Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“Don’t know,” said Milo. “No one admits delivering here.”

“A scam to get himself in?” she said. “Why would she open the door for a fake pizza guy?”

“Good question, Gloria.”

She shook her head. “I called for transport. Want me to ask for a priority autopsy?”

“Thanks.”

“You might actually get it because Dr. J seems to like you. Also with something this weird, she’s bound to be curious.”

A year ago, Milo had solved the murder of a coroner’s investigator. Since then Dr. Clarice Jernigan, a senior pathologist, had reciprocated with personalized attention when Milo asked for it.

He said, “Must be my charm and good looks.”

Gloria grinned and patted his shoulder again. “Anything else, guys? I’m on half-shift due to budgetary constraints, figure to finish my paperwork by one then go cleanse my head with a couple of martinis. Give or take.”

Milo said, “Make it a double for me.”

I said, “Was significant blood pooled inside the body cavity?”

Her look said I was being a spoilsport. “A lot of it was coagulated but yes, that’s where most of it was. You figured that because the scene was so clean?”

I nodded. “It was either that or he found out a way to take it with him.”

Milo said, “Buckets of blood, lovely.” To Gloria: “One more question: You recall anything remotely like this in your case files?”

“Nope,” she said. “But we just cover the county and they say it’s a globalized world, right? You could be looking at a traveler.”

Milo glared and trudged down the stairs.

Gloria said, “Whoa, someone’s in a mood.”

I said, “It’s likely to stay that way for a while.”

Stanleigh Belleveaux’s house was as meticulous inside as out.

Cozy, plush-carpeted place set up with doily-protected too-small furniture. The dollhouse feel was heightened by a brass etagere filled with bisque figurines. Another case bore photos of two handsome young men in uniform and an American flag paperweight.

“My wife’s thing,” said Belleveaux, wringing his hands. “The dolls, they’re from Germany. She’s in Memphis, visiting my mother-in-law.”

He was black, fiftyish, thickset, dressed in a navy polo shirt, pressed khakis, and tan loafers. A fleece of white blanketed his scalp and the bottom half of his face. His nose had been broken a few times. His knuckles were scarred.

“Her mom,” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“You called her your mother-in-law rather than her mom.”

“Because that’s how I think of her. Mother-in-law. Worst person I know. Like the Ernie K-Doe song, but you probably don’t remember that.”

Milo hummed a few bars.

Belleveaux smiled weakly. Turned grim and wrung his hands some more. “I still can’t believe what happened to Ms. Berlin. Still can’t believe I had to see it.” He closed his eyes, opened them. No booze on the table before him, just a can of Diet Coke.

Milo said, “Change your mind about the Dewar’s, huh?”

“It’s tempting,” said Belleveaux. “But a little early in the day, what if I get a call and have to drive?”

“Call from who?”

“A tenant. That’s my life, sir.”

“How many tenants do you have?”

“The Feldmans down below Ms. Berlin, the Soos and the Kims and the Parks and the other Parks in a triplex I own over near Korea Town. Then I’ve got a real problem rental down in Willowbrook, inherited from my dad, a nice family, the Rodriguezes, are there now but it’s been tough because of the gangster situation.” He rubbed his eyes. “This is my best neighborhood, I chose to live here, last place I thought I’d have… a problem. Still can’t believe what I saw, it’s like a movie, a bad one, a real horror movie. I want to switch to another channel but what I saw won’t budge out of here.” Placing a thumb-tip on his forehead.

“It’ll fade,” said Milo. “Takes time.”

“Guess you’d know about that,” said Belleveaux. “How much time?”

“Hard to say.”

“It’s probably easier for you, this being your job. My job, the worst thing I see is a bat in a garage, sewage leak, mice eating wires.” Frowning. “Gangsters in the Willowbrook place, but I keep my distance. This was way up close, too close.”

“How long have you owned the property across the street?”

“Seven years eight months.”

“That’s pretty precise, Mr. Belleveaux.”

“I’m a detail-man, Lieutenant. Learned precision in the army, they taught me mechanics, a little mechanical engineering, I didn’t need a college degree to accumulate adequate knowledge. Later when I was out and repairing washing machines and dryers for Sears, what the army inculcated in me came in handy: Only one way to do a job: right. Machine needs three screws, you don’t put in two.”

I said, “The same goes for boxing.”

“Pardon?”

“Your hands. I used to do karate, you pick up the signs someone else is into martial arts.”

“Martial arts?” said Belleveaux. “Nah, none of that for me, I just did a little sparring in the army, then a little more when I got out, light welterweight, used to be skinny. Busted my septum three times and my wife, she was my girlfriend back then, said Stan, you keep scarring yourself to the point where you’re ugly, I’m going to go find myself a pretty boy. She was kidding. Maybe. I wanted out anyway, what kind of life is that, getting knocked around, feeling dizzy for days? The money was terrible.”

He drank some Coke. Licked his lips.

Milo said, “So what can you tell us about Vita Berlin?”

“What can I tell you,” Belleveaux echoed. “That’s a complicated question.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“She wasn’t the easiest… okay, look, I don’t want to be speaking bad of the dead. ’Specially someone who-what happened to her. No one deserves that. No one, no matter what.”

I said, “She had a difficult personality.”

“So you know what I’m talking about.”

I didn’t deny it. “Being her landlord could get complicated,” I prompted.

Belleveaux picked up the soda can. “Does what I tell you go in some kind of record?”

Milo said, “There’s a problem with that?”

“I don’t want to get sued.”

“By who?”

“Someone in her family.”

“They’re difficult as well?”

“Don’t know,” said Belleveaux. “Never met them. I just believe in being prepared, ounce of prevention and all that.”

“No particular reason you’re worried about being sued.”

“No, but those kinds of things,” said Belleveaux. “Traits. Orneriness. Runs in families, right? Like Emmaline. My mother-in-law. Her sisters are all like her, scrappy, always ready to tussle. It’s like stepping into a cage of badgers.”

“Vita Berlin threatened to sue you?”

“About a million times.”

“What for?”

“Anything that bothered her,” said Belleveaux. “Leaky roof, she doesn’t get a call-back in an hour, I’ll sue you. Torn carpet, I’m at risk of tripping and breaking my neck, fix it fast or I’ll sue you. That’s why I got irked when she demanded I show up for the toilet and wasn’t there when she said she’d be. That’s why I decided to use my key and go in there and fix it. Even though I knew she’d call me up and bitch about entering the premises without her permission. Which the landlord association says I can do at my discretion for just cause. Which includes reasonable repairs requested by the tenant. Turns out the toilet was fine.”

Milo said, “You went into the bathroom?”

“I listened while I was looking at her. I know it’s crazy but I couldn’t move for a few seconds, just stood there trying not to hurl my breakfast. And it was quiet, toilet’s out of whack you hear it. So I thought about that: It wasn’t even broken.”