“At this point,” said Parks.
“The problems, sir?”
“A few noise complaints at the beginning. I spoke to Hacker, and it stopped.”
“What kind of noise?”
“Loud music, voices. Apparently, they bring women in, throw parties.”
“Apparently?”
“Mostly I’m sitting in here,” said Parks.
“Ever see the women?”
“A couple of times.”
“The same women?”
Parks shook his head. “You know.”
“Know what, sir?”
“The type.”
“What type is that?” said Milo.
“Not exactly . . . high society.”
“Party girls.”
Parks’s eyes rolled. “Hacker pays his rent. I don’t get involved in the tenants’ personal lives. After those first few complaints, they’ve been fine.”
“What’s the rent on their unit?”
“This is a money issue? Some sort of financial crime?”
“The rent, please.”
Parks said, “Hacker pays 2200 a month. The unit has two full bedrooms and a den, two baths, and a built-in wet bar. On the harbor side it would be over three thousand.”
“The women you saw, would you recognize any of them?”
Parks shook his head. “Everybody minds their own business here. That’s the point of the Marina. You get your divorced people, your widowed people. People want their privacy.”
Milo said, “Everyone doing their own thing.”
“Like you, Lieutenant. You ask all these questions, tell me nothing. You seem pretty good at keeping your business to yourself.”
Milo smiled.
Parks smiled back.
Milo asked to see Hacker’s parking slot, and Parks took us down to a subgarage that smelled of motor oil and wet cement. Half the slots were empty, but the black Explorer was in place. Milo and I looked through the windows. Food cartons, a windbreaker, maps, loose papers.
Stan Parks said, “Is this about drugs?”
“Why would it be?” said Milo.
“You’re examining the car.” Parks went over and peered through the windows. “I don’t see anything incriminating.”
“Where’s Mr. Degussa’s spot, sir?”
Parks walked us a dozen slots down to a Lincoln Town Car, big, square, the predownsize model. Chrome rims, shiny paint job. Custom job, a heavy, brownish red.
Parks said, “Pretty ugly color, don’t you think? Put all that money into restoration and end up with something like that. I keep a few collector cars, no way would I go this color.”
“This color” was the precise hue of dry blood.
“Ugly,” I said. “What cars do you keep?”
“A ’48 Caddy, ’62 E-type Jag, a ’64 Mini-Cooper. I’m trained as an engineer, do the work myself.”
I nodded.
Parks said, “By the way, Degussa also drives a motorcycle, puts it over there.” Indicating a section to the right, smaller slots for two-wheelers.
No bikes in sight.
“He pays extra for that,” said Parks. “Wanted it for free, but I told him twenty bucks a month.”
“A bargain,” said Milo.
Parks shrugged. “It’s not one of the better units.”
*
We left the Marina, and Milo asked for the 805 number I’d written down and the name that went with it.
Cody Marsh.
The Volvo was equipped with a hands-off phone system, and Milo plugged his little blue gizmo into it as he drove. He punched in Cody Marsh’s number. Two rings and a voice said he was being rerouted to a mobile unit. Two additional rings, and a man said, “Hello?”
“Mr. Marsh?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lieutenant Sturgis.”
“Oh, hi.” Fuzzy reception. “Hold on, let me switch off the radio . . . okay, I’m back, thanks for calling. I’m in my car, coming down to L.A. Any way you can see me?”
“Where are you?”
“The 101 Freeway, coming up on . . . Balboa. Traffic’s not looking great, but I can probably be in West L.A. within half an hour.”
“Christina Marsh is your sister?”
“She is . . . was . . . can you find time to see me? I’d really like to find out about her.”
“Sure,” said Milo. “Meet me at a restaurant near the station. Café Moghul.” He spelled the name and recited the address.
Cody Marsh thanked him and cut the connection.
*
We drove straight to the restaurant, arrived in twenty-five. Cody Marsh was already seated at a corner table drinking milk-laced chai.
Easy to spot; solitary patron.
By the time we stepped through the glass beads, he was on his feet. Looking exactly as if someone had died.