“I’ll ask an Ojai cop to stop by. What about Becky Basille? How do you fit her into this? Hewitt screaming bad love,’ the killer taping Hewitt?”
“Maybe Hewitt was a Corrective School alumnus, too. Or maybe the killer indoctrinated Hewitt about bad love. If G is our guy, Becky’s notes imply a close relationship of some kind between him and Hewitt.
If I’m right about the killer not being psychotic, he’d have been the more put-together partner–the dominant one. Able to push Hewitt’s buttons, feed Hewitt’s paranoia, get him off his medication, and turn him against his therapist. Because of his hatred of therapists. Plus, he had another reason to hate Becky: Hewitt was getting attached to her.”
Milo began cutting salmon with his fork. Stopped and ran his hand over his face. “I’m still looking for Mr. Gritz. Pulled his complete sheet and it’s all minor league.”
“He told the Calcutta folks he was going to get rich. Could there be some kind of profit motive to these murders?”
“Maybe he was just bragging. Psychopaths do that.” He looked at his food and shoved his plate away. “Who’m I kidding?”
“The kid on the tape,” I said. “Any record of Gritz having children?”
He shook his head.
“The chant,” I said. “‘Bad love, bad love, don’t give me the bad love.” Sounds like something an abused kid might say. Having a child recite it could be part of the ritual. Reliving the past, using de Bosch’s own terminology. God only knows what else he’s done, trying to work through his pain.”
He took out his wallet, pulled out cash, and put it on the table.
Tried to catch the waitress’s attention, but her back was to us.
“Milo,” I said, “Becky might still be a link. She could have talked to someone about Hewitt and G.”
“Like who?”
“A relative, a friend. Did she have a boyfriend?”
“You’re saying she broke confidentiality?”
“She was a beginner, and we already know she wasn’t that careful.”
“Don’t know about any boyfriend,” he said. “But why would she not tell Jeffers, then go and gab to a layperson?”
“Because telling Jeffers would have meant getting pulled off Hewitt’s case.
And she could have talked without feeling she was breaching confidentiality.
Leaving out names. But she might have said something to someone that can give us a lead.”
“The only member of her family I ever met was her mother, and that was just once, to listen to her cry.”
“A mother can be a confidante.”
He looked at me. “After that picnic with Paprock’s husband, you’d be willing to do another exhumation?”
“What else do we have going?”
He pushed food around his plate. “She was a nice person– the mother.
What approach would you take with her?”
“Straight and narrow. Hewitt had a friend who may be involved in other killings. Someone whose name starts with G. Did Becky ever talk about him?”
He caught the waitress’s eye and waved her over. She smiled and held up a finger, finished reciting the specials to a couple across the room.
“She lives near Park LaBrea,” he said. “Near the art museum. Ramona or Rowena, something like that. I think she’s in the book. Though she may have unlisted it after the murder. If she did, call me at Sally’s and I’ll get it for you.”
He looked at our untouched plates, took a toothpick from a can on the table, and poked at his incisors.
“Got your message about the sheriff,” I said. “When does he plan to get to the tape?”
“Next couple of days, unless some emergency comes up. Don’t know what it’ll accomplish, but at least we’ll feel scientific.”
“Speaking of science,” I said, “any estimates yet about when Katarina was killed?”
“Coroner’s initial guess is anywhere from eight to twenty hours before you found her.”
“Eight’s more likely. The coffee dregs were still moist. If I’d gotten there a little earlier I might have–” “Gotten hurt yourself.”
He leaned forward. “Forget the rescue fantasies, Alex.”
My head hurt and so did my eyes. I rubbed them and drank water.
The waitress came over and looked at our uneaten meals.