I said, “When was the party officially over?”
“Officially and unofficially is the same, dude. Two. Then me and her looked around and we were outta there by two thirty.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Anything,” said Leventhal. “There was nothing.”
Amadpour frowned. “It was kind of creepy. Being there, dark, the house was like a... it’s big.”
“The football dudes were also there,” said Leventhal.
“But then we were there by ourselves, Todd.”
“Whatever. There was nothing freaky.” His hand rose and grazed thunderbolts.
Amadpour said, “I thought it was creepy. That house, big and ugly and cold-like.”
“Whatever.” Leventhal hefted his backpack and looked at Milo. “We’ve got no responsibility except overall safety and security at an event we initiate and manage competently.”
Milo said, “That sounds pretty legalistic, Todd.”
Orthodontic grin. “My dad’s a lawyer and so is hers and they told us. Even though they still give us shit.”
“About what?”
“Making our own bank.” He nudged Amadpour. “They’re scared we’ll make so much we won’t need their asses.”
She said, “I’ll always need my parents.”
He said, “You never know. We could be kings of the world.”
“I’d be a queen.”
“It’s a metaphor.” Another grin. “From a movie.”
“Which one?”
“Forget.”
Milo said, “So what’d you guys do after you left?”
“We ate,” said Leventhal.
“Denny’s,” said Amadpour. “In Westwood.”
“Waffles and links,” said Leventhal.
“Tuna salad,” said Amadpour.
“Okay?” said Leventhal. “Can we go live our life?” His hand brushed Amadpour’s cheek. She colored at the jawline. Lifting his backpack, he began walking toward the gray house.
Milo said, “None of this seems to bother you, Todd.”
The boy stopped. Turned. “Why should it bother me?”
“The fact that a murder happened where you’d just thrown a party?”
Todd Leventhal looked as if he’d been spoken to in Albanian. “I don’t know who it happened to.”
Milo loped toward him and handed him a card. Leventhal held it to his skinny flank.
Amadpour took the time to read her card. Her lips moved. Homicide.
She said, “I’m so sorry for whoever it was.”
The two of them entered the house.
Milo said, “The Todd-ster’s a pretty cold dude, no?”
“Not the most charming lad.”
“Didn’t pick up any tells. You?”
“Nope.”
“Can’t think of any motive he’d have other than he’s cold.”
I said, “Despite his business skills, he probably isn’t smart enough to coordinate the level of the production we’re looking at. And why would he call attention to himself?”
“Production. That’s really stuck with you.”
“Hard to think of it as anything else.”
“This one, hard to think of anything, period.”
We drove back to the station. He said, “Story breaks tomorrow, meanwhile it’s time for you-know-what.”
“I don’t know what.”
“No progress? Take a meeting. I called it for nine a.m. tomorrow, me and the kids. Any chance you can make it?”
I checked my phone. “I was going to do something more amusing but sure.”
“What?”
“Stick hot pokers in my eyes.”
He laughed for a long time. Good to hear.
Chapter 12
Wednesday morning, news of the killings broke. The story was pushed to the rear by political viciousness, not much by way of detail, not strictly accurate. (“A multiple shooting in Beverly Hills during the early-morning hours...”)
The sketchiness meant the department had continued to suppress details but nowadays details don’t matter, it’s all about emotional contagion. I knew the internet would be ping-ponging the story, leading to freelance guesswork and tips ranging from psychotic to encouraging. Milo’s name was listed as primary investigator but his office number wasn’t. Someone calling with information would have to make an effort.
At ten to nine I arrived at the same room where Andrea Bauer’s interview had taken place. Reed, Binchy, and Bogomil walked in together four minutes later. All three in casual plainclothes, what could be taken as an internet start-up business group.
Milo had been in the room long enough to fill a whiteboard with the death shots of four victims, the forensic details available, and the time line Basia had given.
At the bottom, a snapshot of Lassie that raised the detectives’ eyebrows as they settled.
Four chairs were arranged in a semicircle facing the board. On the table, coffee pitcher, cups, and a big box of pastries from a West Hollywood French bakery. The boss picking up patisserie for the troops.
Milo snatched a cruller, demolished half, brushed crumbs from his shirt, and pointed to the board. “Nourish yourselves, scan this, then group therapy begins.”
Binchy took a chocolate croissant, Bogomil broke a bear claw in half, Reed sat down.
“Not healthy enough for you, Moses?”
“I’m watching my sugar intake.”
“I watch mine, too. As it rises.” Finishing the rest of the cruller. “Okay. Like I told you all yesterday, no info of value from the kids who threw the party. They don’t keep written records and Alex doesn’t see them as able to pull off a complex multi. I agree. I’m assuming still nothing from the canvass.”
Reed said, “We covered every house from Sunset to Mulholland. Hard to find anyone home but those that were didn’t see the limo enter or anything else out of the ordinary.”
“Coroner’s TOD estimate fits with the car being brought there in the wee hours, when it was still dark. So they could be telling the truth.”
Reed nodded. “We did get a few complaints but not just for that house, for parties in general. Parking, noise, trash.”
Bogomil said, “Like we’re supposed to drop a homicide investigation and take care of rich cranks.”
Binchy said, “It does mean lots of people knew it was a venue. Maybe also that it was left unattended after parties.”
Milo said, “Good point, Sean.” He smiled. “And depressing because it expands the suspect pool. I double-checked with Bright Dawn and they only cleaned the place one other time this year, back in January. A benefit — breast cancer, different crowd, older folk. I asked for a guest list, they said whoever throws the event keeps the records. The group’s called Daylighters, small, limited to big donors. I’ve got a call in to their office. Alicia, did you have time to look for other agencies?”
Bogomil said, “So far I’ve found four. None uses that property.”
Reed said, “What about another angle, L.T.? Nasty divorce can breed all sorts of ugly.”
I said, “I found out which judge is handling the case and left a message.”
Silence from the three of them. The kind of sludgy inertia that sets in when there’s nowhere else to go.
Milo said, “Next: phone accounts. Alvarez didn’t have one and if the woman is homeless, probably the same for her. I’ve subpoenaed Roget and Gurnsey’s cells and Roget’s landline. At the very least we’ll know who they talked to last. With the canvass over, let’s take a look at where Roget posted his ads. Now the forensics, such as they are.”
He summed up, including Basia’s asphyxiation theory for the woman and her lack of fingerprints. The latter brought frowns to three faces.