I said, “This could be tied in with the others but result from a different motivation. This victim could mean something different to the killer.”
“Like what?” said Milo.
“She was behind the gallery casing the place for the killer.”
“Advance woman?” he said. “Drummond chooses a homeless woman for an accomplice? And now he gets rid of her?”
“He would if she became a liability. A homeless woman, alcoholic, possibly mentally ill, might’ve served a purpose for him when he wasn’t under threat. But if he knows he’s the object of investigation, he might have decided to cover his tracks.”
“He might very well know he’s the object,” said Petra. “We’ve talked to his family and his landlady. He hasn’t been seen for days, all the evidence says he’s rabbited.”
I said, “A broad ligature is sometimes used when the killer has some level of sympathy for the victim. Also, she’s a big woman. If she drank herself into a stupor, that would’ve made his job a lot easier, no need to confront or struggle. The way she was propped is almost respectful. Were her legs spread?”
Milo opened the envelope, drew out color photos, shuffled through until he found a full-length body shot.
“Legs tight together,” said Petra.
“No sexual positioning, but it could still be a pose,” I said. “Strangulation, even with no struggle, can set off spasms. This looks too orderly to be natural.”
The two of them studied the photo. Milo said, “Looks posed to me.”
Petra nodded.
I said, “There’s no intent to demean, here. Just the opposite, he’s guarding her sexuality.”
“Kevin’s gay,” said Milo. “Maybe women aren’t sexual objects to him.”
“Julie was posed sexually. Kevin may be leaning toward gay, but if he’s our guy, he’s still plenty confused.”
“That makes sense,” said Petra. “Macho dad and brothers, all that emphasis on sports and being manly. It couldn’t have been easy for him.”
She glanced at Milo, and I noticed a spark of unease in her dark eyes. Wondering if she’d offended him.
He nodded, as if to reassure her.
“Whatever the motive,” I said, “the killer took care to make this victim look comfortable. Relative to the other cases, it’s an indication of respect.”
“Accomplice but not a girlfriend?” said Milo.
Petra said, “Even if Kevin does have an interest in girls- even if he’s quirky in ways we don’t know- I can’t see a young guy associating with a diseased homeless woman. What motive would he have to hang with her?”
“Kevin’s an isolate,” I said. “Probably sees himself an outcast from way back. On top of his sexual issues, he’s set himself up as a white knight fighting a lonely battle for art in its pure form. With that kind of alienation, I can see him gravitating toward other outsiders.”
“Which means I should be scoping out the street people, not the bookstores.”
Milo said, “Hanging with the homeless, offing the talented. It’s like a war against the bright side of life.”
I said, “There’s something else I find interesting. This body showed up behind a former theater. What if that’s a sneaky little allusion to the death of the performing arts?”
“They’re still performing there,” said Milo. “The church. Isn’t that what preaching is? Or maybe, he’s being sacrilegious.”
Petra said, “This is veering into serious weirdness.” She gnawed her lip. “Okay, what next?”
Milo said, “We’re ninety-nine percent sure this is the redhead CoCo Barnes saw, but let’s see if I can get a positive ID from the old lady. Main thing is find out who she is, woman like this is gonna be in the system somewhere. When do the prints come in?”
“You know prints. Could be today or next week. I’ll talk to Dig and Harry, see if we can speed things up.”
“Once we know who she is, we trace her movements. And maybe we don’t need to wait for prints. After Barnes told me what she saw, I did some asking around, found a shelter in your bailiwick- Dove House- where they knew of a tall redhead who dropped in from time to time. Bernadine something. They also said they figured her for someone who’d lived better once upon a time, because when her head cleared, she talked intelligently.”
I said, “Maybe that’s the side the killer saw. He knew he needed to get her blind drunk to render her helpless.”
Petra said, “I know Dove House, brought kids there. They’ve got a pretty good success rate.”
Milo looked at the death shot. “No one’s perfect.”
28
We found CoCo Barnes spinning an amorphous pot in her garage studio. Lance the dog snored at her feet.
It took her one glance to say, “That’s her- just like my drawing. Poor thing, what happened to her?”
“We don’t know yet, ma’am,” said Milo.
“But she’s dead.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, boy,” said Barnes, wiping clay from her hands. “Do me a favor, we ever meet again, call me CoCo, not ‘ma’am.’ You’re making me feel paleolithic.”
Milo phoned Petra and reached her out in the Valley. When he asked if we could hit the shelter without her, she said fine.
“What’s she doing?” I said.
“Keeping an eye on Kevin’s folks’ house. Stahl’s still watching the apartment, but that’s looking pretty useless.”
I turned the car around, noticed my gas gauge was near empty.
“All the back-and-forth,” he said. “I’ll pay to fill it up.”
“Spring for dinner instead.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere expensive.”
“Double date?” he said.
“Sure.” I pulled into a gas station on Lincoln.
He jumped out, used his credit card to activate the pump, hooked up the nozzle, bounced his eyes around, ever the detective. I felt like stretching, so I wiped the windows.
“So how’s Allison?” he said.
“She’s in Boulder.”
“Skiing?”
“Psych convention.”
“Oh… okay, all filled up.” He replaced the hose. “When’s she getting back?”
“Few days. Why?”
“We need to wait for her,” he said. “To schedule the double date.”
Dove House occupied a run-down, cloud-colored apartment building on Cherokee, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. No sign or identifying marks. The front door was open, and the ground-floor unit to the left was labeled OFFICE.
The director was a young, clean-shaven black man named Daryl Witherspoon, working alone at a battered desk. Cornrows lined his skull. A silver crucifix swung as he got up and walked toward us. His gray sweats smelled freshly laundered.
Milo showed him the picture, and he placed a palm against his cheek. “Oh, my. Poor Erna.”
“Erna who?”
“Ernadine,” said Witherspoon. “Ernadine Murphy.”
“E. Murphy,” I said.
Witherspoon regarded me curiously. “What happened to her?”
Milo said, “I called here about a week ago, spoke to a woman who thought she knew Ms. Murphy.”
“That was probably Diane Pirello, my assistant. Was Erna- did this happen a week ago?”
“Last night. What can you tell us about her?”
Witherspoon said, “Let’s sit down.”
Milo and I perched on a thrift shop sofa that stank of tobacco. Witherspoon offered us coffee from a bubbling machine, but we declined. Footsteps sounded from above. The room was painted a bright yellow that seared the eyes. Inspirational messages taped to the plaster were the art du jour.