“And boom.” He rubbed his face. “Fine. What about the limo?”
“What I said yesterday. Gurnsey and Okash humiliated her. That sped up Okash’s execution date and earned Gurnsey spillover hatred. Once he was targeted, The Museum of Desire came to mind. The level of planning and cruelty we saw in the limo stinks of long-standing sadistic fantasies. It’s possible the slaughter would’ve occurred without Gurnsey but he provided an aha moment.”
“They’re evil, the painting fills in the blanks?”
“These are people who choose Nazi references when they name their companies. It’s all about game-playing.”
His turn in the kitchen. He came back chomping an apple viciously and working his phone.
Downloading Candace Kierstead’s DMV photo, he called the Caribbean market.
“Ms. Graham? Lieutenant Sturgis.”
“Oh, hi. What’s up?”
“You were really helpful when we were in and I wondered if I could send you another photo.”
“Of course. You’re making progress on Solomon?”
“Slowly but surely.” He sent the headshot. Seconds later, Graham called back. “Sure, that’s Candy. She’s a great customer, likes our beers and our fresh vegetables. She and her husband come in all the time. He told me he developed a taste for spice when they lived in Asia and then in the Grand Caymans.”
“Did they ever come in with the other woman I showed you?”
“No, they’re more recent — the last few months. Very nice, always pay cash.”
“Thanks.”
“That helped you?” said Graham.
“Inch at a time.”
“Just like starting a business.”
Milo demolished the apple as if it were a threat, dangling what was left from the stem. I said, “The Kiersteads probably heard about the market from Okash, discovered Roget on the bulletin board.”
“They do their thing with the limo, save Okash for last, do her on the sly.”
“No reason to display her,” I said. “She didn’t fit the painting, they could toss her like garbage.”
He put in a call to John Nguyen, got voicemail, tried a judge with the same results and went silent. Tossing the apple, he returned eating a nectarine, getting juice on his chin and dabbing. “Candace worked me like a goddamn piece of clay.” He laughed. “The art metaphors just keep coming.”
He demolished the nectarine. “What were you doing driving around at five in the morning?”
“Information overload. You were also up early, had time to research the Kiersteads.”
“Got your text at five forty, it threw me, all of sudden Candace is in a new light. Once I steadied my neurons with a shot of WhistlePig, I woke up the kids. Bogomil’s assigned to the gallery building, the lads are taking turns driving up and down Benedict and every third time, cruising Conrock. Can’t do a sustained watch on Conrock. Too quiet, no street parking, everything’s conspicuous.”
“Get the lads a Bentley from the impound lot and have them wear ascots.”
He exploded into laughter. Wrapped the nectarine in the napkin and said, “I saw eggs. Can you spare some?”
Chapter 45
Two thirty p.m., that day: new whiteboard.
The stars of the display: enlarged DMV shots of Stefan Sigmund Kierstead, fifty-four, and Candace Walls Kierstead, forty-one.
Sleepy had confirmed the couple’s numerous trips to and from Hong Kong, Macao, Bern, Basel, Zurich, and Stockholm but still no information on where they’d lived before moving to L.A.
Further digging on the Walls family revealed that Candace’s parents, Charleston and Cinthia, were both deceased, as was brother Cormac. All three deaths had been registered at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. Hepatitis, liver cancer, liver failure.
Brother Charleston Jr. was alive and a resident of the Federal Correctional Institution in Cumberland, Maryland, six years into a twenty-two-year sentence for manslaughter and drug possession with intent to sell. A chat with an assistant warden revealed the specifics: running over a meth-dealing competitor with his car. Twice.
According to prison records, Walls was a no-problems inmate, hampered by diabetes, heart disease, and liver disease, loosely connected to the Aryan Brotherhood but not a member. A mugshot revealed a shaved-head, facially tattooed, sunken-eyed con with a goatish white chin beard bottoming a pale, collapsed face. Forty-eight but looking closer to seventy.
Marc Coolidge said, “Bunch of alkies, quality family.”
Al Freeman sitting next to Alicia Bogomil, their legs occasionally bumping, said, “Same old story.”
Alicia said, “Ain’t that the truth,” and smiled at him. Bump.
Milo said, “There’s no record of any domestic calls to the family and outwardly they look respectable. Dad was an IRS lawyer and they lived in a nice neighborhood.”
Moe Reed said, “Putting up a façade.” His voice emerging from Milo’s laptop.
He and Binchy were linked in to the meeting on FaceTime, Binchy now back on the Hart Street watch, Reed soloing Benedict Canyon and Conrock. So far, no movement at either location and neither the Volvo nor the Rolls had emerged from behind the black gate.
“The good news,” said Milo, “is I just got arrest warrants for both of them along with paper to enter both houses and the entire gallery building. We can also confiscate Okash’s car, which is still parked out back. I don’t wanna confront the Kiersteads or make a show of entering the gallery. Too many unknowns so we’re in a holding pattern, hoping to spot them on the road and take them.”
Coolidge said, “Avoid a hostage situation.”
“That and giving them time to destroy evidence. These are people responsible for at least six murders, likely seven. Once they’re in custody, we’ll separate them and take our time. Any questions?”
Al Freeman said, “They’re Nazis and her brother’s linked to the Brotherhood. Any connection?”
“Not so far and prison records say Candace never visited him. In fact, he’s gotten no visitors, period. The nun told Alex they weren’t exactly close-knit.”
“Bastards,” said Alicia. “Those poor dogs.”
Freeman said, “Hating’s an overall thing.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Bump.
I checked my watch and stood and headed for the door.
No surprise on Milo’s face. Freeman and Coolidge and Bogomil stared.
He said, “Dr. D.’s got a woman to talk to.”
Chapter 46
Identifying Jane Leavitt had been easy: On the Daylighters’ website, her face was displayed prominently above the motto Vanquish Breast Cancer!
Executive chairperson of the group. For the past five years, also head of the steering committee for the group’s annual Newer Than New Year’s Fling.
No listing for Candace Walls Kierstead, despite her claim. I’d also failed to find verification of dancing ballet in San Francisco.
Reaching Jane Leavitt had proved a challenge. She hadn’t responded to Milo’s calls of a few days ago; his emails remained unanswered as did voicemails left on the group’s business number.
I gave it a shot, texting an oncologist I’d worked with at Western Pediatric Medical Center and asking her to call Warren Giacomo, M.D., professor of clinical medicine at the U. and the Daylighters’ medical advisor.
Giacomo phoned me at one forty-five p.m. He proved to be a genial sort who’d heard about the Benedict murders and termed them “unbelievable, way too close for comfort.” He had no idea who Candace Kierstead was but assured me, “Jane’s a sweetheart, let me see what I can do.”
I said, “So it’s a good group?”
“Sterling. Older demographic, mostly survivors and relatives. They’ve been extremely generous and once they give money they’re not pushy about how to spend it. So the police think something happened at their party?”