He loped over to one of the big sycamores, said something to no apparent listener, and a nervous-looking Hispanic man in baggy clothes stepped from behind the trunk. The man talked with his hands and looked agitated. Milo did a lot of listening. He took out his notepad and scrawled without breaking eye contact. When he was finished, the man was allowed to leave the scene.
The spear in the girl’s chest appeared to be a homemade weapon fashioned from a slat of wrought-iron fencing. The coroner who manipulated it free said so out loud as she carried it beyond the yellow tape perimeter and laid it on an evidence sheet.
The uniforms checked the property for similar fencing, found iron around a pool, but a different diameter.
DMV came through with the car’s registration: the Mustang was one year old and registered to Jerome Allan Quick, of South Camden Drive in Beverly Hills. A wallet in the pocket of the male victim’s khakis yielded a driver’s license that confirmed him as Gavin Ryan Quick, two months past his twentieth birthday. A student ID card put him as a sophomore at the U., but the card was two years old. In another pocket, the techs retrieved a joint wrapped in a baggie and a foil-wrapped condom. Another condom, out of the foil but unrolled, was discovered on the floor of the Mustang.
Neither the girl’s black leggings or her gold silk shirt contained pockets. No purse or handbag was found in the car or anywhere else. Blond, thin, pale, pretty, she remained unidentified. Even after the spear was removed, she lay contorted, chest thrust at the night sky, neck twisted, eyes wide-open. A spidery position no living creature would have entertained.
The coroner wouldn’t commit but guessed from the arterial blood spatter that she’d been alive while being impaled.
*
Milo and I drove to Beverly Hills. Once again, he offered to drop me off; once again, I laughed. Allison would be home by now, but we weren’t living together, so there was no reason to let her know where I was. Back when Robin and I did live together, I checked in most of the time. Sometimes I was derelict. The least of my sins.
I said, “Who was the guy you interviewed?”
“Night watchman employed by the real estate company. His job is to drive around at the end of the day, check out the high-priced listings, make sure everything’s secure. The brokerage gives the key out to their agents, and agents from other outfits can come by and borrow copies. Supposedly a foolproof system, but doors don’t get locked, windows and gates are left open. That’s probably what happened here. The house was shown today by three brokers. It was the watchman’s last stop, he covers everything from San Gabriel to the beach. He’s the one who found the bodies and phoned it in.”
“But you’ll paraffin him, anyway.”
“Done. No gunshot residue. I’ll also be checking the three brokers and their clients.”
I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard, drove east, headed south on Rodeo Drive. Shops were closed, but storefronts were bright. A homeless man steered a shopping cart past Gucci.
“So you’re taking the case,” I said.
He rode half a block before answering. “Been a while since I had me a nice little whodunit, good to stay in shape.”
He’d always claimed to hate whodunits, but I said nothing. The last one had closed a while back, a cold-hearted killer executing people with artistic talent. The day after Milo filed his final report, he said, “Ready for some low-IQ bar shootings, bad guys holding the smoking gun.”
Now he said, “Yeah, yeah, I’m a glutton for punishment. Let’s get this over with.”
*
Jerome Allan Quick lived on a pretty street a block and a half south of Wilshire. This was the middle ground of Beverly Hills, meaning pleasant houses on fifth-acre lots that ran between one and two million.
The Quick residence was a two-story white traditional, open to the street. A white minivan and a gray baby Benz shared the driveway. Lights out. Everything looked peaceful. That would change soon.
Milo phoned Beverly Hills PD to let them know he’d be making a notification call, then we got out and walked to the house. His knock elicited only silence. His doorbell ring brought footsteps and a woman’s voice asking who it was.