“I’ll get back to the police in a minute, but first let me ask you this-do you know of a firm called Leverage Associates?”
“I don’t believe I do. What is it?”
“They’re a political management firm downtown. Debra Repko worked for them.”
“Ah. Uh-huh.”
She nodded without comprehension, probably wondering what this had to do with anything.
“Sondra and Debra had a lot in common. More with each other than with the other five women. They both had college educations. They both worked downtown in fields involved with the government. Was Sondra interested in politics?”
“Not my Sondra. She was an account administrator with the planning commission. She called herself a bean counter.”
“She ever attend political events, like a fund-raiser or dinner?”
“Oh, my, no. She hated that kind of thing. Is that what the Repko girl did?”
“She was at a political dinner on the night she died.”
“Sondie was off having fun with her friends. At least she was enjoying herself.”
“Do you remember how the police handled the original investigation?”
“Every word. I lie in bed at night, remembering. I can still see them sitting here, right where you’re sitting now.”
“The detective conducting the investigation was Chief Marx?”
“At the beginning, but he left. Then it was, oh, I think it was Detective Petievich. A Serbian, that’s why I remember. Ronnie was so glad when a Serb took over. Frostokovich is a Serbian name.”
“How long was Marx involved?”
“Four or five weeks, was all, then he disappeared. Got a promotion, they said.”
“After four or five weeks.”
“Ronnie was just furious, but he calmed down. Marx and that other one hadn’t caught anyone, so we thought the new people might get results.”
“Who worked on the case with Marx?”
“Let me think-”
She stared at the ceiling, trying to remember.
“That was Detective Munson. He never said much. Ronnie called him The Zombie. Ronnie was always making up names like that.”
I tried not to show a reaction.
“Did Munson stay on the case with Petievich?”
“For a while, but then he moved on, too. They all moved on, sooner or later.”
“But Marx and Munson were the first investigators?”
“The day they found her body. They sat right where you’re sitting.”
“Did they have a suspect?”
“Oh, no. That first day they asked if we knew who did it. I will always remember that, them asking if we knew. Ronnie went straight up right through the roof. He told them if he thought anyone was going to kill Sondie, he would have killed them before they had the chance.”
“Was there anyone you suspected?”
“Well, no. Why would we suspect anyone?”
“Maybe something Sondra had said.”
The nervous hands held each other. It was a sad move, as if her hands were keeping each other company.
“No, nothing like that. We were shocked. It was like being swept away by a wave. We thought they must have made a mistake.”
“Did they ask many questions?”
“They were here for hours. They wanted to know if Sondra was seeing anyone or had complained about anyone, that kind of thing. Sondie had gone out with her friends from work that night, so the police wanted to talk to them. We had to look up their names and numbers. It just went on and on like that.”
She suddenly smiled, and her face was bright with living energy.
“Would you like to see?”
“See what?”
“Her friends. Here, they took a picture together-”
She pushed up from the well of the Barcalounger and waved me with her to the credenza.
“Carrie gave this to us. Ronnie called it The Last Supper. He would cry like a baby when he looked at it, but then he would call it The Last Supper, and laugh.”
She grabbed a framed snapshot from the forest of pictures on the credenza and put it in my hands.
“They took this at work that day. That’s Sondie, second from the right, that’s Carrie, that’s Lisa and Ellen. They used to cut up and have so much fun. They went out together that night after work.”
I stared at the picture.
“Her friends at work.”
“Well, the girls, not the gentlemen.”
The four young women were standing shoulder to shoulder and smiling in a professional, businesslike manner. They were in what appeared to be a city office, but they were not in the picture alone. A middle-aged African-American man stood at the left end of their line, and Councilman Nobel Wilts stood to their right. Wilts was next to Sondra, and appeared to be touching her back.
Ida tapped the African-American man.
“Mr. Owen here was Sondie’s boss, and this was Councilman Wilts. He was so kind to her. He told her she had a bright future.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the picture. I stared at it as if I was falling into it.
“I thought her job wasn’t political.”
“Well, it wasn’t, but they worked in the budgetary office, you know. The councilman stopped by for one of the bigwigs, but took time to tell them what a great job they were doing. Wasn’t that nice of him?”
I nodded.
“He was very impressed with them, Sondie in particular. He even remembered her name that night.”
I let go of the picture and watched her put it back on the credenza. She placed it perfectly onto a line in the dust.
“Did she see him again that night?”
“At dinner.”
“Sondie and Wilts had dinner.”
“Sondie and her friends had dinner. They bumped into the councilman at the restaurant, and he was just so nice again. He told them how much he enjoyed meeting them, and he even remembered Sondie’s name. I have voted for that man ever since.”
“When did Carrie give you the picture?”
“Must have been a year or so after what happened. She found it one day and thought we’d like it.”
“Did Marx and Munson see it?”
“They were long gone by then.”
I studied the picture in the little forest of pictures on the credenza, and knew by the smudged dust lines it had been moved more than once.
“Did Detective Bastilla see it when she was here?”
Her smile grew even brighter.
“She thought it was so pretty of Sondie. She asked if she could have it, but I told her no.”
I took Ida’s hand and gave her an encouraging squeeze.
“I’m glad you told her no, Ida. It’s a good picture. Let’s keep it safe.”
29
THE DAY shift ended at three. Uniformed officers punched on and off duty pretty much with the clock, but homicide detectives required more flexible hours. Interviews were arranged when citizens could make the time to be interviewed; file or evidence transfers often meant sitting in traffic for hours; and reports, records, and case notes still had to be typed and logged by the end of the day.
I arranged to meet Starkey a block from Hollywood Station when her shift ended and phoned Alan Levy while I waited. I wanted to see if he had learned anything about Marx from his inside sources, and I also wanted to know how Bastilla had handled Ivy Casik.
Levy’s assistant answered.
He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cole. Alan’s out of the office today.”
“I know. We saw each other this morning. Do you know if he’s spoken with Ivy Casik?”
“No, sir, I don’t. Would you like to leave a message? I expect he’ll call in later.”
“Yeah. Ask him to call me. Tell him I’ve learned some things about the task force.”
I gave him my cell number, then put away my phone.
Starkey left Hollywood Station at ten minutes after four and walked south, looking for my car. She was wearing a navy pantsuit, tortoise-shell sunglasses, and twining ribbons of cigarette smoke. A black bag hung on her right shoulder. When she saw me, I raised a hand. She flicked her cigarette to the street, then opened the door and dropped into the car.