“Tonight, then.”
“I can't impose on you to come out late, Dr. Delaware-”
“It's no problem, Helena. I'm a night person.”
“I'm not sure exactly when I'll be free.”
“Call me when you are. If I'm free, I'll meet you there. If not, you're on your own. Okay?”
She laughed softly. “Okay. Thanks so much. I really didn't want to go alone.”
“Have a minute?” I said.
“Unless someone else starts dying.”
“I spoke with Dr. Lehmann.”
“What'd he say?”
“As we expected, nothing, because of confidentiality. But he did agree to reread Nolan's file and if he comes up with something he feels comfortable discussing, he'll meet with me.”
Silence.
“That is, if you want me to, Helena.”
“Sure,” she said. “Sure, that's fine. I started, might as well finish.”
13
Milo chomped a dead cigarillo and carried the consulate crank letters in an oversized, unlabeled white envelope.
“A year's worth,” he said, remaining out on the terrace.
“What do they do with the old ones?”
“Don't know. This is what Carmeli gave me. Or rather, his secretary. Still haven't gotten past the hall, yet. Thanks, Alex. Back to the phones.”
“No luck yet?”
“Lots of callbacks pending. Hooks has started to work on Montez. So far, the guy's clean. Totally. Just to be careful I double-checked the offender files. Nothing. See you.”
He patted my shoulder and turned to leave.
“Milo, are you aware of any scandals brewing in the department? West L.A. or Hollywood, specifically?”
He stopped short. “No. Why?”
“Can't say.”
“Oh,” he said. “The Dahl kid. Someone bad-mouthed him? Do you know something?”
I shook my head. “I'm probably overreacting, but his therapist implied I shouldn't ask too many questions.”
“No reason?”
“Confidentiality.”
“Hmm. Nope, nothing that I've picked up. And even though I'm not Mr. Popular if it was something big-time I think I'd know.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Yeah… happy analysis.”
I emptied the envelope on my desk. A square of blue paper was stapled to each letter, saying L.A. and listing the date received.
Fifty-four letters, the most recent, three weeks ago, the oldest, eleven months.
Most were short, viciously to the point.
Anonymous. Three main themes.
1. Israelis are Jews and, hence, the enemy because all Jews are part of a capitalist banker/Masonic/Trilateral Commission conspiracy to dominate the world.
2. Israelis are Jews and, hence, the enemy because all Jews are part of a Communist/Bolshevik/cosmopolitan conspiracy to dominate the world.
3. Israelis are the enemy because they're colonial usurpers who stole land from the Arabs and continue to oppress the Palestinians.
Lots of misspellings, more disorganized handwriting than I'd seen in a long time.
The third group- Israel versus the Arabs- contained the most grammatical errors and awkward phrases, and I assumed some of the writers were foreign-born.
Five of the letters in group 3 also carried references to murdered Palestinian children and I set those aside.
But no specific warnings of revenge upon consulate children or other Israelis and no references to DVLL.
I shifted to the envelopes, examining the postmarks. All California. Twenty-nine had been mailed within L.A. County, eighteen from Orange County, six from Ventura, one from Santa Barbara.
Of the five with allusions to children, four were local, one from Orange County.
Another read. Run-of-the-mill racial venom and I couldn't see any way to connect it to Irit.
The office door opened and Robin came in with Spike. As I scratched his neck, her eyes lowered to the letters.
“Fan mail,” I said.
She read a sentence, turned away. “Vile. Were these sent to the girl's father?”
“To the consulate.” I began scooping up the letters.
“Don't quit on my account,” she said.
“No, I'm finished. Dinner?”
“I was going to ask you.”
“I could cook.”
“You want to?”
“Wouldn't mind feeling useful, if you don't mind quick and simple. How about lamb chops? We've got some frozen. I'll steam some corn. Salad, wine, ice cream- the works, babe.”
“Wine and the works? My girlish heart swoons.”
Concentrating on the grill helped me relax. We ate outside, slowly, quietly, and ended up in bed an hour later. At seven-thirty, Robin was in the tub and I lay atop the sheets.
Ten minutes later, Helena called and said, “I can get away, now, but you really don't have to bother.”
I went into the bathroom and told Robin.
“Well,” she said, “you've already done your good deeds here, so why not?”
Sycamore was an attractive, shaded street just west of Hancock Park, full of high-style duplexes dating from the twenties. Nolan Dahl's building was of that vintage, but a plain cousin. White lumpy stucco, no architectural embellishments, narrow windows like wounds, a few yucca plants pushing up against the front window, a fuzzy square of lawn. It gave no hint of falling victim to anything but tight budgeting.
I got there two minutes before Helena drove up.
“Sorry, had some discharge forms to finish. Hope you haven't been waiting long?”
“Just arrived.”
Waving a key, she said, “His is the downstairs unit.”
We walked to the front door. A business card had been slipped between the door and the jamb and she pulled it out.
“Detective Duchossoir,” she read. “Well, thanks for showing up, guy- they never called me for a statement. What a joke.”
She unlocked the front door, turned on a light, and we stepped into disarray dimmed by heavy gold velvet curtains that looked as old as the building. The living room was nice-sized with beamed ceilings and off-white walls but it smelled of old dust and sweat and looked like a war zone. The furniture the burglars had left was upended and damaged: broken legs on wooden folding chairs, a brown corduroy sofa with Naugahyde trim turned onto its arms, the bottom slashed open, the wounds exposing coils and stuffing. A cheap ceramic lamp lay shattered on the green shag carpet, white grit littering the pile. Nothing on the walls but dark rectangles where something had once hung.
In the dining area a card table had been tossed against the wall, cracking the plaster. More folding chairs. In the tiny kitchen, drawers were open, most of them emptied to the yellow paper lining. Nolan's meager collection of crockery was strewn all over the lumpy linoleum floor. As Helena had said, no flatware.
The refrigerator, an old white Admiral too small for the nook provided, could have come from a thrift shop. I opened it. Empty.
Nolan had adopted the Basic Lonely Bachelor lifestyle. I knew it well. Once upon a time.
“They got in here, through the kitchen door,” said Helena, pointing to a tiny service porch, past an empty garbage can.
A window was set into the rear door and the glass had been punched out. Crudely- the edges were still ragged. After that, it had been easy to reach in and release the lock.
Simple lock, no dead bolt.
“Not much security,” I said.
“Nolan always prided himself on taking care of himself, probably felt he didn't need it.”
She picked up a broken bowl. Put it down, looking drained.
Gazing past the mess and seeing how her brother had lived.
We walked down a low, narrow hall past a small, green-tiled bathroom with an empty medicine cabinet. Toothbrush and paste and wadded towels on the floor. The shower was dry.
“Looks like they took the medicine, too,” I said.
“If there was any. Nolan was never sick. Didn't even take aspirin. At least when I knew- when he lived at home.”
Two bedrooms. The first was totally empty, curtained to gloom. Helena stared in from the doorway before forcing herself to continue. The one where Nolan had slept had a king-sized mattress and box spring that took up most of the floor space. A four-drawer fake-wood dresser- another thrift-shop candidate- had been pushed away from the wall, all the drawers pulled out and tossed on the floor. Underwear, socks, shirts were scattered like buckshot. An aluminum TV stand stood near the foot of the bed, but no set remained. Rabbit-ear antenna in the corner. The black quilted bedspread was drawn back from sweat-stained white sheets and the mattress had been yanked halfway off the box. Two rumpled pillows sat propped against the wall like ghosts pummeled to unconsciousness.