Still, on days like this, the room felt like a cell.
He said, “Must be interesting. Having Casagrande be responsible for your continued existence but knowing if it was someone else they’d be dead.”
I said nothing.
“Don’t want to heap on the cognitive dissonance, Alex, but what’s your take on Ramon Guzman’s life expectancy?”
“You figure Efren will tie up a loose end.”
“Guzman embarrassed him by improvising. You figure otherwise?”
“Well,” I said, “seeing as Guzman was happy to take the contract on my life and Efren stopped it, I’m not going to contemplate too deeply.”
“So just let it rest?” he said. “Including Ol’ Connie’s murder? Seeing as you’re not mourning her in any big way.”
“Not mourning but I am curious.”
“An intellectual thing.”
“You feel any personal attachment to her, big guy?”
He didn’t answer.
I said, “Yet you’re working the case. So we’re in the same place. What next?”
“What next is I need to learn more about Mr. Casagrande because he remains my prime. Normally, I might be asking you for your insights. Since this is an abnormal situation, I guess we go our separate ways.”
“Connie was an abrasive woman. There could be lots of suspects.”
“You’ve convinced yourself Casagrande didn’t do it.”
“I don’t know one way or the other but it might not hurt to be open-minded.”
“Okay, then the sister.”
I didn’t reply.
He said, “What, some patient didn’t like her bedside manner so they sliced her diaphragm and choked her out?”
I said, “Bedside manner doesn’t apply. She ran a pathology lab, had little or no contact with patients. But she could’ve ticked off any number of people.”
“No forced entry, it was someone she’d open the door for.”
“I don’t see Efren or gangbanger hit man fitting that description. Her social skills, she couldn’t have been a terrific boss.”
“The classic disgruntled-worker scenario? Hell, with a net that wide, it could be gardeners, delivery boys.”
“I’d still start with those she could’ve irritated chronically. Any plans to visit her lab?”
“It’s on my list.”
“I’m free for the rest of the day.”
“Oh, sure, tag along, great idea.”
“You’re on it, no reason I shouldn’t be.”
“She didn’t try to off me, Alex.”
“Granted,” I said. “But her plan failed and my head is clear.”
“And now you’re directing me away from the two most obvious suspects: Casagrande and the sister.”
“Can’t speak for Efren but I don’t see Cherie as violent. Just the opposite, she’s passive, easygoing.”
“Not so passive she didn’t fight Connie in court.”
“She didn’t fight, she defended herself. And she won, there’d be no reason for her to kill Connie.”
“What if she worried Connie would keep yanking her back to court? Connie someone who’d give up that easy?”
“I just don’t see Cherie committing murder,” I said.
“Because you know her.”
“Because I just don’t see it.”
He rolled his neck. “Maybe you’re right, maybe not. Either way, there’s no sense in you getting involved because I’ve got to consider them as suspects and you’re not free to talk about either of them.”
“I can talk to you about Ree. She’s not a patient.”
“What is she?”
“The subject of a report. Guardianship cases are public record.”
“If you had something on her, you’d tell me.”
“You bet.”
“She convinced you she was righteous.”
“I went in without preconceptions but it wasn’t a custody dispute where both parties are presumed to have rights. The child is legally Ree’s and Connie tried to use the system to take her away.”
“Sounds like legalized theft.”
“If she’d succeeded it would’ve been.”
“Which leads me straight back to Cherie. What if Connie did tell her she was in for a long war? That’s a dandy motive.”
“Fine, check her out,” I said. “But we could also have a look at Connie’s staff.”
“Again with the we.”
“I’ll buy lunch.”
“Not hungry.”
I laughed.
He said, “I can’t stand when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Assume I’m ruled by my digestive system.”
“God forbid,” I said. “Want me to drive? Think T-bone.”
CHAPTER 19
Con-Bio Medical Testing was housed in a gray cube on Laurel Canyon Boulevard between Burbank and Magnolia.
Short drive to Rubin Rojo’s parking lot. Connie had been nothing but efficient. I imagined her date book the day of the meet with “George.”
1. Analyze a few specimens.
2. Fill out the billing slips.
3. Have a little chat to finalize a hit on that bastard.
Thinking about it made my jaw ache. Picturing her dead body helped a bit.
I’d claimed objectivity to Milo but it would be a while before I could sort out my feelings. The key was constructive deniaclass="underline" convincing myself that she was just another victim, a puzzle to be solved.
As I pulled into the lab’s parking lot, I caught Milo studying me. When I turned, he made a show of checking his notepad before exiting the car.
Ten-space lot. The dedicated slot marked Dr. Sykes Only. Violators Will Be Towed at Their Expense was unoccupied. The area comprised a nice size chunk of Valley real estate. Milo had phoned the assessor as I drove over the hill, learned that Connie had purchased the property six years ago for seven figures.
That along with the house in Westwood and the investments she’d bragged about added up to a sizable estate. What would Rambla’s life have been like growing up Westside-affluent? What would it be like with Ree?
Milo pushed the lab’s front door open and we stepped into a windowless waiting room. Four black hard plastic chairs sat on green-blue carpeting with all the give of Formica. A corner table was piled with dog-eared throwaway magazines. Overhead light was cold, buzzing, inadequate.
Facing the door was a sliding window of thick pebbled glass. To the right was a knobless door plastered with bold-typed instructions.
Arrivals were to knock only once then wait until called.
Payment prior to testing could be imposed “at Con-Bio’s discretion.”
No smoking, no eating or drinking, no loud conversation.
The premises had been certified by Cal/OSHA and a host of additional government watchdogs.
No one certifies friendliness.
Milo tried to slide open the glass. No give. Pressure on the door was no more successful.
Each of the four chairs was occupied and our entry caused the quartet of “arrivals” to stir. Nearest to me was a black man in his seventies with so little upper body that his belt rested just below his pectorals. Next to him sat a corpulent white man with frizzy red hair, wearing a stained orange tank top and greasy brown shorts that exposed pink limbs crusted with scabs. A muscular young black man in exercise togs had pushed himself as far as possible from those two, which wasn’t far at all. Tucked in the corner, a small, skinny white girl with jaundiced eyes and enough facial pierces to make a minimally empathic person wince, hunched tight, with both feet on her chair.
Milo rapped the glass twice.
When no one responded, he added a loud knuckle drumroll.
The older black man said, “They don’t like that.”
No answer from the other side of the glass but I could make out movement.
Milo knocked hard. His hand was only an inch from the glass when it slid open. A white-uniformed, pudding-faced brunette in her forties said, “Can’t you read—”