“Where were you Monday night, say between 7 and 11 P.M.?”
“Monday? Why? What happened Monday?”
Milo stepped closer. He and Nichols were eye level, their noses inches apart. Nichols’s chin continued to jut, but his eyes flickered, and he flinched.
“Answer the question please, Roy.”
“Monday . . . I was at my parents’.” The admission made Nichols flush again. This time the color reached his brow. “I’m living there till I find a new place.”
“You’re sure you were there Monday night.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m up every day at four-thirty in the morning so I have time to work out and shower and eat a good breakfast and be on the job at six-thirty. I work my ass off all day, come home, lift some more, eat, watch TV, go to sleep by eight-thirty. That’s my swinging life, and I’m cool with it, okay? What I’m not cool with is you coming by and hassling me for no reason. I’ve got no obligation to talk to you, so now I’m going back to work.”
We watched him swagger away.
I said, “And our first nominee in the Mr. Charm contest . . .”
Milo said, “On the edge.”
“Teetering.”
“You see him as our bad guy?”
“If his alibis don’t check out, I’d definitely be interested.”
“Flora was killed between midnight and two. He claims a buddy drove him home just after twelve, and his wife woke him at two. That sounds awfully cute, and I didn’t see any mention of it in the file.”
I said, “What if he came home a bit earlier and Lisa woke him up closer to one? She browbeat him, got everything off her chest, and hit the sack, left him furious and frustrated, unable to go back to sleep. He got out of bed, left the house, and drove over to someone else who’d frustrated him. High stress is a trigger for some sexual killers. And plenty of organized types maintain outwardly stable marriages while brutalizing other women.”
“Have a tiff with the wife, take it out on the ex.”
I said, “He seems under lots of stress now. A sexually charged fellow back to living with his parents.”
“Gavin and the blonde,” he said. “A couple about to get it on pushes his button because he’s all pent up sexually.”
“His alibi for Gavin and the blonde is even flimsier because he and his parents don’t share a room. He could’ve easily sneaked out without their knowing. Even if they claim otherwise, they’re his parents.”
Nichols continued toward the framework without looking back. We watched him climb up to the second floor, strap on his tool belt, stretch, and pick up his nail gun. He took another stretch—aiming for casual before pressing the gun to a crossbeam.
Snap snap snap.
Milo said, “Let’s get outta here,” and we returned to the car. He got back on Sepulveda and drove north, toward L.A. The boulevard was crammed and slow. The air—hot, unyielding—seemed to press upon the sides of the unmarked. Lots of stares. Everyone knew it was an unmarked. Even if we’d been in a VW, Milo’s restless eyes would have given him away.
He said, “What I’d like to know is why Lorraine and Al didn’t bother putting Nichols in the murder book.”
“You going to ask her?”
“That’s my way, bub. Open, honest, sincere.”
“That should be fun.”
“Hey,” he said, “I’ll be sensitive.”
He flipped on the police radio, listened to felony calls for a few moments, muttered, “I love this city,” and squelched the volume.
I said, “Even if Nichols is innocent, he gave us useful information.”
“Flora’s sexual problems?”
“Maybe the reason she went for therapy. That would explain her not telling Van Dyne. Now that I think about it, he also described her as not very passionate on the surface. The timing fits: She began treatment after getting dumped by Nichols and before meeting Van Dyne. Nichols claims he was gentlemanly, but I’m sure he was brutally clear about why he was ending the relationship.”
“Mr. Tactful,” he said. “ ‘Hey, bitch, unglue your legs or I’m outta here.’ ”
“Once Flora got over the hurt, maybe she decided she did have a problem. Seeking a woman therapist for a sexual issue makes sense.”