He made no comment, got on the phone, hooked up with NCIC, asked for a felony search on Eldon S. Mate. Nothing. But plugging in Eldon Salcido pulled up three convictions. All in California, and the vital statistics fit.
Driving under the influence six years ago, larceny two years after that, assault eighteen months ago. Jail time in Marin County. Release six months ago.
“A year and a half in jail and he doesn’t call his mother,” I said. “Socially isolated. And he progressed from DUI to assault. Getting more aggressive.”
“Family values,” he said. “Be interesting to see what the grieving widow does when she finds out Mate left over three hundred grand in the bank. Wonder if Alice or anyone else will press a claim—that’s really why old Willy came down here. It always boils down to anger and money—okay, I’ll look into Donny, but in the meantime let’s try to ferret out that goddamn lawyer.”
CHAPTER 11
ROY HAISELDEN WAS living better than his prime client, but he was no sultan.
His house was a peach-colored, one-story plain-wrap on Camden Avenue, west of Westwood, south of Wilshire. Mown lawn but no shrubs, empty driveway. Alarm-company sign staked in the grass. Milo rang the bell, knocked on the door—dead-bolted with a sturdy Quikset—pushed open the mail slot and sighted down.
“Just some throwaway flyers,” he said. “No mail. So he left recently.”
He rang and knocked again. Tried to peer through the white drapes that sheathed the front windows, muttered that it just looked like a goddamn house. A check in back of the house revealed more grass and a small oval swimming pool set in a brick deck, the water starting to green, the gunite spotted with algae.
“If he had a pool man,” I said, “looks like he canceled a while back. Maybe he’s been gone for a while and put on a mail stop.”
“Korn and Demetri checked for that. And the gardener’s been here.”
The garage was a double, locked. Milo managed to pry the door upward several inches and he peered in. “No car, old bicycle, hoses, the usual junk.”
He inspected every side of the house. Most of the windows were barred and bolted and the back door was secured by an identical dead bolt. The kitchen window was undraped but narrow and high, and he boosted me up for a look.
“Dishes in the sink, but they look clean… no food … another alarm sticker high on the window, but I don’t see any alarm leads.”
“Probably a fake-out job,” he said. “One of those clever boys who thinks appearance is everything.”
“Overconfident,” I said. “Just like Mate.”
He let me down. “Okay, let’s see what the neighbors have to offer.”
Both of the adjacent houses were empty. Milo scrawled requests to call on the back of his business cards and left them in the mailboxes. In the second house to the south, a young black man answered. Clean-shaven, full-faced, barefoot, wearing a gray athletic shirt with the U. logo and red cotton shorts. Under his arm was a book. A yellow underlining pen was clenched between his teeth. He removed it, shifted the book so I could see the title: Organizational Structure: An Advanced Text. The room behind him was set up with two bright-blue beanbag chairs and not much else. Soda cans, potato chip bags, an extra-large pizza box mottled with grease on the thin khaki rug.
He greeted Milo pleasantly, but the sight of the badge caused his face to tighten.
“Yes?” The unspoken overtone: What now? I wondered how many times he’d been stopped for driving in Westwood.
Milo stepped back, bent his knee in a relaxed pose. “I was wondering, sir, if you’ve seen your neighbor Mr. Haiselden recently.”
“Who—oh him. No, not for a few days.
Could you say how many days, Mr….
Chambers,” said the young man. “Curtis Chambers. I think I saw him drive away five, six days ago. Whether he’s been back since, I can’t say, ’cause I’ve been holed up here studying. Why?”
“Do you recall what time of day it was when you saw him, Mr. Chambers?”
“Morning. Before nine. I was going to meet with a prof and he needed to do it by nine. I think it was Tuesday. What’s going on?”