“Might as well,” he said. “It’s not going to get any easier.”
We went through the kitchen into the breakfast room and sat down at an oak table.
“We were going to drive out to look at some horse land I’m foreclosing on,” said Ken. “First we went out to breakfast this morning. Lucy seemed very uptight. When the food came, she didn’t touch it. I asked her what was wrong, and she said she couldn’t stop worrying about Puck. Then she started crying.”
He gave a pained look. “Sure I can’t get you some coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay. . . . Where was I?” Rubbing his chin. “So I said, “Why don’t we go over to his place and see if he left any indication where he went?’ She said she didn’t know if that was a good idea, in case people were looking for him; she didn’t want to tip them off. Didn’t want to put me in danger either.” He wiped his eyes.
“Drug people?” I said.
“I guess. We never actually talked about his problem. I never even realized he was addicted until later. I mean, when I met him I knew something was wrong. Thin, always coughing, his nose running. I wondered about AIDS. . . . Anyway, we ate for a while—at least I did. Then Lucy said, Maybe we should go. We could look around to make sure no one was watching the apartment, and if there wasn’t, we could go in—excuse me.”
He got up, fixed a cup of instant coffee, and brought it to the table. “Then she said she was sure he was in some kind of danger. Otherwise he would have called her at least once. I asked her what danger. She said she really didn’t know, Puck tried to keep his problems to himself, but probably some kind of debt situation. So we went to his place. Lucy had a key.” Wiping a tear. “What a rathole. Basically an abandoned building. The store below was vacant. To get to Puck’s place you had to climb up some rear stairs near the trash bins.”
He ran his hands through his hair and swallowed hard.
“We went in and there was this smell, right away—like stale laundry mixed with badly rotting food—but the place was a mess, open cans, crap all over the carpet, so I didn’t think anything of it. It was a surprisingly big place—two bedrooms. But no real furniture. Lucy said the rear bedroom was Puck’s, so we went back there. The door was closed but we heard something behind it, like an electric shaver. We looked at each other, scared out of our minds. Then I figured, maybe it’s good news, he just got back, he’s shaving, cleaning up. So I opened the door. . . .”
He blinked and put the cup down.
“Just a crack, but this cloud came out at me. Flies. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. That was the sound. And maggots. The whole bed was covered with them. On the floor, on the drapes, like someone had tossed rice all over. Then I saw—underneath a big mound of them, on the bed—this . . . thing. The needle sticking out of it. Shiny and clean. The only clean thing in there. He was—under them, on the bed. And on the floor. It was hard to tell what was him and what was—he’d melted!”
Milo said, “It’s called purge fluid. Stuff leaks out when putrefaction’s well under way. It means he’d been there for a while.”
We were in the living room of the Brentwood house. He’d just arrived, nearly two hours after I’d brought Ken and Lucy back. Both of them were sleeping.
“How long?” I said.
“Hard to say, there was no air-conditioning in the apartment. Coroner says the most we can expect is an estimate, three- to eight-day range.”
“Well, we know it’s closer to three, because before that he was in New Mexico. Looks like he came back soon after he called Lowell. But he still didn’t call Lucy.”
“Came back after scoring,” he said. “Van Nuys found a nice little chunk in the toilet tank. Mexican brown, but very strong. Small corner chipped away.”