Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“When were you planning on talking to him?”

“Soon as you finish opining. He works in Brentwood, hopefully he’s there or home.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“Salesman at a high-end clothing store.” He retrieved his notepad from the attache. “Domenico Valli.”

I said, “That’s why you got spiffed up.”

“Just the opposite.” He rubbed a lapel, ended up with brittle threads on his fingertips. “I come in like this, he’ll feel superior, maybe let his guard down.”

I laughed. “What kind of record does Sloat have?”

“Some lightweight vehicular stuff-operating without a license, the requisite DUIs every self-respecting marginal character needs for self-validation. The serious stuff is two ag assaults, one with a crowbar.”

“Who was the victim?”

“Guy at a drinking establishment, he and Sloat had words, Sloat followed him outside. Sloat brained him but also received some fairly serious injuries. That enabled him to claim self-defense and maybe there was something to it because charges were dropped. The other case was similar but it happened inside a bar. That time Sloat used his fists. He got pled down, received ninety days at County, served twenty-six.”

“Enough violence to be worrisome,” I said. “Two incidents in bars could mean he’s got a drinking problem-maybe what he and Vita had in common. More important, he’d be familiar with Vita’s drinking habits, know she was a nighttime boozer, would be vulnerable. And if there was a love-hate relationship, he could’ve wheedled his way into the apartment.”

“Arrives with what looks like a pizza,” he said. “ ‘Hi, honey, I miss you. Remember how we used to share an extra-large pepperoni with sausage?’ ”

He rolled the beer bottle between his hands. “Everything we know about Vita said she was distrustful, maybe borderline-paranoid. You think she’d fall for that?”

“With the help of Jack Daniel’s and old-times’-sake?” I said. “Maybe.”

“Real old times. My phone subpoena covered eighteen months of her records and his number’s not on it.”

“What about a different type of contact?” I said. “Vita used the court system at least once and got rewarded.”

“She’s still dragging him to court? Yeah, that might kick up the anger level.”

He called Deputy D.A. John Nguyen, asked for a quick scan of any legal proceedings between Vita Gertrude Berlin and Jackson Junius Sloat.

Nguyen said, “A quick one I can do for the last five years.”

“That’ll work, John.”

“Hold on… nope, nothing here. Berlin’s your nasty one, right? How’s that going?”

“Nothing profound.”

“There’s been talk in the office, all that weirdness could be the first installment of a whacko serial.”

“Thought you were my friend, John.”

“I’m not wishing it on you, just repeating what I heard. And the leak didn’t start with us. Are there any looser-lipped dudes than cops?”

“Wish I could argue with that,” said Milo. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Some of our guys are hoping it will go serial so they can jockey to take it and career-build.”

“But if you want it, you’ll get it.”

Nguyen laughed. “With Bob Ivey retiring I really am the Senior Junior Dude, meaning even if the boss takes it officially I’m doing the real work. So keep me posted.”

“Long as you pray for me, John. Little offering to Buddha’s fine.”

“I’m an atheist.”

“I’ll take whatever I can get.”

While he ate and washed the dishes, I gave him my best guesses about how to approach Jay Sloat: Keep it non-threatening, preface the news of Vita’s murder by emphasizing that Sloat was not a suspect, just someone Milo was turning to for valuable information.

However Sloat reacted verbally, his body language would be the thing to watch. Criminal psychopaths operate with lower anxiety levels than the rest of us but it’s a myth that they lack emotion. The smartest, coldest antisocials avoid violence completely because violence is a stupid strategy. Look for their smiling faces on election posters. But those a notch lower on the IQ scale often need to prep before indulging their urges with alcohol or dope or by chanting internal rage mantras that provide self-justification.

So if Jay Sloat was anything but the coldest of killers and had carved up his ex, simply bringing up the topic could result in some sort of physical tell: sudden rise in neck pulse, constricted pupils, muscular tension, the merest hint of moisture around the hairline, an increase in blink rate.

Milo said, “I’m the polygraph.”

I said, “Isn’t that what you do anyway?”

“What if Sloat doesn’t respond?”

“Then that tells us something about him.”

Nothing he didn’t already know but he seemed more relaxed as he drove to Brentwood. Maybe it was the sandwiches.

Domenico Valli Men’s Couture was located on 26th Street, just south of San Vicente, directly across from the Brentwood Country Mart, bordered by a restaurant run by the latest celebrity chef and another clothing store that hawked four-figure outfits for trust-fund toddlers.

The haberdashery was paneled in violin-grain maple and floored in skinny-plank black oak. Subdued techno pulsed from the sound system. Light was courtesy of stainless-steel gallery tracks. The goods were sparingly displayed, like works of art. A few suits, a smattering of sport coats, small steel tables that would’ve felt comfortable in the morgue stocked like altars with offerings of cashmere and brocade. A wall rack featured gleaming handmade shoes and boots, black velvet slippers with gold crests on the toes.

No shoppers were availing themselves of all that chic. A man sat behind a steel desk, doing paperwork. Big, fiftyish, with broad shoulders, he had a long sunlamped face defined by a wide, meaty nose. A steel-gray Caesar-do tried but failed to cover a receding hairline. A bushy white soul patch sprouted under hyphen lips, bristly and stiff as icicles.

He looked up. “Help you guys?”

“We’re looking for Jay Sloat.”

His eyes narrowed and he stood and stepped around the desk. Just a touch under Milo’s six three and nearly as bulky, he wore a faded, untucked blue chambray shirt with pearl buttons, stovepipe black jeans, gray suede needle-toe boots, a diamond in his left earlobe. Lots of muscle but also some middle-aged padding.

“Don’t bother telling me, you’re obviously cops. I haven’t done anything, so what gives?”

Broad, faintly Slavic midwestern intonation.

“Lieutenant Sturgis, Mr. Sloat.” Milo extended his hand. Sloat studied it for a second, endured a brief clasp before retrieving his big paw. “Okay, now we’re all BFFs. Could you please tell me what’s going on?”

“Sorry if this is upsetting you, Mr. Sloat. It’s certainly not our intention.”

“It’s not upsetting me,” said Sloat. “I mean I’m not worried personally because I know I haven’t done anything. I just don’t get why the cops are here when I’m trying to work.” He frowned. “Oh, man, don’t tell me it’s something to do with George. If it is, I can’t help you, I just work for the guy.”

Milo didn’t answer.

Jay Sloat pressed his palms together prayerfully. “Tell me it ain’t so, guys, okay? I need this job.”

“It ain’t so. George is the owner?”

Sloat relaxed, exhaled. “So it’s not about that. Excellent. Okay, then what’s up?”

Milo repeated the question.

Sloat said, “Yeah, he’s the owner. George Hassan. He’s really an okay guy.”

“Why would we be looking for him?”

“No reason.”