Milo’s smile spread very slowly. “Worth a try.”
The movie-poster mural flashed in my head. “Another reason for Wark to take the job: if he sees himself as some dark-side cinema auteur, what better place to dredge up bloody plots than Starkweather? That could explain Richard and the Beatty twins: they’re part of Wark’s film game.”
“The snuff extravaganza, again-we’re all over the place with this.”
“Like you said, drill a few wells…”
He massaged his temples. “Okay, okay, enough talk, I need to do something. I put calls in to Miami and Pimm, Nevada, this morning. When we get back, I’ll see if anyone called. And the psych board for that tech list. Though for it to be of any use, Wark would’ve had to register under that name or Crimmins, or something close.”
He rubbed his face. “Long shots.”
“Better than nothing,” I said.
“Sometimes I wonder.”
30.
WE WERE BACK in the detectives’ room by two P.M.
Friday. Most of the desks were empty. Del Hardy’s was next to Milo’s, and Milo waved me to Del’s chair. Del had partnered with Milo years ago-an early alliance cemented by mutual respect and shared alienation. Del had been one of the first black D’s to get an assignment west of La Brea. Now he had plenty of black colleagues, but Milo remained a one-man show. Maybe that had wedged them apart, or perhaps it was Del’s second wife, a woman with strong views on just about everything. Milo never talked about it.
I used Del’s phone to call the state psychiatric board, got put on hold electronically. Milo’s desktop was clear except for a message slip taped to the metal. He peeled it loose and read it, and his eyebrows arched.
“Callback from Orlando, Florida. Some guy named Castro ‘happy to talk about Derrick
Crimmins.’ ”
He punched numbers, loosened his tie, sat down. A recorded voice of indeterminate gender told me my call would be accepted as soon as an operator was free. I watched
Milo’s shoulders bunch as his call came through.
“Detective Srurgis for Detective Castro,” he said. “Oh, hi. Thanks for calling back.
… Really? Well that’s interesting-listen, could I put someone else on the line?
Our psychological consultant… Yeah, occasionally we do….Yeah, it’s been helpful.”
Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Hang up and punch my extension number.”
The recorded voice broke in, thanking me for my patience.
I cut it off, made the conference adjustment, introduced myself.
“George Castro,” said a thick voice on the other end. “We all set now?”
“Yeah,” said Milo. “Dr. Delaware, Detective Castro was just saying he’s been waiting for someone to call him about Derrick Crimmins.”
“Waiting a long time,” said Castro. “This is like Christmas in the summer. Tell the truth, I gave up, figured he might be dead.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because his name never showed up in any crime list I could find, but bad guys don’t just give up. And that kid was real bad. Got away with multiple murder.”
“His parents,” said Milo.
“You got it,” said Castro. “Him and his brother-Cliff. Cliff was older, but Derrick was smarter. What a pair. Kind of a pre-Menendez Menendez, only the Crimminses didn’t even come close to getting arrested. It was my curse. It’s been jammed in my craw ever since. Tell me what you have him on, the little bastard.”
“Nothing definite,” said Milo. “Can’t even find him. So far it looks like scamming and homicide.”
“Well, that’s our boy, to a T. I got to tell you, this really takes me back. I was new to Miami Beach. Did a year on Bunco, then Homicide. Moved down the year before from Brooklyn for the sun, never thought about what being named Castro would mean in
Miami.” He stopped, as if waiting for laughter. “And I’m Puerto Rican, not Cuban.
Anyway, I worked some pretty ugly stuff up north. Bed-Stuy, Crown Heights, East New
York. But none of the scum I met ever bothered me as much as those brothers. Killing your own folks for dough-dad and stepmother, actually. It was a Coast Guard case, because the boat blew up in the water-half a mile offshore-but we did the land work.