Breakdown, p.28
Breakdown, page 28
I said, “You’re wondering about other bodies?”
“Who the hell knows? Someone gets away with stuff for years, why stop at three? I went looking for details on the deaths of Enid’s other sibs, finally got hold of them a few hours ago. Two are clearly natural: the oldest brother died of lung cancer, the sister, ovarian. But James Finbar, the one who bothered to call Ott, is listed as exsanguination from a bleeding ulcer with associated gastritis and that doesn’t sound so different from what happened to Zelda. And Rod Salton. Speaking of which, John’s adamant: only three names on the arrest warrant, insufficient evidence on Salton.”
“Two poisonings with plant material found in Enid’s garden doesn’t impress him?”
“John knows the truth and so does his boss, but you know lawyers. At graduation they get a kit for sewing ass-covers along with their degrees. If colchicine had also been used on Salton, that might’ve been enough to squeak it through, but two different poisons means an opening for defense sharks. I’ll be searching the house later today. I luck out and find Enid’s written recipes for two flavors of witch’s brew, it’s a different story. Barring that, I’ll settle for diaries, financial documents, explicit written confessions.”
I said, “Four people and maybe her brother. The only sib remotely sympathetic to Zina, so he had to be taken care of.”
“Or she just wanted his inheritance too. Poor Jimmy had no wife, no kids, seems to be what they used to call a confirmed bachelor.”
“His will didn’t make bequests to anyone else?”
“No will on record, so far. Rich guy living off a trust, not expecting to die, he could’ve put it off.”
“Giving Enid the chance to finish him off before he filed papers.”
“Or maybe he told Enid he had plans to write a will and she did some preventive pharmacology.”
“When did he die?”
“A few months after he called Ott.”
“He could’ve had suspicions about Zina’s disappearance.”
“Would I like to have Cleveland disinter him? You bet, at some point, but right now I’m concentrating on local bodies. Meanwhile, I’m hassling with Homeland Security.”
“Over what?”
“Who gets to put the cuffs on the evil bitch.”
—
We spoke the following morning. The house search hadn’t uncovered any diaries or financial documents but he was smiling.
Milo said, “Papers could be in Loach’s office, or her safe, still waiting for someone who can get in there. The main thing is, other goodies abound. I found a box of Vuitton chewing gum in her nightstand drawer and Gucci sneakers that match one of the casts in her closet. Along with about three hundred other pairs of shoes. Ol’ Averell had a nice firearms collection, mostly Italian and British shotguns that haven’t been fired in a long time but also an old but recently oiled .22 Smith and Wesson revolver that I just sent to Ballistics. The finishing touch was a whole collections of books on poisons in the library, nonfiction as well as novels. They were easy to spot because everything else on the shelves was that leather-bound stuff decorators install by the yard.”
“Speaking of decorators, anything from the landscaper?”
“She’s in England at a big show, obviously I’m not going to leave a message. But the gardeners confirm they never went into the forest. White Glove is scheduled to clean today, I was careful to finish last night, kept it neat. Unless they count the guns, they’ll never know I was there.”
“Have you worked out the cuff thing with Homeland yet?”
“Still under review,” he said. “You know the feds. They’re all into process.”
CHAPTER
40
The “process” was established after much interdepartmental head-scratching and formalized in a two-page, single-spaced Document of Intent.
Officers from U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP), working in concert with Los Angeles World Airport Authority (LAWA) at the Tom Bradley International Terminal’s customs clearance area, would carry out a “strategic focused capture and custodial operation” with approved representatives from LAPD and the district attorney’s office “in observance” along with a single approved prosecution consultant (APC) authorized by LAPD and the D.A. Once the security status of the arrestees had been ascertained to the satisfaction of CBP, formal custody would transfer from CBP to LAPD at an approved location, yet to be determined.
Alitalia Flight 62, nonstop from Rome to Los Angeles, scheduled to arrive at one twenty-eight p.m., was delayed an hour and a half. At two p.m., Milo, John Nguyen, and I—honored to be the APC—drove to LAX in Milo’s unmarked trailed by three black-and-whites from the West L.A. station.
The cop cars drove into the parking lot across the street from Bradley and remained there. The three of us entered the terminal expecting to be met by an airport police sergeant named MacArthur Davis but encountering only harried-looking incoming and outgoing travelers.
Several calls finally produced an officer named Fred Barefoot who told us Davis had taken a sick day and led us downstairs to a suite of Homeland Security offices where a cadre of armed, blue-uniformed CBP agents waited.
In charge was a five-foot-tall sergeant named Mary Dobbs who outlined the plan on a whiteboard.
Milo said, “Sounds good.”
Dobbs said, “I should hope so. We worked on it.”
—
At two thirty-two p.m., a phone in the customs office rang informing the assembled that the plane had pulled up to the gate early.
At two thirty-eight p.m. the border uniforms and their privileged guests entered the vast customs clearance hall. A billion or so dollars had been spent renovating the building but that didn’t extend to manpower. Fewer than half the stations were operating and the hall was clogged with coiling queues of the recently deplaned doing a collective impression of Wretched Refuse.
The exception were passengers who’d qualified for and paid to participate in the Global Entry Trusted Traveler Program (GETTP), allowing them to breeze past the lines to one of the Automated Passport Control (APC) kiosks at a special Federal Inspection Station developed in concert with the Tom Bradley International Equipment Company (TBITEC). There, they offered their passports and a thumbprint for machine-scanning and, once approved, were directed to the baggage carousel. Upon procurement of luggage, they’d continue to designated GETTP customs officers, usually to be waved through without inspection.
“Nice,” said Milo.
Mary Dobbs said, “It is if people behave themselves. If they don’t, they’re off the bus forever.”
“That happen a lot?”
“Last week we had a joker trying to sneak in a guitar with ivory all over it, clear CITES violation.” She waved jazz hands. “Bye-bye, Music Boy.”
—
At two fifty-three p.m., Enid DePauw, in a black vicuña shawl, black silk blouse, and gray herringbone slacks, was first off the plane, race-walking and carrying a small black clutch with a gold clasp. Right behind her, J. Yarmuth Loach in a double-breasted navy blazer, cream linen pants, and white silk shirt carried a crocodile-hide Louis Vuitton hard-case and wheeled a matching carry-on bag.
Loach was a tall man but his long legs had to strain to keep up with DePauw. She put all four limbs into it; get too close and he’d feel the impact of her elbows.
Milo said, “That’s them.”
Sergeant Dobbs said, “Last time they’ll get to jump the line.”
—
The six border cops moved ahead of the couple, now being processed at side-by-side kiosks. Milo, Nguyen, and I were ordered to stand to the right of the kiosks but that exposed us visually and when Milo pointed out that Suspect DePauw had met us and could recognize us, Dobbs said, “Shit,” and hurried us forward.
“Over there, somewhere they can’t see you.”
We found a vantage point behind the carousel bordering the one serving the Rome flight. Loach, still trailing Enid DePauw, wheeled a luggage cart near the chute. She stood a few feet away, powdering her nose.
For the first few seconds, they were the only people at the carousel. Then a few other first-class passengers joined them. The first piece dumped down the chute was an unobtrusive black bag that Loach hefted onto the cart. DePauw paid no notice until, seconds later, a large crocodile suitcase matching the hard-case and the wheelie tumbled forth and she said something sharp to Loach that caused him to spring for it. After he’d loaded it in the cart, she inspected it, turned her back on him, and headed for the customs desk.
Nguyen said, “Croc. That stuff costs a fortune.”
Milo said, “Killer lizard giving up its life. There’s a lesson there, somewhere.”
The customs officer designated to participate in the production was a thickset, mustachioed man who’d have flunked Acting 101. His eyes kept darting around and he avoided looking at Loach and DePauw.
“Nervous Nellie,” said Nguyen. “C’mon, dude, this is more than confiscating guitars.”
Enid tapped a foot and smoothed her hair as Mustache took a long time reviewing the couple’s documents. He pointed to the cart and said something that made her scowl.
J. Yarmuth Loach remained silent. The submissive one. That made him the preferable target for interrogation. I’d say something later.
Now he lifted the hard-case to the customs desk and the officer took it and shook it. Enid DePauw’s foot tapped faster. She looked furious.
Not used to being kept waiting.
Finally, Mustache returned the case to Loach and she began to edge forward. Before Loach got the case back on the cart, Dobbs and her officers had swarmed the couple on all sides.
Sergeant Dobbs walked up to Enid and said something to her. Received a hard slap across the face for her troubles.
J. Yarmuth Loach’s mouth had dropped open. He accepted the handcuffs passively. Not so, DePauw. She’d tightened her hand into a fist and took another swing at Dobbs, using her height to bear down and aim at the top of Dobbs’s head.
Dobbs, with one hand still flat against her smarting cheek, used the other to haul off and deliver a gut-punch that lowered DePauw to the floor.
Both suspects were propelled out of the hall.
As we left, I heard someone say, “Old people like that? Why don’t they go after some real terrorists?”
CHAPTER
41
One cop car drove Loach to the Men’s Central Jail in East L.A. The second transported Enid DePauw to the Women’s Central Jail in Lynwood.
The third, driven by an officer who said, “Lucky me,” took the luggage.
Within hours of booking, both suspects had high-powered lawyers stonewalling on their behalf.
“Big surprise, big deal,” said John Nguyen. “We’ve got bodies.”
—
The luggage revealed nothing. Milo’s search of Loach’s office was another story.
When he arrived at the law firm with a search warrant, two dollies, a departmental locksmith, and Detectives Lorrie Mendez, Moses Reed, and Sean Binchy, he was confronted by an administrative partner, “one of those pompous twits” named Robert Malley.
Malley made a show of blocking Loach’s door, first insisting entry was impossible, then taking a long time to read the warrant, only to sputter about egregious violation of client confidentiality.
Milo said, “His only client is my other suspect.”
Malley said, “What if you don’t know everything? How will you differentiate between relevant and not relevant?”
“I’m doing it right now, you’re irrelevant. Now move.”
—
Nothing to differentiate; the only files in Loach’s bench-made, English-import, mahogany Regency Revival cabinet pertained to Enid and Averell DePauw.
It took a while to comb through the eight boxes retrieved from the office, with Milo taking on the job in an empty conference room at the station, and I his volunteer assistant. Most of the documents were what you’d expect with big money being moved around: limited liability real estate syndications, prospectuses, investment reports, tax forms, invitations to participate in corporate proxy votes.
A few told the story.
Three months prior to foreclosure on the house on Bel Azura Drive, a petition to declare Zina Rutherford mentally incompetent, backed up by a psychiatrist named Roberta Waters, was approved by a Superior Court judge named Arthur Ernest.
The push to make commitments more difficult was well under way by then, but you could still pull it off if the patient was sufficiently impaired. Or you had the right connections.
A search of doctor roberta waters pulled up the fact that she’d lost her license several years later due to substance abuse issues.
A search of judge arthur ernest pulled up the fact that eight months after he’d disenfranchised Zina, he’d retired from the bench to take a position of counsel to Loach’s law firm.
Waters had been dead for twenty-three years, Ernest for seventeen. Zina’s court-appointed counsel at the time, a Legal Aid newbie named Donald Pkach, was in practice now in Tacoma, Washington. Milo reached his office and asked him.
He said, “You expect me to remember that?” and hung up.
—
As a result of Ernest’s decision, Zina had been committed to a private facility in Denver, long shuttered. Nothing further on her until her brother reported her missing and Dub Ott tried to find her.
At the time of commitment, legal and physical custody of “minor child Jane Z. Rutherford” had passed to petitioners Enid and Averell DePauw.
Milo said, “Handed over to the evil aunt, what a nightmare.”
I said, “Five years old. Going back to St. Denis wasn’t psychotic, she’d lived there.”
He passed me another sheet. “Not for long.”
Within six months of being separated from her mother, minor child Jane Z. Rutherford’s welfare had been entrusted to the county foster care system, with petitioners DePauw requesting termination of custody due to “incorrigible behavioral issues.”
This time, an associate at the law firm had handled the couple’s business affairs. J. Y. Loach, Esq.
Nothing in the file on any subsequent adoption by the non-ideal Chases. If they were still out there, good luck finding them.
I said, “Enid eliminates Zina, makes a show of parenting her daughter, then, after a token period, she cuts her off, too.”
“And takes her inheritance,” said Milo. “What a fucking monster.”
—
The two of us spent a long time putting together numbers. Enid DePauw’s cash, securities, and real estate holdings, including several absentee partnerships spread across five states, neared one hundred million dollars, forty percent of that the property on St. Denis.
Milo said, “Even a small part of that woulda made Zelda a rich woman.”
My stomach lurched. I got up and left the office, walked up and down the hall, returned feeling clammy.
Milo said, “You okay?”
“There’s an eleven-year-old boy who’d be rich if he’s alive.”
“Hey, the jury’s not out yet—that little Swede said she didn’t take the kid with her to Skid Row.”
“That little Norwegian is psychotic. Any plans to dig up the poison patch?”
“Matter of fact, in a few hours,” he said. “Your botanist buddy will be there. Why do you ask?”
“Before you go, see if you can pull up prints from any of these docs related to Zelda.”
“Why?”
I told him.
He said, “Interesting. You usually are.”
CHAPTER
42
No need for the big dig to go unnoticed by the neighbors. The stream of crypt and police vehicles brought them out, gawking and exchanging misinformation.
Milo said, “More foot traffic than this place has ever seen.”
I said, “Let’s have a block party.”
The onlookers were a mixed bunch of residents in expensive leisure clothes, uniformed domestics, and a motley group of dogs. A couple of canines got into altercations with each other, with cross words exchanged by their humans.
I said, “Peace in the canyon.”
As Milo and I prepared to walk through the gates, a hollow-cheeked woman wearing black velvet sweats and several pounds of gold and gems marched up to us. “I need to know what’s going on, Officers.”
Milo said, “We’re doing police work,” and walked away.
The woman said, “Well, he’s got an attitude. What’s his name?”
I said, “Masterson Earp,” and caught up just in time to slip through the closing gates.
—
The digging crew was Liz Wilkinson and six graduate students. Ben Haroyushi, in a pith helmet and khakis, was off to the side, photographing plants, snipping, bagging, tagging.
When he finished, he walked up to me. “Thanks for the opportunity, Alex. This’ll make for a great lecture.”
“Lethal horticulture?”
“A lot of horticulture is lethal but I never get to talk about it,” said Ben. “Seeing it all in one place, there’s an…aura.” He grinned. “Don’t quote me on that, too new-agey. But it’s hard to ignore, no?”
—
No use bringing in cadaver dogs. The scents from two graves in a limited area would satiate them in seconds.
Ground-penetrating radar brought up nothing. Neither did a visual inspection of the surface dirt.
Liz said, “If anything’s down there, it’s going to be deep. But we’ll start with surface exploration and take it slowly.”
Milo and I and a couple of uniforms stood around and worked our cellphones as the grad students began staking and gridding, then picked up their hand tools. Earning their stipends with sweat equity. But process doesn’t matter, outcome does, and after a while the futility of the exercise was obvious.
The initial three feet of earth contained no remains other than the skeletons of small animals—moles, gophers, a desiccated twig-like thing Liz I.D.’d as a shrew.
