“Cruelty to animals,” I said. “Flora’s mother said Nichols is a neat-freak.”
“There you go, yet another quirk. Just the type to clean up a crime scene thoroughly. He’s worth looking into, right? See you in—what, twenty, twenty-five?”
“Zoom zoom zoom.”
CHAPTER
12
Milo’s unmarked idled at the curb, in front of the station. He was at the wheel, smoking and tapping his finger.
I drove up next to the driver’s window. He handed me a staff permit, and I parked in the lot across the street. When I returned, the unmarked’s passenger door was open. We were heading south before I closed it.
“Big hurry?”
“I pulled Roy Nichols’s file. The 415 wasn’t just some drunk breaking glass. Though you were right about it being booze-stoked. Nichols beat some guy up at a sports bar in Inglewood, did a real number on him, broke some bones. The report says Nichols thought the guy was leering at his date, a woman named Lisa Jenrette. They traded words, and one thing led to another. What got Nichols out of a felony assault charge was several other patrons swore the other guy had thrown the first punch and that he had come on to Nichols’s date. One of those habitual assholes, always picking fights. Nichols compensated part of his medical bills and pleaded down to Disturbing. He served no time, promised to stay away from the bar, and took a rage control class.”
He sped side streets to Olympic, turned left, headed for Sepulveda. “A severe jealousy problem could lead to the kind of overkill they found in Flora’s bedroom.”
“Evelyn Newsome said Nichols was the one who ended the relationship.”
“So maybe he changed his mind, got possessive. Alex, I read the medical report on the guy he pounded. Shattered face bones, dislocated shoulder. One witness said Nichols was about to stomp the guy’s head into pulp when they managed to pull him off.”
We drove in silence for a while, then he said, “Rage control class. You think that stuff works?”
“Maybe sometimes.”
“There’s a hearty endorsement for you.”
“I think it takes more than a few mandatory lectures to alter basic temperament.”
“The lightbulb has to want to change.”
“You bet.”
“More tax dollars flushed,” he said. “Like those satellite parole offices.”
“Probably.”
“Well,” he said, “that really pisses me off.”
*
Roy Nichols’s house was a slightly larger, pure white version of Evelyn Newsome’s bungalow that bore the signs of ambitious but wrongheaded improvement: overly wide black shutters that would’ve fit a two-story colonial, a pair of Doric columns propping up the tiny porch, a Spanish tile roof, the tiles variegated and expensive and piled too high, a three-foot sash of bouquet canyon stone veneered to the bottom of the facade. This lawn was lush, unblemished, the bright green of a Saint Paddy’s parade. Five-foot sago palms flanked the steps—five hundred dollars’ worth of vegetation. Dwarf junipers ringed the front, trimmed low to the ground with bonsai precision.
In the driveway something hulked under a spotless black cover. Milo lifted a corner of the cover on a shiny black Ford pickup with a freshly chromed bumper. Raised suspension, custom wheels. A sticker protected by a plastic coating said: How Am I Driving? Call 1-800-SCRU YOU.
We walked to the front door. A security firm sticker was centered on a black lacquer door. Pushing the bell elicited chimes. Oh-oh-say-can-you-see?
“Hold on!” A woman opened. Tall, young, pretty but washed out, she had a heart-shaped face, wore a filmy black tank top over white terry-cloth shorts. No bra, bare feet. Great legs, a shaving nick on one glossy shin. Her hair was white-blond with no luster, bunched above her head in a careless thatch. Pink nail polish on her fingers, chipped badly. Darker polish on her toes, in even worse shape. Behind her was a room full of cardboard cartons. New cartons with crisp edges, sealed with brown tape and marked CONTENTS followed by three blank lines.
She folded her arms across big, soft breasts. “Yes?”
Milo showed her the badge. “You’re Mrs. Nichols?”
“Not anymore. You here about Roy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sighed and waved us in. But for a few feet inside the door, the entire room was filled with the packing boxes. A child-sized mattress stood propped against a tied-off garbage bag.