“Makes sense. The waitress at Patty’s said Cherish and Barnett had only been there once before and she’s been working there for years. Cherish chose Patty’s because she knew it from her seminary days- Wascomb used to meet there with students. But the two of them could have other spots.”
“Their main spot was the motel. I’ll go by there and see what the clerks have to say.”
“Another possibility,” I said, “is Cherish snitched Rand out to Drew, not Barnett.”
“She’s cheating on Drew. Why would she confide in him?”
“She didn’t have to confide, just mention that Rand seemed really nervous, was dropping hints about Troy. Because she suspected that Drew played a role in Troy’s murder and if she could get him to eliminate Rand, it would save Barnett the trouble.”
“Dutiful girlfriend posing as a dutiful wife,” he said. “That’s manipulation elevated to an art form. Wascomb said she was a spiritual girl.”
“Wascomb hasn’t learned the fine points of cynicism.”
He took out another cigar, left it in its plastic wrapper, and rolled it nimbly from finger to finger. Nifty little trick; I’d never seen it before.
“There’s another manipulation to think about,” I said. “Drew’s story about the black truck was the reason we started looking seriously at Barnett Malley. But given what we’ve learned about him, we need to consider that he was playing us.”
“Not afraid of Malley, just wanting to point us in Malley’s direction.”
“Unfortunately for Drew, it got us looking closely at him.”
“Three dead kids,” he said. “Maybe two teams of murderers.”
We turned a corner. “Alex, now I’m thinking I need to take Jane Hannabee more seriously as a related crime. If Troy told his mommy about the movie and she wanted in, that would’ve made her a problem for Sydney and Drew.”
“An addict down on her luck,” I said, “she’d definitely want in.”
“We were saying Cherish coulda known where Jane slept, being Jane’s spiritual adviser, but the same applies to Drew.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “This is growing like cancer. You ever find out how much the Daneys are sucking from the county tit?”
“Seven thou a month.”
“Not bad for a coupla defrocked mopes.”
I said, “With some of it illegal. Olivia said no one enforces the regulations but it could be a wedge if you need one. I asked her to fax over the names of all the kids they’ve fostered. Drew’s got a history of falsifying documents. Maybe he’s been naughty in other ways.”
“Good thinking. What about Hot Pants Weider? Think I should confront her?”
“Boestling and Montez both said the way she went off at me was her usual approach to conflict. All you’ve got on her is hearsay adultery and she doesn’t practice law, so any threat of disbarment would be empty.”
“I could still embarrass her.”
“After the way Boestling humiliated her I don’t imagine there’d be much self-esteem left to threaten.”
“All the more so,” he said. “Hit her when she’s down.”
“You could try it.”
“But you wouldn’t.”
“Not now,” I said. “Too little bang for the buck.”
“Then who’s my target?”
“Not who,” I said. “What. Paperwork.”
I walked him to the lot across the street from the station where he retrieved his unmarked and followed me home. Passing me up at Westwood Boulevard, he got there first.
The fax from Olivia sat in my machine. One page of names and social security numbers, birth dates, periods of foster care.
Twelve girls, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Eight were still living with the Daneys. One name was familiar. Quezada, Valerie. The restless, resentful girl Cherish had tutored in math. Cherish leading her through the steps, the essence of patience. Moments later, Cherish’s tears when she talked about Rand…
The list covered only a twenty-five-month period. Olivia’s handwritten note at the top said, This was as far back as I could get. The geniuses’ archival system is a mess. Maybe permanently.
Milo said, “Let’s start by cross-referencing the four who no longer live with them.”
“To what?”
“Worst-case scenario, for starts.” He phoned the coroner, asked to speak with “Dave,” and said, “No, not today, but I’m sure I’ll get there eventually. And get me a better mask, next time, I’m no stranger to decomposition but… yeah, nothing like water damage. Listen Dave, what I need is just a record-check… yeah, I know, hearing my voice makes your day.”
Five minutes later we got the callback from Coroner’s Investigator David O’Reilly: None of the four names matched the crypt’s roster of unnatural deaths. Milo phoned the Hall of Records, got the runaround before hooking into county records and the roster of natural deaths.
He put the phone down. “They all seem to be alive. Our bit of good cheer for the day.”
I thought: They could’ve died outside of L.A. County. “What next?”
“Any ideas?”
“You could try to locate them, see if they’ve got anything to say about the Daneys. I’d focus on these two, who are still minors. Maybe life got better for them and they no longer need fostering. On the other hand…”
“I like that,” he said. “Constructive pessimism.”
Olivia gave us a contact at D.C.S. and we had the data by three p.m.
Leticia Maryanne Hollings, seventeen, was still a state ward, living with a “kinship guardian”- an aunt in Temecula. No one answered the number and Milo filed it for future reference.
Wilfreda Lee Ramos, sixteen, was no longer on the foster list. Her last known contact was a twenty-five-year-old brother, George Ramos.
Phone listing for him but no address. City of residence was “L.A., Ca.” Occupation: “Student.” The 825 number made the U. a good bet.
I tried it. Inactive. A phone call to the university registrar revealed two George Ramoses currently enrolled. One was an eighteen-year-old freshman. The other, twenty-six, was a first-year law student, and that was all I could learn.
Milo got on the line, pushed his credentials, couldn’t cadge any more out of the clerk. Same thing at the law school office.
We drove to campus, parked on the north end, walked to the school, where Milo bantered with an amiable white-haired secretary who said, “You just called. Unfortunately, the answer’s the same. Privacy regulations.”
“All we want to do is talk to Mr. Ramos, ma’am.”
“Ma’am. Just like in a cowboy movie,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure that’s true, Lieutenant, but don’t forget where we are. Can you imagine how many of these people would love to file a suit for breach of privacy?”
“Good point,” he said. “Would it help if I told you Mr. Ramos isn’t in trouble but his sister could be? I’m sure he’d like to know. Ma’am.”
“Sorry. I wish I could help.”
He relaxed his shoulders. Deliberately, slowly, the way he does when he’s struggling to stay patient. Big smile. He pushed black hair off his forehead and pressed his bulk against the counter. The secretary moved back instinctively.
“Where are the first-year students, right now?”
“They should be out of… jurisprudence class. Maybe out on the lawn.”
“How many are we talking about?”
“Three hundred seven.”
Milo said, “Male Hispanic. You guys doing better with your minority admissions or will that narrow it down?”
“He’s not real Hispanic-looking,” said the secretary.