Creighton might’ve been off about that but to my eye he was right about the house yielding nothing of value.
The miserly space had already taken on an abandoned feel. The front room, carelessly and cheaply furnished, sported a U-build bookshelf full of high school texts, SAT and ACT practice manuals, a few photography volumes featuring pretty shots of faraway places, paperbacks by Jane Austen, Aphra Behn, and George Eliot.
The plywood-and-Formica kitchenette was a sixties bootleg. Wilting fruit and vegetables moldered in the mini-fridge; a couple of Lean Cuisine boxes sat in the freezer compartment. A kitchen cabinet was crammed full of liquor mini-bottles and some full-sized quarts. Budget gin but Grey Goose vodka, no mixers prettying up intentions.
The sole bedroom was a nine-by-nine cave set up with a twin bed and IKEA trimmings.
Gloomy because a single window looked out to a wall of creeping ivy. Hillside close enough to touch but the frame was painted shut. A cheap fan in the corner pretended to circulate air. No match for faint overtones of decomposition.
Faint because dry ice had slowed down the inevitable. But we all rot, it’s just a matter of time.
I said, “Any maggots?”
“A sprinkle in her nose and ears, mommy flies probably got in under the door. Little bastards were frozen stiff, dumb vermin.”
He searched the room. A limited, drab wardrobe filled a makeshift closet. Oppressively sensible down to white cotton, full-cut underwear.
Crowding the bed was a space-saving, nearly wood desk. Vase of dry flowers on top, next to a pale rectangle where the computer had sat. A photo in a white wood frame showed Elise Freeman and a red-bearded bald man around her age standing near a bank of slot machines in an excruciatingly bright, garish room. Both of them in T-shirts and shorts, glazed around the eyes, beaming. The man held up a sheaf of paper money. Elise Freeman snaked an arm around his waist and flashed a victory sign.
On the bottom frame panel, cursive in red marker read: Sal strikes it big in Reno! Adorning the boast were hand-drawn pink hearts and green daisies.
Milo said, “Nice to be lucky once in a while,” and continued to have his way with drawers and shelves.
The final stop was the bathroom. Modular fiberglass prefab unit; another aftermarket.
The medicine cabinet had been emptied by the crime scene techs. The tub was grubby but unhelpful.
Milo kept staring at it. If he was feeling vibrations, he wasn’t showing it.
Finally, he turned away. “Boyfriend’s a guy not surprisingly named Sal, last name Fidella. He let himself in with his own key. Her car was here, no sign of forced entry or disarray. He found her in the tub immersed in dry ice, naked and blue. Accounting for sublimation, someone bought bags of the stuff, maybe twenty, thirty pounds. Because of no blood, the initial assumption was an O.D. Even though she hadn’t vomited and Fidella claims she didn’t use drugs and there were no pill bottles nearby. Fidella called 911. The tape’s in the file and I’ve listened to it three times. He sounds totally freaked. But I haven’t met him and I know nothing about him except what North Hollywood wrote. Which is no more than his driver’s license says, so I’m reserving judgment.”
“Where does he live?”
“Not far from here, Sherman Oaks.”
“A couple but they live apart.”
“Sometimes that works better.”
“Sometimes it means domestic drama.”
“You’ll have a chance to meet the guy. Any other insights?”
“On the DVD she doesn’t come across theatrical. Just the opposite: When she had good reason to dramatize, she played herself down.”
“Depressed. You’re thinking suicide?”
“Was she on top of the ice or submerged?”
“Partially submerged.”
“That would’ve meant severe cold-pressor pain within seconds. Skin burns, as well.”
“She was burned, all right.”
“Most suicides avoid pain,” I said. “And displaying yourself that way is flamboyant and exhibitionistic, nothing like the woman on that disc.”
“Maybe she was trying to draw attention to those three teachers.”
“In that case, she would’ve left a note and made sure the DVD was out in the open, not in the middle of a stack. Better yet, she’d have mailed it. There’s also the matter of no empty ice bags.”
“Those could be out in the trash, soon as we’re out of here, I’ll check.” He took another look at the bathtub. Sagged. “Yeah, it’s murder. You know it, I know it, His Grace knows it.”
“But he’d love it if you could say otherwise.”
“No signature on the note that came with the disc, but I know his handwriting. Even when he prints.”
“Thought he had integrity.”
“Everything’s relative.”
I said, “Who sells frozen CO2 around here?”
“Let’s find out.”
CHAPTER
3
Two plastic garbage cans at the rear of the house were empty. Milo phoned the sanitation department, found out pickup wasn’t for three days. Ten minutes of bureaucratic-maze-running got him talking to a lab supervisor downtown. Yes, all trash and other items from the crime scene had been taken for analysis; not a clue on when that would start, the case had been marked non-emergency.
When Milo asked if empty dry ice bags and Elise Freeman’s computer were part of the haul, he got put on hold. The answer, several minutes later, raised lumps on his jaw.
He clicked off, strode toward the unmarked. “No access to that information at this time.”
We got in just as Captain Stan Creighton returned, necktie loose, jacket flapping, talking on a cell phone.
As we drove away, he was still on the phone. Talking faster.
♦
A trio of ice-rental outfits were situated within five miles of the murder scene. At the closest two, no one had purchased any frozen CO2 for weeks. Both clerks said, “We do that mostly in the summer.”
At Gary’s Ice House and Party Rentals on Fulton and Saticoy, in Van Nuys, a muscular, puffy-faced kid with three eyebrow rings and a barbed-wire biceps tattoo studied Milo’s card and said, “Yeah, dude bought a whole bunch.” Staring closer. “Homicide? He’s like a killer?”
“When did this happen?”
“I’d have to say Monday.”
“What time of day?”
“I’d have to say seven.”
“Morning or evening?”
“Evening, I close at eight.”
“You sell a lot of dry ice?”
“Tailgate parties, long trips, not that much. Most places don’t sell nuggets, just block. I asked Dude which one he wanted, he’s like dry ice, thirty pound, in this Spanish accent. I gave him nuggets because we don’t sell so many of those, why not get rid of ’em.”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Latino guy.”
“Yeah.”
“How old?”
“I dunno, thirty, forty? Looked like one of them dudes waits for day jobs outside the paint store over there.” Pointing west.
“How’d he pay?”
“Three tens.”
“How much dry ice did that buy him?”
“Thirty pounds of nuggets. They come in special bags, slows down the sublimation a little. That means the stuff turns to gas. Even with bags and an ice chest, you’re gonna lose ten percent a day.”
“This guy have an ice chest?”
“Not that I saw, he just carried the bags away.”
“What was his demeanor?”
“His what?”
“His mood. Was he nervous, friendly?”
“I’d have to say kinda confused. And in a hurry.”
“Confused how?”