As we drove south on Sepulveda toward Inglewood, he said, “My guess is Flora wouldn’t put out enough for Nichols, and that’s why he dumped her. Ergo, his theory. Or, he was—what do you guys call it, when you put your own crap on someone else—”
“Projecting,” I said. “No forced entry at Flora’s apartment is consistent with someone she knew. The overkill fits with a lot of background rage, and the sexual posing suggests the source of the rage.”
“Wrought-iron fence post. Got to be some of those lying around construction jobs. More than ever, I want to know where this bastard was the night Gavin and the blonde were killed. Speaking of which, I sent two D’s over to the fancy hotels, then they talked to BHPD, and no one knows our Jimmy Choo girl. The hotels are probably lying, but the B. H. cops do keep a file of high-priced call girls, and she’s not in it. It’s just a matter of time. Someone’s got to miss her.”
CHAPTER
13
Roy Nichols’s supervisor was a compact middle-aged man named Art Rodriguez, with a graying beard and the excitability quotient of a stone Buddha. A DODGER BLUE sticker was emblazoned across his hard hat above an American flag decal. He wore an oversize Disneyland T-shirt under a chambray shirt, filthy jeans, and dusty work boots, held a folded racing form in one hand.
We stood out in the dusty sun, just inside the chain-link border of the construction site. The job was tacking a side addition onto an ugly brick-faced two-story office building. The original structure was gutted and windowless but a sign—GOLDEN AGE INVESTMENTS—remained atop the door hole.
The new space was in the framing stage, and Roy Nichols was one of the framers. Rodriguez pointed him out—crouching on the second floor, wielding a nail gun. The air smelled of raw wood and pesticide and sulfur.
Art Rodriguez said, “Want me to get him? Or you can put on hats and go up there yourselves.”
“You can do it,” said Milo. “You’re not surprised we want to talk to him.”
Rodriguez gave a tobacco-laced laugh. “This business? All my roofers are cons, and a whole bunch of the other trades are, too.”
“Nichols isn’t a con.”
“Con, potential con, what’s the difference? Everyone gets a second chance. It’s what makes this country great.”
“Nichols impress you as a potential?”
“I don’t get into their personal lives,” said Rodriguez. “Step one, they show up, step two, they do the freaking job. I get that from a few of them with any regularity, I’m a happy guy.”
“Nichols dependable?”
“He’s actually one of the good ones. Like clockwork. Here on the dot—kind of faggy, actually.”
“Faggy,” said Milo.
“Faggy,” Rodriguez repeated. “As in picky, prissy, choosy. Everything has to be just so, he reminds me of my wife.”
“Picky how?”
“He wants his lunch box kept away from dust, gets ticked when guys mess with his tools or don’t show up on time. Any change in routine ticks him off. He folds his jacket, for chrissake.”
“Perfectionist.”
“What’s your beef with him?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Hope it stays that way,” said Rodriguez. “He shows up, does the freaking job.”
*
Roy Nichols was six-three, an easy 250, with a hard, protruding belly, flour-sack arms and tree-trunk thighs. Under his hard hat was a head shaved clean. The stubble that blanketed his face was fair, and so were his eyebrows. He wore a sweat-soaked earth-colored T-shirt under blue denim overalls, had a rose tattoo on his right biceps. His face was square and sun-baked, bottomed by a double chin, scored with deep seams that made him look older than his thirty years.
Rodriguez pointed to us, and Nichols surged ahead of him and swaggered in our direction.
“Round one, ding,” muttered Milo.
Nichols reached us, and said, “Police? About what?” His voice was thin and shockingly high. I bet many a phone caller had asked to speak to his mother. I bet Roy Nichols never got used to it.
Milo extended a hand.
Nichols showed us a dusty palm, muttered, “Dirty,” and lowered it to his side. He rolled his neck. “What do you want?”