“It could be a problem for her.”
“How so, Myron?”
Ballister nudged his glass an inch away. “Here’s the thing, she’s still married to her second ex, he’s a loser, pushing for more money in the settlement, looking for anything he can use against her.”
“So her infidelity might help him.”
“You never know. Anyway, it’s the truth. We were together that whole time. I left her place around six a.m. She’s got a concierge in her building, dude in a red jacket, he can verify.”
“Where does she live?”
“Century City.” Ballister recited the address. One of the better gated developments. A burst of noise made the three of us turn toward the entry. Six new diners entered the restaurant. Beefy men carrying yellow plastic hard hats.
Ballister muttered, “This place does great.”
Milo said, “You were with Medea all night and into the morning but she might not want to back you up.”
“Her concierge will.”
“That’s a start, Myron. Puts you in the building in the morning. But better to hear it from Medea — you actually being in her apartment all night.”
Ballister’s eyes got hard. “Okay, you know what? Medea will verify or I’ll get annoyed. And that could really create problems for her.” His entire face was different. As if he’d grown suddenly tougher, older, a force to be reckoned with.
“Listen to you, amigo.” Milo laughed. “Thinking like a lawyer.”
Outside the restaurant, he said, “His and hers alibis. How romantic.”
I said, “You have doubts?”
“Concierges live on Christmas tips but no, not really. There’d be no reason for either of them to off dear ol’ Connie.”
We headed toward the car. He checked his messages. Only one but important: the crime scene crew at Ree Sykes’s apartment. “You’re kidding. Any idea whose?… okay, yeah, do that. Sooner the better. Thanks.”
Click.
“Techies found a single suspicious red stain on the carpet near the foldout couch. Small, maybe an eighth of an inch in diameter, but confirmed as blood, human, O-positive. Which is a lot of people but maybe Connie was one of them. Hold on.”
He phoned the coroner, talked to the assistant of the pathologist who’d conducted the autopsy. Moments later, he was giving the thumbs-up. “O-positive.”
I said, “Don’t want to ruin the party but Ree was Connie’s sister, they could very well have the same blood type. And people bleed in their own homes all the time.”
“What a therapist you are … yeah, sure, but DNA on Connie will tell me one way or the other so I asked for a fast-track, might get results in a week. It comes back a perfect match to Connie, Ree’s chemistry doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
“Good luck.”
“You mean that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Your patient being a murderer?” he said.
“I’ve lived long enough to experience the joy of being conned.”
He half smiled. “Does it happen often or just frequently?”
“Don’t push it,” I said.
As we drove away, he said, “Okay, time to check out potential baby da-das. Let’s do Melandrano first because he’s got no criminal record, might be more willing to, as they say, cooperate with the authorities. What’s his job in the band?”
“Rhythm guitar and vocals.”
“Front man. Sneaking out back with Ree?”
I said, “More important, he babysat Rambla when Ree came to see me.”
“Mommy enlists Daddy’s help … a singer, huh? Maybe he’ll warble for us.”
William “Winky” Melandrano lived in an apartment on the eastern edge of North Hollywood, midway up a treeless block of pleasant, bland structures not far from the upper-crust streets of Toluca Lake.
During the drive, Milo had obtained stats on Melandrano’s sole registered vehicle, a thirteen-year-old Ford Explorer, gray at the time of purchase. The SUV was parked in a space at the rear of the building. Still gray, in need of washing, littered with empty cups and Styrofoam take-out cartons and old newspapers and rolled-up clothing.
“No OCD, here,” he said. “Okay, let’s meet the Winkster. Should we need to build rapport, you can trade gee-tar licks with him.”
Humming the first seven bars of “Smoke on the Water,” he circled back to the front.
I said, “Get some hair extensions and you’ve got a whole new career.”
“If goose-farts ever become the new big thing in vocals.”
The units were accessible through an open staircase. No answer at Melandrano’s apartment. Milo pushed the buzzer a few more times, knocked harder, said, “If life was too easy, we’d take it for granted … don’t think I’ll leave my card, just in case he’s helping Ree rabbit.”
As we turned to leave, a woman with a small boy in tow appeared at the top of the stairs, stopped to study us, continued warily, stopped again.
Young Latina, hair down to her waist, wearing some kind of medical uniform. The child was four or five, sported a Los Lobos tee that reached his knees, rolled-up jeans, kiddie-Nikes. The woman stepped in front of him. Instinctive protectiveness.
Milo said, “Hi, ma’am, police,” then offered his warmest smile along with a badge-flash.
She said, “Police is looking for Winky? How come?” A badge on her uniform bore the logo of a drugstore chain over a name in cursive. L. Vega.
“We need to talk to him.”
“He did something?”
“No, ma’am.”
She looked relieved. “He left.”
“When?”
“Couple days ago. You sure he didn’t do nothing?”
“Really,” said Milo, “we just need to talk to him about a friend of his who’s missing.”
“Oh. ’Cause sometimes he babysits Carlos, he always seemed okay.”
“No reason to worry about him, Ms.… Vega.”
“Lourdes.” She looked down at the boy. “Hear that? No worry ’bout Mr. Winky, hijo.”
Carlos began shadowboxing.
Milo said, “So Winky left two days ago.”
“Around then,” said Lourdes Vega. “I went over to ask him to babysit Carlos and he was out.”
“So you didn’t see him leave?”
“No. I couldn’t get help so I stayed home.”
“He’s your regular babysitter.”
“When my mother can’t I sometimes ask him. It’s easy, him being next door. He plays guitar for Carlos, he’s teaching Carlos to play — you like Mr. Winky’s guitar, hey, hijo?”
The boy nodded gravely. Threw more punches. Eyed Milo as if considering something naughtier. Milo’s smile made him scurry behind his mother.
She said, “Winky say Carlos has talent but his fingers got to grow. You gonna do that, hijo, grow your fingers so you can play like Mr. Winky?”
No response.
Milo said, “Sounds like he’s a good neighbor.”
“Oh, yeah. Real quiet and nice.”
“What time did you go over and find him gone?”
“It was at night, like … nine? I was doing a double shift, picked up Carlos at the day care, got home like at eight, had dinner, Carlos was sleeping, I figure maybe I can go out with my friends, Carlos would be sleeping anyway, Winky could watch TV. I got more cable stations than him.”
“His car’s here.”
“Really?”
“Gray Explorer, parked out back.”
“Yeah, that’s his,” said the woman. “Well, I don’t know …”
“Who are his friends?”
“Other guys in the band — he’s got a band. They dress up.”