Jonathan Kellerman – Monster

A pleasant old woman named Mrs. Leiber turned out to be the owner of Buddy, the missing dog. She seemed addled, disappointed that we weren’t here to investigate the theft.-

Convinced Buddy had been dognapped, though an open gate at the side of her house indicated other possibilities.

Milo told her he’d keep his eyes open.

“He’s such a sweetie,” Mrs. Leiber said. “Got the courage but not any meanness.”

We returned to the green house. The criminalists were still unpacking their gear.

Milo showed the stains in the garage to the head tech, a black man named

Merriweather, who got down and put his nose to it.

“Could be,” he said. “If it is, it’s pretty degraded. We’ll scrape. If it is blood, should be able to get a basic HLA typing, but DNA’s a whole other thing.”

“Just tell me if it’s blood.”

“I can try that now.”

We watched him work, wielding solvents and reagents, swabs and test tubes.

The answer came within minutes:

“O-positive.”

“Richard Dada’s type,” said Milo.

“Forty-three percent of the population,” said Merriweather. “Let me scrape around here and inside the house, it’ll take us the best part of the day, but maybe we can find you something interesting.”

Back in the unmarked, Milo phoned DMV again, cross-referencing vehicle registrations with the Shenandoah address. No match.

Gunning the engine, he pulled away from the curb, tires squealing. Less urgency than frustration. By the time we were back on Pico, he’d slowed down.

At Doheny, we stopped for a red light and he said, “Richard’s blood type. Orson’s cutting out on the rent could explain why Richard was cut in half and Claire wasn’t.

By the time he did her, he’d lost his machine shop, didn’t have the time-or the place-to set up…. All that stolen movie junk. He has to keep it somewhere. Time to check out storage outfits…. Be nice if Itatani could’ve LD.’d Claire as the woman in the car.”

“If she was, Itatani saw her shortly before she was murdered. Maybe she and Orson did go shopping at the center, and that’s why he dumped her there. What stores are there?” “Montgomery Ward, Toys ‘R’ Us, food joints, the Stereos Galore she was found

behind.” “Stereos Galore,” I said. “Might they sell cameras?” He looked in his rearview mirror, hung an illegal U-turn.

The front lot was jammed and we had to park on the far end, near La Cienega. Stereos

Galore was two vast stories of gray rubber flooring and maroon plastic partitions.

Scores of TV’s projected soundlessly; blinking, throbbing entertainment centers spewed conflicting backbeats; salespeople in emerald-green vests pointed out the latest feature to stunned-looking customers. The camera section was at the rear of the second floor.

The manager was a small, dark-skinned, harried-looking man named Albert Mustafa with a precise black mustache and eyeglasses so thick his mild brown irises seemed miles away. He shepherded us into a relatively quiet corner, behind tall displays of film in colorful boxes. The cacophony from below filtered through the rubber tiles. Marie

Sinclair would have felt at home.

Claire Argent’s picture evoked a blank stare. Milo asked him about substantial video purchases.

“Six months ago?” he said.

“Five or six months ago,” said Milo. “The name could be Wark or Crimmins or Orson.

We’re looking for a substantial purchase of video equipment or cameras.”

“How much is substantial?” said Mustafa.

“What’s your typical sale?”

“Nothing’s typical. Still cameras range from fifty dollars to nearly a thousand. We can get you set up with basic video for under three hundred, but you can go high-tech and then you’re talking serious money.”

“Every sale is in the computer, right?”

“Supposed to be.”

“Do you categorize your customers based upon how much they spend?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay,” said Milo. “How about checking video purchases over one thousand dollars, four to six months ago. Start with this date.” He recited the day of Claire’s murder.

Mustafa said, “I’m not sure this is legal, sir. I’d have to check with the home office.”

“Where’sthat?”

“Minneapolis.”

“And they’re closed by now,” said Milo.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“How about just spooling back to that one day, Mr. Mustafa, see what comes up.”

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