Milo flipped the chart open. Petra said, “Salcido was living in an abandoned building near Western and Hollywood—the one with the big frieze in front, I think Louis B. Mayer or some other film type built it. Later, the Bummers found out he had a felony record and noted it accordingly.”
“Our tax dollars at work.” Milo thumbed the pages of the file. “Was he living alone?”
“Unless a known associate is noted, he probably was.”
“Says they found him in ‘a room full of garbage.’
As you see, he claimed to be gainfully employed but couldn’t produce backup. The squad pegged him as mentally ill, probably a dope fiend, suggested he seek some help at a community MH center. He refused.
Why didn’t the squad evict him?
Without a complaint from the owner, no grounds. I stopped off at the building this morning but he’s gone, everyone is. Just construction workers, big remodeling project. Sorry it’s not more.”
“Hey, it’s something—thanks for taking the time,” said Milo. “Squatting by himself…”
I knew he was thinking about the abandoned building in Denver. He turned a page. “No mug shot?”
“The Bummers didn’t carry cameras. But look at the back page, I got a booking photo faxed down from Marin County Jail, not terrific quality.” Milo found the shot, studied it, showed it to me. Eldon Salcido Mate, freshly inducted to penal custody, numbered plaque dangling from a chain around his neck, the mandatory sullen stare leavened by a hard, hot light in the eyes that might’ve been madness, or just the glare of the room.
Long, stringy hair but clean-shaven. Light-complected, as Guillerma Salcido had said. Round face, weak around the jowls. Small, prissy features that could’ve made incarceration a greater-than-usual challenge. Premature wrinkles. A young man aging too fast.
Striking resemblance to a face on a dissecting table; Guillerma Salcido Mate had been right. Donny was his father’s son.
Milo read some more. “Says here he claimed to be working in a tattoo parlor on the Boulevard, didn’t remember which one.”
“I tried a few places, no one knows him. But the jailer up in Marin said Salcido had done some skin work on other inmates, that was probably what kept him safe.”
“Safe from what?” I said.
“The jail’s organized along gang lines,” she said. “Someone without affiliation is fair prey unless they’ve got something to offer. Salcido sold his art, but the jailer said no one wanted him in their group because he was seen as a mental case.”
“Tattoos,” said Milo. “The boy likes to draw.”
Petra nodded. “I read about the painting. You’re thinking it’s him?”
“Seems like a good bet.”
“What’s the painting like?”
“Not what I’d want in my dining room.” Milo shut the file. “You’re an artist, aren’t you?”
“Not hardly.”
“Come on, I’ve seen your stuff.”
“My past life,” she insisted.
“Want to see it?”
She looked at her watch. “Sure, why not?”
She held it at arm’s length. Squinted. Turned it around, inspected the sides. Placed it on the floor and backed away ten feet before returning to get another close look.
“He really slapped on the paint,” she said. “Looks like he worked quickly here—probably a palette knife as well as a brush … here, too … fast but not sloppy, the composition’s actually pretty good—he got the proportions just about right.”
She turned away from the painting. “This is only a guess, but what I see here is someone alternating between careful draftsmanship and abandon—at some point he planned meticulously, but once he got into the groove he gave himself over to it.”
Milo frowned, then glanced at me.
“Anyway,” said Petra. “So much for art criticism.”
“What does that mean?” Milo asked her. “Being careful and then cutting loose.”
“That he’s like most artists.”
“You see any talent here?”
“Oh sure. Nothing staggering, but he can render. Plenty of ambition, too—redoing Rembrandt.”
“Rembrandt and tattoos,” said Milo.
“If Salcido did tattoos well enough to keep himself out of trouble in prison, he’s got to be pretty good. Skin work’s challenging, you have to get a feel for the changing density of the epidermis, movement, resistance to the needle.”