My hopes rose when I learned that a Bernard Chamberlain had been arrested for disorderly conduct three years ago in Tampa, Florida. The next click revealed a shot of a seventeen-year-old boy.
Time to stop fooling around.
Milo answered his desk phone. “Your pal Effo has an unassailable alibi for the time frame of Connie’s demise: partying with homeboys and homegirls at a known gang house in Pacoima, thirty people to back him up. Not that I took any of their words for it. A neighbor across the street, old lady terrified of all the scary kids going in and out, takes tons of surreptitious pictures and she captured him coming and going. So congrats.”
I said, “Doesn’t mean much. You never figured he did it himself.”
“True, I’ve got Millie Rivera nosing around, see if she can pick up any rumors of a contract. But the neighbor’s camera cleared up one thing: Ramon Guzman was at the same party. Which might give you pause, Alex. Here’s a joker who tried to get you permanently erased and your buddy’s still whooping it up with him.”
“Efren was a patient, not my buddy.”
My voice had risen.
He said, “Onward to Cherie Sykes. I tried to organize a meeting with her through her lawyer but he’s at a convention in Palm Springs. Same for Connie’s mouthpiece. What do people like that consider continuing education? Learning how to dress a pit bull in designer duds? Anyway, I’m gonna drop in on Ms. Ree, see how she’s reacting to Sis’s death.”
“Speaking of which.” I told him what I’d learned.
He said, “You went to her place—”
“Clinical follow-up.”
“I see,” he said. “Actually, I don’t.”
“I wanted to check out my initial reaction. See if I’d been wrong about her. She’s rabbited so my being wrong is looking damn likely. Obviously, it’s time for me to get out of the way and let you do your thing.”
“Hey,” he said, “no sense beating yourself up. You’re the original victim in all this and I’m glad it’s someone else’s death I’m investigating. She took just the baby stuff, huh?”
“And the baby.”
“I’ll bring a techie over, see what turns up.”
“Landlady already started cleaning it.”
“Nothing ventured, but maybe they’ll find something.”
I said, “The timing doesn’t look good for her. And you were right: Even if she didn’t kill Connie herself, one of her pals could’ve. She’s tight with that band.” I recounted my visit to the bar, gave him Melandrano’s and Chamberlain’s names.
He said, “Ties that bind. If Connie was right about one of them being daddy, there’s motive to spare.”
“And Chuck-o Blatt confirmed Ree was definitely worried about Connie taking her back to court.”
“Hold on.”
A series of clicks. “Nothing on Melandrano but Mr. Bernard Chamberlain of Hollywood, Cal, was busted ten years ago for assault. In Arkansas … doesn’t look like he served any time … photo shows him as a hairy-biker type. Kind of mean eyes. Big guy, too — not that tall but two hundred and fifty el-bees. Yeah, we’re definitely gonna want to make his acquaintance. Melandrano’s, too.”
“We’re?”
“Plural intentional, Alex. The situation has now ventured into psych territory — actually, it always was a head-case. So who better than thou to weigh in?”
“Feeling charitable?”
“Yeah, right,” he said. “This is work, pal, no room for sentimentality. And guess what? Brother Connor finally had the time to visit Connie’s corpse. Flying in for a meet tomorrow. Connie told you he was a tech guy, right?”
“She did.”
He laughed. “Depends on what you mean by technical. He doesn’t develop chips, he’s a porn-meister, been doing it for a long time. Interesting family, no? Okay, let me firm up current addresses on our Lonesome Moaners, we’ll check ’em out tomorrow. Meanwhile, Connor Sykes, my place, eleven a.m. I’m assuming you’re RSVP’ing yes.”
“Black tie?”
“Business attire.”
CHAPTER 23
Connor Sykes didn’t look like a pornographer.
Then again, what does a smut-maven look like?
For the past twenty years he’d operated under several corporate headings, producing, packaging, marketing, and peddling adult videos and downloads. His advertised specialty was “natural, pillow-bodied women,” which seemed to mean buxom bodies untouched by surgeons or tattoo artists. Several of his series trumpeted “the romantic approach.” That seemed to mean buxom bodies untouched by bindings, ball gags, and rough handling.
His business attire this morning was that of any successful Silicon Valley magnate: narrow-lapel navy suit, open-necked blue shirt, expensively unpretentious shoes, digital wristwatch. He had neatly trimmed graying hair, bland features, the kind of face that abounds in business-class lounges. If you squinted you could find traces of resemblance to his sisters: squarish head, slightly generous chin. Photographed as a trio, the Sykes sibs would come across more similar than when captured in pairs. As if Connor was the unifying genetic factor tying Connie to Ree.
If he was traumatized by his sister’s death, he wasn’t showing it, sitting motionless in the interview room as Milo handed him bad coffee. He tasted, put the cup down. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to text my wife. Our boys have a recital tonight and I’m not sure I’ll make it.”
“Of course, sir.”
Sykes produced his phone, tapped briefly, slipped it back in his pocket.
Milo said, “Music recital?”
“Jared plays the viola and Tyler plays the cello. I’m biased but everyone says they’re gifted.” Weak smile. “If they’ve got talent it’s not from me. Mariko — my wife — was a concert pianist in Japan.”
“Ah.”
“I try to be there for all their events.”
“Well,” said Milo, “we’ll do our best to get you out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Appreciate that, Lieutenant. But it occurred to me on the flight over that if I’m going to have to deal with Connie’s remains, it’ll take time.”
“No need to do that today, Mr. Sykes.”
“Oh? Is she still being … what’s the proper term, processed?”
“The coroner’s done but there’s always paperwork and that can be handled over the phone or online.”
“So I might be able to get back by five?”
“Sure.”
Sykes extricated his phone. “Would you mind if I contact the jet company to arrange my flight?”
“No prob, sir.”
Another text.
Connor Sykes said, “Appreciate it, Lieutenant. Now, why exactly am I here, if it’s not to handle … the process?”
“In a murder investigation, information’s our weapon. So anything you can do to arm us would be helpful.”
Sykes considered that, fingering a lapel and gazing at the ceiling before resuming eye contact. “That makes sense. Unfortunately, I have no idea who’d want to murder Connie.”
Even tone.
Milo was careful not to react. But I noticed the tightening around his eyes. Connor Sykes, eyes back on the ceiling, didn’t. “Mr. Sykes, are you surprised your sister was killed?”
Connor Sykes’s left eyebrow arced. Puzzlement, not resentment. “Of course I am.”
Milo kept silent.
Sykes’s face tightened. Working out a tough math problem. “You think I’m being strangely unemotional. I’m sure you’re right, it’s an issue I have. Expressing emotions. The problem is, I’m unaware of it. Internally, I feel totally dismayed at losing my sister. But showing it doesn’t come naturally. My wife’s convinced I’m somewhere on the Asperger continuum. Maybe she’s right, she knows me better than anyone. I don’t feel asocial. For the most part, I find people acceptable. So forgive my strange reaction.”