Fortuno finished his juice, wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. Wiped the sleeve on the couch and flicked pulp off a cushion.
“If you were us, Mario, where would you look for him?”
“Hmm,” said Fortuno. “I’d say Cherchez la femme. That’s French for ‘women are slicker than men.’ In this case, la mamacita.”
“Multilingual,” said Milo.
“Women love adroitness with language, Lieutenant. Not that such matters would concern you. Wesley, I do believe it’s time for my supper. Dr. Delaware, when you see Philip, tell him Daddy loves him.”
CHAPTER 29
We sat in the hotel bar and drank Cokes.
Milo said, “A quiet boy. Fortuno’s worried his kid’s gay.”
Petra said, “That’s what he meant?”
His reply was half a smile.
She said, “Thanks for agreeing to see the kid, Alex.”
“Santa Barbara’s nice this time of year.”
“Mr. Insider didn’t end up telling us much other than De Paine’s mommy was a wild girl who loves real estate. Which ain’t exactly a rare L.A. bird. What’s Ms. Whitbread like?”
Milo said, “Friendly, flirtatious, well put together.”
I said, “Her son sells dirty pictures. She made them.”
“So we’re in Freud-World.”
“De Paine came by to visit when we were there, so there’s still some kind of relationship. Fortuno’s right: Keep an eye on her and she might lead you to him.”
“Day we met her, De Paine was right in front of us,” said Milo, rubbing his face.
Petra put her glass down. “Everything we hear about this guy turns up nasty. But he’s not a formal suspect on Jordan so no way I can get a tap on Mommy’s line-where’s Fortuno when we need him. In terms of surveillance, Fourth Street’s quiet and respectable and relatively low-rise. Not the ideal situation for a stakeout. Any ideas?”
Milo said, “After dark it would be easier.”
“True…okay, I’ll talk to Raul.”
I said, “Fortuno confirmed that Mary got into real estate with help from rich boyfriends. We know Myron Bedard sold her four buildings, including the two duplexes on Fourth. That confirms our guess about her being his mistress. It also strengthens our theory about De Paine meeting Lester Jordan through the Bedards. I’m convinced that whatever haunted Patty took place during the months she lived on Fourth.”
Milo said, “Myron takes Mary and her kid along when he checks out his tenants on Cherokee. The kid just happens to run into Jordan and sees an opportunity?”
“Whatever the case,” said Petra, “I’ve had no luck finding Myron Bedard. Or anyone else, for that matter. Why do I have this naggy little feeling that Fortuno played us?”
I said, “He played me to get therapy for his son. Maybe he really cares about the boy but mostly he needed to feel in control. What I find interesting is that he danced around every topic you brought up except Mary Whitbread.”
“You’re right, no problem laying out the details, there. Including how he did her. What was that, another power play?”
“He resents her. Or at the very least, he doesn’t care what happens to her, or her son. If he knew more, he’d have told us.”
“Dirty pictures for dope,” said Petra. Thin music issued from her purse and she fished out a phone playing the first eight notes of “Time After Time.” “Connor. Hey, Raul, what’s…you’re kidding. Give me the address. Be there in thirty to forty.”
She clicked off and stood. “Moses Grant has surfaced.”
“Excellent,” said Milo.
“Not really.”
The police own the crime scene but the coroner owns the body.
The three of us stood back from the scene, white-lit by night floods, as a coroner’s investigator named Sally Johannon gloved up and labored to turn Moses Grant’s massive corpse face-up. Two Central Division detectives named David Saunders and Kevin Bouleau stood nearby. Both were black, in their early thirties, dressed in well-cut dark suits.
A few feet away, Raul Biro, in a herringbone sport coat and gray slacks, scanned the crime scene.
For the third time, Johannon’s attempt to get a frontal view failed.
Grant had been dumped near the 110 North, just above Chinatown, cars whizzing by a few feet away. The estimate was one or two days of decomposition and bloat. Despite the wide-open spot, the smell was unmistakable and it adhered to my sinuses, the way it always does.
Sally Johannon winced. “There goes my sacroiliac.” She motioned for help. The two crypt drivers who’d come with the white van gloved up and the three of them completed the flip.
Grant’s sage-green velour tracksuit blended with the shrubbery and the eucalyptus saplings. A bush-clearing crew of County Jail trustees had found him. They were gone, now, ushered back to the comfort of incarceration. The ramp was blocked by a squad car but the freeway remained open and the auto roar was constant.
“One here,” said Johannon, pointing to a small, neat wound in Grant’s forehead. Her hands moved down the swell of Grant’s torso. “Two, three-four, five-and one here.” Indicating a rip in the velour dead center of Grant’s groin. “Someone didn’t like this poor guy.”
Petra said, “Any defense wounds?”
Johannon checked. “Nope, nothing.”
Milo said, “The shooter was facing him when he let go.”
David Saunders said, “Any shooter would probably be shorter than Grant. The crotch shot or one of the abdominals could’ve been the opener. Grant went down and the shooter kept pumping.”
“A crotch shot makes me wonder about a grudge,” said Kevin Bouleau. “Was he fooling with someone’s marital situation?”
Petra said, “Not that we know.”
“You’ve been looking for him for a while?”
“There’s a whole long story.”
“Can’t wait,” said Bouleau.
Sally Johannon said, “Let me double-check his legs…nope, that appears to be it, folks. From the size of the entry, I’d guess a.22, certainly not much bigger. No serious blood, so this wasn’t the kill-spot. You’re not going to find casings unless one lodged somewhere on his person and fell out.”
Kneeling lower, she ran her eyes down the tracksuit. “Any pockets on this thing…ah yes, here we go.”
Reaching inside the zip jacket, she turned a pocket inside out. “No I.D., sorry, people.”
Raul Biro said, “We know who he is.”
“Thanks to you,” said Petra. “Good work.”
Biro allowed himself a split-second smile. He’d been sitting at his desk working the phones while simultaneously monitoring incoming homicide calls on the scanner. Hearing about a downtown dump, he’d perked at the victim’s race and size, gotten to the scene early, and helped secure it.
“Praise the Lord,” said Saunders. “And His faithful servant, Detective Biro.”
Everyone knew what he meant. Without victim identification, days could be lost.
Biro said, “What do you want me to do now?”
Petra said, “Up to these guys.”
Saunders said, “Do you know if Mr. Grant has any local family?”
“We traced his residence a year back and he was living alone in the Valley. He was of interest to us as a K.A. of our suspect but nothing indicates he was a bad guy in his own right.”
“Someone sure thought he was.”
Johannon got to her feet. “Creak, creak, I’m getting too old for this.”
I put her at thirty-five.
Fetching her camera, she circled the body, taking small steps, snapping lots of shots. “Okay, he’s all yours. Where are your techies?”
Saunders said, “On the way.”
Kevin Bouleau said, “We’re ready to hear that story, Petra.”
One of the crypt drivers said, “Any idea when we can get going?”