at the mouth of the corridor. “Which one’s your office?”
Milo led him there.
“This?” said Bernstein. “Who’d you offend? Find somewhere appropriate for human habitation.”
Milo already had; an interview room several doors down. He said, “Good idea, Bill—okay, that one will work.”
“It better,” said Bernstein. “You’ve put me in a foul mood.”
Once inside, he said, “Three chairs, good.” His pug nose wrinkled. “Stinks, you need better maintenance.”
My nose picked up a faint trace of perspiration. I’d been at the crypt when the stench of decay permeated the entire building.
Bernstein placed his black bag on the floor, sat and unclasped, placed papers on the table and squared the pile. “Victim Salton.”
Off came his glasses. He tugged his tie knot. Scalpels flashed. “Being assigned to Enow is tantamount to drifting in the miasma.”
Milo said, “Roger being Roger.”
“He’s a goldbrick, you need to do something about your internal standards. On top of his usual incompetence, he was annoying. Trying to pressure me to rule it as suicide so he could file it as a close and go off fishing somewhere. Fat chance, as if I’d help him clean his plate.” Wry smile. “So to speak. Seeing as we’re talking about oral ingestion.”
“Oral ingestion of what, Bill?”
“I’m getting to that.” Bernstein spread pages, selected one. “Aconite. From the plant aconitum. Also known as monkshood, devil’s helmet, wolfsbane, women’s bane.” He laughed. “Choose your poison.”
Selecting a sheet, he slid it across the table.
Color photo of a long-stalked plant with striking purplish-blue flowers.
“You’re going to say it’s pretty,” said Bernstein. “Don’t think of sticking it in your garden if you’ve got a dog or a small child or a squirrel you care about. It’s got a noble history as an implement of extremely unpleasant death. E.g. Shakespeare—Henry the Fourth, Medea trying to polish off Theseus. As well as various witchcraft loonies, cretins who believe in werewolves, that kind of crap. Even that kiddie book—Harry whatever.”
Milo said, “It’s legal to grow.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? You’d be amazed at how much death potential there is in a random garden. Aconite’s a particularly efficient assassin, a couple of hours and poof, maybe a bit longer if the dose is smaller. The mechanism is the opening of tetrodotoxin-sensitive neural cells—why am I bothering getting technical with you—it screws up the nervous system, okay? You get nauseous and vomit, your internal organs basically explode and bleed out, you shut down, end of story.”
“Sounds like colchicine.”
“It’s far more precise than colchicine. Your victim Salton had minute specks of vomitus on his clothes but he was pretty clean overall so I suspected he’d died elsewhere. I told Enow. Per usual, he didn’t care.”
Milo said, “Any external marks on the body?”
“Not a pinprick. When I see something like that, the first option isn’t going to be poison, it’ll be disease, even young people keel over from strokes, aneurysms, occluded arteries. But even before I opened him I noticed cyanotic fingernail beds, which was intriguing, we’re talking acute oxygen deprivation. Of course, anything cardiac could theoretically cut off—never mind, bottom line, carbon monoxide had to be considered, just as with Victim Chase. Negative. And when I did get inside, I found a total mess that was definitely not CO. I took lots of samples for biopsy and ordered a tox screen immediately. The third extension pulled in aconite. I listed it in my report.”
“Enow didn’t. He just said ‘Poison.’ ”
“Again, not my problem.”
I said, “Colchicine can be used as gout medicine. Any legit uses for this?”
“Some British homeopaths like it for a diuretic, which I think is insane. Even at the dilutions they use, why take a chance? I want to lose water, I’ll eat asparagus, better my pee should smell than my entire body implodes. It’s been used in China and India for herbal concoctions, but those people also grind rhinoceros horn to help geezers get hard-ons, which is about as useful as prayer, so big surprise. To answer your next predictable question, has it been used for murder recently? Not in the U.S., but a few years ago an Indian woman in England cooked up a tasty curry that killed her boyfriend because he’d gone back to his wife. Women’s bane. Hell hath no fury.”
He produced a spotless linen handkerchief, wiped his glasses, put them back on. “Enough neurobiology for dummies. Am I to understand that you’re hypothesizing a connection between Victim Chase and Victim Salton solely because of this lawyer? What’s your theory? A white-glove type buys two poisons from an herbal quack and laces high tea? If so, good luck confirming. There are crap peddlers everywhere from Venice to Chinatown, even worse, the Internet. And none of those idiots register with their fellow idiots at the FDA.”
Milo said, “Actually, we’re wondering about a link to Enid DePauw’s garden.”
