Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“More like he didn’t know better,” I said.

“Exactly,” she said. “A little out of it. You feel sorry for those people.”

I drove a mile north to a newspaper stand I knew on Robertson near Pico. The primary merchandise was a mix of fan mags and porn. Small selection of puzzle books in a corner.

Nothing with a question mark on the cover. I flashed my dubious consultant’s I.D. to the Sikh proprietor and described Shearling.

He said, “No, sir, I don’t know him.”

I gave him Milo’s card, anyway, asked him to call if Shearling showed up. “He might buy a puzzle book.”

He smiled as if it was a perfectly reasonable request. “Certainly, sir, anything to help.”

Good attitude, so I spent ten bucks on a glossy design magazine. Robin likes looking at dream houses.

I tried Milo again from the car, then Petra, and when she was also out I switched to Raul Biro. His voicemail answered but I left no message.

Was Shearling’s presence at Bijou evidence of long-term stalking, or had he happened upon the cafe, seen Vita torment Cerise Banforth, and decided she merited execution? If the latter, maybe he lived nearby. Reversing direction on Robertson, I gave Vita’s neighborhood another try, starting with her street.

Stanleigh Belleveaux was outside, watering his shrubs. A For Lease sign was staked on the lawn of the duplex. Two vacant units. I drove slowly enough for Belleveaux to notice but he didn’t look up and I continued south.

No sign of a man in a shearling and other than a young woman wheeling a baby in a stroller, all the activity was automotive: people pulling in and out of driveways. A door opened and a beanpole kid came out with a basketball, began shooting hoops.

Everything back to normal. People need to believe in normal.

It was close to eleven p.m. when Milo called.

“Still on the case and so is Petra.”

“Congratulations.”

“Or condolences. His Magnanimousness made it painfully clear I didn’t deserve it but starting from scratch ran the risk of ‘butt-fucking this one into oblivion.’ ”

I said, “Next Christmas, he’ll be Santa at the office party.”

He laughed. “Petra and I know the real reason he’s not shifting gears to Robbery-Homicide. Any hotshots who aren’t already on long-termers are being flown to Arizona courtesy the taxpayers for a confab on Mexican drug cartels, gonna be PowerPoint galore. What’s up?”

I told him about John Banforth, Shearling’s presence at Bijou hours after Vita’s murder, Hedy’s description. “A nutcase with a taste for steak.”

“Plus the way he ate-fixed on his food-smacks of an institutional background. Thirty-five to forty means that back when Quigg was working at V-State, he’d have been eleven to sixteen.”

“A kid,” he said. “But scary enough to be transferred to Specialized Care.”

“I’m also convinced of the thyroid angle. The waitress noticed a neck scar. So maybe a thyroid scan’s what brought him to North Hollywood Day. The most common reason for a thyroidectomy is cancer. There are also immune disorders that can justify it, like Hashimoto’s disease. Whatever the reason, he’d need to take a daily pill to regulate his metabolism. Sometimes dosages can be tricky and if he’s a street guy, he may not be getting optimal care. That could explain feeling cold and putting on a few pounds.”

“Cancer?” he said. “Now I’m dealing with a psycho with serious sympathy issues?”

“Thyroid cancer’s one of the most curable malignancies. He’d have the potential to live to a ripe old age.”

“Except his chemistry’s off.”

“Which would explain the scan. He needs his prescription renewed, would have to see a doctor at some point. A physician who picked up on his symptoms and found out he hadn’t been followed up regularly might want comprehensive data before adjusting his dosage. North Hollywood Day is an insurance mill but no doubt they see lots of Medi-Cal patients, so a referral there makes sense.”

“He comes in to get nuked, gets on Glenda Usfel’s bad side, she boots his ass out.”

“Wrong guy to boot.”

“ ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, yes my client’s a bit touchy but not only is he certifiably loony, his glands are out of whack and he endured the big C.’ ”

“Cart before the horse, Big Guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, find him first. Before someone else gets on his bad side. So where do I go with this thyroid stuff, Alex? Call every endocrinologist in town?”

“They’re unlikely to talk to you but the general public won’t have those compunctions. Have John Banforth sit down with Shimoff and work up a better likeness. If Banforth can’t give enough details, I’ll try to fill them in because I got a decent look at the guy. That and the scar, the coat, and the puzzle book could tweak someone’s memory. Even if he’s underground, he’s got to surface occasionally. Assuming he’s got an institutional background, I’d also check health clinics, welfare offices, halfway houses, and aftercare facilities near each of the murder sites. He paid for his meal with coins, I doubt that’s interest from a brokerage account.”

“On the dole,” he said. “Or he panhandles. Like Eccles. Hell, maybe that’s why he did Eccles: The two of them got into a competitive thing and Shearling decided to engage in unfair business practices… okay, I’ll get Banforth and Shimoff together. This is helpful, amigo.”

“One more thing,” I said. “Check out newsstands, see if anyone sells a puzzle book with a question mark on the cover. The one near Vita’s scene doesn’t but there are plenty of others.”

“There’s a big one off Hollywood Boulevard, not that far from where Lem Eccles got it. Speaking of which, Jernigan called on Eccles’s autopsy. The bruise on Eccles’s lip was from a hard blow or a kick, most likely a kick from a blunt-toed shoe. Not severe enough to be lethal but it could’ve stunned him. Other than that, the details are like the others. Eccles’s son’s trip to L.A. is tomorrow. Want to be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Lemuel Eccles Jr., aka “Lee,” was thirty-eight and rock-jawed, with meaty shoulders, blue eyes that tended to wander, and longish light brown hair lightened to blond at the tips.

Your basic aging surfer. This one sported a manicure, a two-thousand-dollar charcoal chalk-stripe suit, a purple Hermes tie, a canary-and-violet pocket square.

His card said he was an attorney specializing in real estate.

Milo said, “Leases and mortgages?”

Eccles said, “Used to be, now it’s evictions and foreclosures. Basically I’m a vulture.” His smile was practiced and pretty, but lacked staying power. We’d been in the interview room for less than a minute. Eccles had spent most of that time sneaking glances at Petra Connor.

Easy to see why, especially given the competition. Her lips had moistened since yesterday, her eyes were clear, her skin tone had warmed. She wore a simple gold chain and diamond-chip ear-studs. The drape of her black pantsuit was even better than that of Lee Eccles’s suit.

The first few times she caught Eccles checking her out, she pretended not to notice. Finally, she smiled at him and edged closer.

She’s in a committed relationship with a former detective named Eric Stahl, but you use what you have.

Milo sniffed the chemistry early on and let her take the interview.

“Lee,” she said, as if savoring the word, “we’re so sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it.” Eccles loosened a jacket button. “I guess I shouldn’t be totally surprised because he led what you guys would call a high-risk life. But still…”