“My charm intimidates him?”
“Something like that.”
“So the best bet is come on strong with the bastard, bulldoze over him.”
“You got it,” I said. “Method acting.”
“The curtain rises,” he said. “Let’s boogie.”
*
We drove to Franco Gull’s office building, parked in an empty slot next to Gull’s Mercedes, and headed for the rear door. A janitor was vacuuming the ground-floor carpeting. All six doors to the Charitable Planning suite were closed, and the corridor smelled of inactivity and that same popcorn fragrance.
That same feeling of disuse, and I said so to Milo.
Milo hadn’t taken his eye off the janitor. Now, he went over to the guy. Skinny guy, midthirties, with the burnished skin of the hard-drinking homeless, a three-day stubble, lank brown hair, scared-rabbit eyes. He wore a UC Berkeley sweatshirt over baggy gray sweatpants and filthy sneakers. His fingernails were black at the edges. He kept his head down and pushed the vacuum cleaner, trying to pretend a big, hefty detective wasn’t heading his way.
Milo moved in that surprising, quick way he can muster, bending and flicking off the machine. When he straightened, he’d pushed closer, and his smile was all the man could see. “Hey.”
No answer.
“Quiet afternoon down here on the ground floor.”
The man licked his lips. Very scared rabbit. “Yeah,” he finally said.
“What’s Charitable Planning all about?”
“Beats me.” The man had a whiny, congested voice, the kind that makes everything sound evasive. His shoulders rose and fell, rose again, and remained bunched up tight around his scrawny neck. Broken blood vessels explored his nose and cheeks. His lips were cracked and dry, and tattoos snaked their way up his wrist.
Milo glanced at them, and the man tried to slide his hand back into his sleeve.
“UC Berkeley, huh?”
The man didn’t answer.
“Alma mater?”
Headshake.
“Work here long?”
“A while.”
“How long’s a while?”
“Ah . . . mebbe a . . . month, two.”
“Maybe.”
“I do a bunch of buildings for the owner.”
“Mr. Koppel.”
“Yeah.”
“Ever see anyone actually work at Charitable Planning?”
“Ah . . . ah . . .”
“That a tough question?” said Milo. “Required you to think?”
“I . . . ah . . . I want to answer right.”
“Truthful or right?”
“Truthful.”
Milo took hold of the man’s right wrist, slid the sleeve of the sweatshirt up a scrawny forearm. Grimy skin was specked with discs of scar tissue, most of it concentrated in the crook. The tattoos were blue-black sparked with intermittent red blotches, clearly homemade. Poorly rendered naked women with oversized breasts. A dull-eyed snake with dripping fangs.
Milo said, “Get these at UC Berkeley?”
“Nope.”
“What’s your real alma mater? San Quentin or Chico?”
The man licked his lips again. “Neither.”
“Where’d you do your time?”
“Mostly County.”
“County, here?”
“Here, around.”
“So you’re a short-term guy.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your specialty?”
“Drugs, but I’m clean.”
“Meaning burglary and shoplifting and larceny.”
The man placed one hand on the stalk of the vacuum cleaner. “Never any larceny.”
“Any assaults or other bad stuff?” said Milo. “You know I’m gonna find out.”
“One time,” said the man, “I did a battery thing. But the other guy started it, and they paroled me early.”
“Weapon of choice?”
“It was his knife. I took it away from him. It was an accident, mostly.”
“Mostly,” said Milo. “You cut him bad?”
“He lived.”
“How about you show me some ID?”
“I do something wrong?”
“Perish the thought, amigo. Just being thorough—you know why we’re here, right?”
The man shrugged.
“Why’re we here, amigo?”
“What happened to the lady doc upstairs.”
“You don’t know her name?”
“Dr. Koppel,” said the man. “The ex-wife. They got along good.”
“Lovey-dovey,” said Milo.
“No, I . . . uh . . . Mr. Koppel always said just give her what she wants.”
“What she wants?”
“If there’s a problem. In the building. He said we should fix it fast, give her what she wants.”
“He doesn’t do that for all his tenants?”
The man was silent.
“So you’re trying to tell me not to suspect Mr. Koppel for killing his ex because they were still buddies.”
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