“That’s her stage name,” I said. “What about the one she was given at birth?”
“She changed it legally. Why would she continue to do real estate deals as Maria Baker?”
“She could’ve done them before the name change. Myron Bedard told us she owned a home in Carthay Circle. Which is a ten-minute ride to Fourth Street, tops.”
Milo said, “The way Carthay’s designed, no access from main avenues. Be a nice hidey-hole.”
Petra waited for additional comment. When none came, she said, “Worth a try,” and left the room.
Five minutes later she strode in fast, waving a scrap of papers, eyes ablaze. “Two Maria Baker properties for the price of one. Commodore Sloat and Del Valle, and she still owns them both.”
She headed for the door.
“Another nice neighborhood,” said Milo, following.
Saunders and Bouleau were the last to rise. Saunders said, “All this premium real estate, Kev and I are starting to feel Westside.”
CHAPTER 38
Carthay Circle is a few square blocks of residential charm combined with denial of urban reality. Bordered by the high-rises on Wilshire to the north and the din of Olympic to the south, the enclave is a mix of beautifully kept Spanish, English, Mediterranean, and Cape Cod houses. Toward the center of the district, just off San Vicente, is an office complex where the Carthay Circle Theater once stood. Gone with the Wind premiered at the Carthay. The glamour and drama have given way to the ambient chatter of lawyers and such.
At night, the streets of Carthay are dark and still; a motorcade of detectives would stand out like objective reporting. Petra signed a Crown Victoria out of the Hollywood Division lot and the five of us piled in. She drove and Milo rode shotgun. Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau sat in back with me sandwiched between.
The car smelled of wet metal and old vinyl. Bouleau shifted his shoulders and tried to get comfortable. “Hope everyone’s on friendly terms with their deodorant.”
Milo said, “Let’s see after the trip.”
Mary Whitbread’s rental property on Del Valle was a cream stucco, neatly kept Spanish with a tiny, faux-bell-tower over the entry and a small courtyard that hosted a trickling fountain. Low-watt lighting turned the fountain spray to amber mist. A kiddie play-set stood near the basin. Mazda RX7 in the driveway in front of a RAV4. On the SUV’s bumper: My child’s an honor student at Carthay Circle Magnet School.
Bouleau said, “And my little psychopath kicks his ass-looks like the porn lady got herself some nice, wholesome tenants.”
Milo said, “Wonder how they’d feel about a cadaver dog sniffing around.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun,” said Petra, “but we’re a long way off. For all we know, the dump site’s in Coachella.”
No longer entertaining the possibility that there was no dump. As the facts had settled in, everyone was assuming two dead girls.
Petra drove to Commodore Sloat Drive. Another Spanish, whitewashed, slightly larger than the first. No courtyard, different window style, stained-glass insets. In this driveway sat a pair of BMWs, a gray Z3 and a black 325i. Lights flickered in a side window. Petra parked two houses up, got out, tiptoed around toward the light, lingered a bit, got back in the driver’s seat.
“Filmy drapes in the bedroom, cute couple in their thirties. The TV’s on, she’s doing a crossword puzzle, he’s plugged into an iPod.”
Dave Saunders said, “Happy family for A, yuppies for B. Conspicuous absence of psycho killers.” He yawned. “I need to get home.”
As the Central detectives drove their cars out of the division lot, Petra said, “Well, that was a whole lot of nothing…Alex, would you do me a favor and try Stark’s dad tomorrow morning? I left three messages, no answer. No doubt he detests the department, can’t say I blame him. Seeing as he’s got a counseling degree maybe he’d relate better to you.”
“I’ll do my best rendition of professional courtesy.”
“Thanks, you’re a peach.” Stifling her own yawn. “Why is that contagious, Doctor?”
“I have no idea.”
“The mysteries of science,” she said. “Guess I should do a little domestic duty. Eric just finished a monthlong job. Defense contractor in Arizona, industrial spy thing that turned out to be paranoia. He’s been shuttling back and forth, we haven’t seen each other much. If this thing ever cooks up, it’ll be more of the same.”
“Go for it, kid,” said Milo. “Eric have an iPod?”
“Ha. Eric only listens to music when I switch it on. The man can sit and do nothing like I’ve never seen.” She smiled but didn’t budge. “So…eventually these bastards are going to have to show themselves, right?” Putting her palms together prayerfully. “I’m hoping to get Mary’s phone records sometime tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll catch Raul up on everything. He’s doing great…I should tell him so.”
Lowering her volume with each sentence so that by the end she was muttering.
Her shoulders rounded and her head dipped an inch. She looked older and tired, but just for the seconds it took to draw herself up and shake her hair loose. “Well, let’s hope they get stupid-one more thing, guys, confidential. James Rahab-the sergeant who wrote up Roger Bandini’s death-comes up on a list of Fortuno’s possible sources in the department.”
“How’d you find that out?” said Milo.
“Stu found out from his fed buddy. Who also informed him we will have no more access to Marvelous Mario.”
I said, “Bandini wasn’t looked into because Fortuno fixed the investigation for Mary?”
“If she thought a serious investigation into Bandini would’ve put Petey in danger, she’d have a motive to call in a favor. On the other hand, it may simply be coincidence. Rahab was righteously on patrol that night-training a rookie. And on the surface, Bandini’s death did present as an overdose. The whole deal’s moot anyway because Rahab died of a heart attack three years ago.”
“Where’s the rookie he was training?” said Milo.
“I don’t even have a name. Only reason the Feebie told Stu was as a consolation prize-as in, This is the last thing you’re getting.”
“Or because he’s getting us to work for him. We uncover something, he can add to the indictment against Fortuno.”
Petra thought about that. “Could be…anyway, no reason to do the History Channel when I can’t get anything done on a current homicide. Nighty-night, fellas.”
At ten the following morning, I phoned Herbert Stark.
A woman singsonged, “You’ve reached Myra and Herb. We could be fishing, hiking, or just plain loafing. Leave a message and if it’s interesting, we might get back to you.”
“Mr. Stark, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, I’ll do my best to make this fascinating. Years ago you did your civic duty only to run up against some incredible police incompetence. If you can find it in yourself to reopen your mind-”
A deep male voice broke in: “So that my brains fall out? Fascinating? Not quite. Minimally thought-provoking? Possibly.”
“Thanks for-”
“Byron said you seemed quote unquote thoughtful. That’s high praise from my son. I almost became a psychologist. No money and too many family obligations got in the way. So the cops have finally decided to take a look at that little sociopath. What’d he do, now?”
“Killed several people,” I said.
“Oh, what a shock,” said Herbert Stark. “It’s always that way, isn’t it? I just finished reading a book about serial killers-not pulpy crap, a professional textbook by a former investigator who got drummed out because he spoke his mind. His thesis is that ninety-five percent of the time the guilty party is interviewed early on in the investigation and the police have a name right there in front of them. You believe that?”