As luck would have it, eighteen minutes later the green Cadillac nosed out onto the glen and sped by him.
He caught a blur of two good-looking, smiling faces.
Ten minutes later he was at the front door, ringing the bell with a gloved good hand.
From inside, a dog barked. From the sound of it a small dog. Dogs could be dangerous, but he liked them.
He'd once had a dog that he loved, a friendly little spaniel with a black spot over one eye. A man had brutalized the animal and he'd killed the man in front of the dog. The dog recovered, though he was never quite as trusting. Three years later a bladder tumor finished him off.
Yet another loss… He examined the door lock. Dead bolt. A good brand, but a common one and he had masters for it.
The eighth key he tried worked and he was inside.
Nice place inside, too. High, airy ceilings, white walls, some art, good furniture, a couple of Persian rugs that looked to be quality.
A high-pitched alarm warning buzzer sounded as the dog raced forward.
Small and cute. Dark brindle, with ridiculous ears and a flat face that couldn't be taken seriously. Some kind of bulldog. A miniature. It charged his pants, snarling and howling and scattering spittle. Deftly, he picked it up- heavier than it looked, he needed two hands to keep it at arm's length as it struggled. Carrying it to a bathroom, he locked it in and it butted the door, over and over.
The alarm buzzer still going.
The keypad by the door flashing red.
Probably less than a minute before the alarm bells kicked in, but no worry, there. Police response in Los Angeles was slow, sometimes nonexistent, and in a remote area like this, with no close neighbors to complain, there was nothing to worry about.
Things had gotten to the point where only blood brought the police out and even then, not with much enthusiasm.
He walked around the house, quickly but calmly, able to block out the noise, smelling lemon wax, looking for a target.
The more he thought about it, the greater was his conviction that choosing the psychologist was the way to go. Whether or not the guy could do any direct good, he had access to Sturgis and was, thus, a conduit.
Two birds with one shot.
Now the bells were clanging. Very loud but it didn't bother him.
The alarm company would be phoning soon. If no one answered, they'd call the police.
In this case, the West L.A. station, but Sturgis, up in the detective office, would be unaware. Some uniformed officer would take the call, jot down the details. Eventually, maybe, someone would drive by.
Crime and denial… What he had to do wouldn't take long, anyway.
He wasn't without some guilt- breaking and entering wasn't part of his self-image. But priorities were priorities.
When he was finished, he let the dog out of the bathroom.
17
We never got to dance.
The call came just as we were thinking about dessert and I took it behind the bar of the restaurant.
“This is Nancy from your service, Dr. Delaware. Sorry to bother you, but your alarm company has been trying to reach you for a while and they finally figured to call us.”
“The alarm went off?” I sounded calm but was feeling a needle-stab of panic: not-distant-enough memories of intrusion, the old house reduced to cinders.
“Around an hour ago. The company records it as a circuit break at the front door. They've called the police but it might be a while before anyone gets there.”
“An hour and the police haven't gotten there, yet?”
“I'm not sure. Would you like me to phone them?”
“No, that's okay, Nancy. Thanks for letting me know.”
“I'm sure it's nothing, Doctor. We get this kind of thing all the time. Mostly they're false alarms.”
Before I returned to the table, I reached Milo, back at West L.A.
“Going to take advantage of our friendship,” I said. “How about getting a patrol car to go by my house?”
“Why?” he said sharply.
I told him.
“I'll go myself. Where are you?”
“Melrose near Fairfax. We'll leave in a minute, meet you there.”
“Get any dinner down?”
“All of it. We were just about ready to order dessert.”
“Order it. I'm sure it's a false call.”
“Probably,” I said. “But no, even if I could eat, Robin couldn't. Spike's there.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But who'd steal him?”
Robin didn't relax fully until we pulled up to the front and she saw Milo standing outside on the landing giving the okay sign. Spike was next to him and Milo looked like a dog-walker. An absurd notion. It made me smile.
The front door was open, the interior lights burning.
We rushed up the steps. Spike tugged, Milo let go of the leash, and the dog met us halfway.
“You're okay,” said Robin, sweeping him up and kissing him. He returned the affection and let me know with a look who was top dog.
We entered the house.
“When I got here the front door was locked,” said Milo. “Bolted, had to use my key. No windows jammed. Nothing messed and that safe you keep in the bedroom closet hasn't been touched. So it looks like a false. Contact the company tomorrow and have them come out and check the system. Only thing out of sorts is this guy.”
I rubbed Spike behind the ears. He harrumphed, turned away, and resumed licking Robin's neck.
“Muscling in on your lady?” said Milo. “You going to stand for that?”
We drifted into the kitchen. Robin's eyes were all over the place. “Seems fine to me,” she said. “Let me just check the jewelry I keep loose in my drawer.”
She was back in a moment. “Still there. Had to be a false alarm.”
“Good thing,” I said. “We didn't exactly get quick protection from the department.”
“Hey,” said Milo, “count yourself lucky you didn't get a false-alarm citation.”
“Protect and cite?”
“Anything that brings in revenue.”
Robin said, “Let's have dessert here. You up for ice cream, Milo?”
He patted his middle. “Aw shucks, I shouldn't- no more than three scoops and only a quart of chocolate sauce.”
She laughed and left, Spike trotting along.
Milo scuffed one shoe with the other. Something in his eyes made me ask if he'd learned anything in East L.A.
“The victim was a kid named Raymond Ortiz. IQ of seventy-five, overweight, some coordination problems, very bad eyesight, Coke-bottle glasses. He was on a school outing in a park at the east end of Newton Division. Tough place, known as a gang hangout, drugs, the usual. The theory is that he wandered away from the group and got grabbed. Never been found but two months later his blood-filled sneakers were left near the front door of the Newton station, resting on top of an old newspaper clipping about the disappearance. Raymond's blood was on record at County Hospital because he'd participated in a retardation study and they got a perfect match.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Poor, poor kid… in some ways it's so much like Irit, but in others-”
“It's nothing like Irit, I know. With Irit- and with Latvinia- we had the body but no blood, with this one, blood and no body. And the blood implies something other than strangulation. At least not gentle strangulation.”
“I hate that term, Milo.”
“Me, too. Pathologists are such dispassionate bastards, aren't they?”
I thought about what he'd told me. “Even with the differences, we've got two retarded kids, snatched out of a school group in a park.”
“What better place to snatch a kid, Alex? Parks and malls are favorite stalking zones. And this park was nothing like the nature conservancy. No trails, no surrounding wilderness. Your basic inner-city place, poorly kept up, bums and junkies on the grass.”