Milo’s pad was out. “How old would you say she was?”
“I’d guess thirties, but it’s a guess because that kind of misery- homelessness, mental illness- it overrides age, doesn’t it?”
“In what way, ma’am?”
“What I mean,” said Barnes, “is that people like that all look ancient and damaged- there’s a coating of despair. This one, though, she’d managed to hold on to some of her youth; under the grime I could see some youth. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
CoCo Barnes ticked a finger. “In terms of other details, she wore a thick, padded military-type camouflage jacket over a red, black, and white flannel shirt over a blue UCLA sweatshirt. UCLA in white letters, the C was half-gone. On the bottom were heavy-duty gray sweatpants, and from the way they bulked, she had on at least one other pair of pants underneath. White, lace-up tennis shoes on her feet and a broad-brimmed black straw hat atop her head. The brim was shredded in front- pieces of straw coming loose. Her hair was bunched up in the hat, but some had come loose, and it was red. And curly. Curly red hair. Add a layer of grime to all of that, and you’ve got the picture.”
Milo scribbled. “Ever see her before?”
“No,” said Barnes. “Not on the walkway or kicking around the alleys in Venice or in Ocean Front Park or anywhere else you see the homeless. Maybe she’s not one of the locals.”
“Is there anything else you remember about the encounter?”
“It wasn’t much of an encounter, Detective. I opened the door, she got scared, I offered to get her some food, she ran off.”
Milo scanned his notes. “You’ve got a great memory, Ms. Barnes.”
“You should’ve known me a few years ago.” The old woman tapped her forehead. “I’m accustomed to taking mental snapshots. We artists view the world with a high-focus lens.” Two rapid blinks. “If I hadn’t chickened out of my cataract surgery, I’d be doing a lot better.”
“Let me ask you this, ma’am: Could you draw me a picture of this woman? I’m sure it would be better than anything our police artist would come up with.”
Barnes suppressed a surprised smile. “Haven’t drawn in a while. Shifted to ceramics a few years ago, but, sure, why not? I’ll do it and call you.”
“Appreciate it, ma’am.”
“Civic duty and art,” said Barnes. “All in one swoop.”
As I drove back to Café Moghul, I said, “How seriously do you take it?”
“You don’t?”
“CoCo Barnes has cataracts, so who knows what she really saw. I still think the murder smacks of planning and intelligence. Someone well composed mentally. But that’s just a guess, not science.”
He frowned. “Tracking this redhead down means getting hold of the patrol officers where the homeless hang out, dealing with the social service agencies and the treatment centers. And if Barnes is right about the redhead not being local, I can’t limit myself to the Westside.”
“One thing in your favor,” I said, “a six-foot woman with curly red hair isn’t inconspicuous.”
“Assuming I find her, then what? What I’ve got is a probable psychotic who Dumpster-dove in the alley five hours before Julie got strangled.” He shook his head. “How seriously am I taking it? Not very.”
A block later: “On the other hand…”
“What?”
“If I don’t turn up anything else, soon, I can’t afford not to chase it down.”
I pulled up alongside the loading zone in front of the restaurant. A parking ticket was folded under the windshield wiper of his unmarked. He said, “Want to meet Everett Kipper?”
“Sure.”
He eyed the citation. “You drive- long as I’m renting, I might as well occupy.”
“Will the city reimburse me?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll FedEx you a box of infinite gratitude.”
Everett Kipper worked at a firm called MuniScope, on the twenty-first floor of a steel-and-concrete high-rise on Avenue of the Stars just south of little Santa Monica. Parking fees were stiff, but Milo’s badge impressed the attendant, and I stashed the Seville for free.
The building’s lobby was arena-sized, serviced by a dozen elevators. We rode up in hermetic silence. MuniScope’s reception room was ovoid, paneled in bleached bird’s-eye maple, softly lit and carpeted, and ringed by saffron leather modules. Milo’s badge elicited alarm from the hard-faced, hard-bodied receptionist. Then she recovered and compensated with toothy graciousness.
“I’ll ring him right away, gentlemen. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, Sprite, Diet Coke?”
We demurred and sank down in yellow-orange leather. Down-filled cushions. No corners in the egg-shaped space. I felt like a privileged unborn chick nestled in high-rent surroundings.
Milo muttered, “Cushy.”
I said, “Put the client at ease. It works. I’m ready to peck through the shell and buy something.”
A man in a black suit appeared from around a convex wall. “Detectives? Ev Kipper.”
Julie Kipper’s ex was a thin man with a big voice, a blond-gray crew cut and the smooth round face of an aging frat boy. Forty or so, five-eight, one-fifty. His bouncy stride suggested gymnastics or ballet training. The suit was a four-button model, tailored snug, set off by a sapphire blue shirt, gold tie, gold cuff links, gold wristwatch. His hands were manicured and smooth and outsized, and when we shook, I felt barely suppressed strength in his grip. Dry palms. Clear, brown eyes that made eye contact. A subtle bronze veneer to his complexion said outdoor sports or the tanning bed.
“Let’s go in and talk,” he said. Confident baritone, not a trace of anxiety. If he’d murdered his former spouse, he was one hell of a psychopath.
He took us to an empty boardroom with a view all the way to Vegas. Oyster-colored carpeting and walls, and a black granite conference table more than large enough for the thirty Biedermeier-revival chairs that surrounded it. The three of us huddled at one end.
“Sorry it took so long to get together,” said Kipper. “What can I help you with?”
Milo said, “Is there anything about your ex-wife we should know? Anything that would help us figure out who strangled her?”
Putting emphasis on wife and strangled and watching Kipper’s face.
Kipper said, “God, no. Julie was a wonderful person.”
“You’ve maintained contact, despite the divorce ten years ago.”
“Life took us in other directions. We’ve remained friends.”
“Other directions professionally?”
“Yes,” said Kipper.
Milo sat back. “Are you remarried?”
Kipper smiled. “No, still looking for Ms. Right.”
“Your ex-wife wasn’t her.”
“Julie’s world was art. Mine is slogging through bond prospectuses. We started off in the same place but ended up too far apart.”
“Did you study painting in Rhode Island?”
“Sculpting.” Kipper touched the face of his watch. The timepiece was thin as a nickel with an exposed skeleton movement. Four diamonds placed equidistant around the rim, crocodile band. I tried to estimate how many paintings Julie Kipper would have had to sell to afford it.
“Sounds like you’ve been researching me, Detective.”
“Your marriage came up while talking to people who knew her, sir. People seem to know about your artistic origins.”
“The Light and Space bunch?” said Kipper. “Sad crowd.”
“How so, sir?”
“Maximally self-labeling, minimally talented.”
“Self-labeling?”
“They call themselves artists,” said Kipper. New edge in his voice. “Julie was the real thing, they’re not. But that’s true of the art world in general. There are no criteria- it’s not like being a surgeon. Lots of pretense.”