Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

"Our tax dollars at work." Milo thumbed the pages of the file. "Was he living alone?"

"Unless a known associate is noted, he probably was."

"Says they found him in 'a room full of garbage.'

As you see, he claimed to be gainfully employed but couldn't produce backup. The squad pegged him as mentally ill, probably a dope fiend, suggested he seek some help at a community MH center. He refused.

Why didn't the squad evict him?

Without a complaint from the owner, no grounds. I stopped off at the building this morning but he's gone, everyone is. Just construction workers, big remodeling project. Sorry it's not more."

"Hey, it's something-thanks for taking the time," said Milo. "Squatting by himself…"

I knew he was thinking about the abandoned building in Denver. He turned a page. "No mug shot?"

"The Bummers didn't carry cameras. But look at the back page, I got a booking photo faxed down from Marin County Jail, not terrific quality." Milo found the shot, studied it, showed it to me. Eldon Salcido Mate, freshly inducted to penal custody, numbered plaque dangling from a chain around his neck, the mandatory sullen stare leavened by a hard, hot light in the eyes that might've been madness, or just the glare of the room.

Long, stringy hair but clean-shaven. Light-complected, as Guillerma Salcido had said. Round face, weak around the jowls. Small, prissy features that could've made incarceration a greater-than-usual challenge. Premature wrinkles. A young man aging too fast.

Striking resemblance to a face on a dissecting table; Guillerma Salcido Mate had been right. Donny was his father's son.

Milo read some more. "Says here he claimed to be working in a tattoo parlor on the Boulevard, didn't remember which one."

"I tried a few places, no one knows him. But the jailer up in Marin said Salcido had done some skin work on other inmates, that was probably what kept him safe."

"Safe from what?" I said.

"The jail's organized along gang lines," she said. "Someone without affiliation is fair prey unless they've got something to offer. Salcido sold his art, but the jailer said no one wanted him in their group because he was seen as a mental case."

"Tattoos," said Milo. "The boy likes to draw."

Petra nodded. "I read about the painting. You're thinking it's him?"

"Seems like a good bet."

"What's the painting like?"

"Not what I'd want in my dining room." Milo shut the file. "You're an artist, aren't you?"

"Not hardly."

"Come on, I've seen your stuff."

"My past life," she insisted.

"Want to see it?"

She looked at her watch. "Sure, why not?"

She held it at arm's length. Squinted. Turned it around, inspected the sides. Placed it on the floor and backed away ten feet before returning to get another close look.

"He really slapped on the paint," she said. "Looks like he worked quickly here-probably a palette knife as well as a brush… here, too… fast but not sloppy, the composition's actually pretty good-he got the proportions just about right."

She turned away from the painting. "This is only a guess, but what I see here is someone alternating between careful draftsmanship and abandon-at some point he planned meticulously, but once he got into the groove he gave himself over to it."

Milo frowned, then glanced at me.

"Anyway," said Petra. "So much for art criticism."

"What does that mean?" Milo asked her. "Being careful and then cutting loose."

"That he's like most artists."

"You see any talent here?"

"Oh sure. Nothing staggering, but he can render. Plenty of ambition, too-redoing Rembrandt."

"Rembrandt and tattoos," said Milo.

"If Salcido did tattoos well enough to keep himself out of trouble in prison, he's got to be pretty good. Skin work's challenging, you have to get a feel for the changing density of the epidermis, movement, resistance to the needle."

Now she was flushed pink.

Milo smiled. "I'm not even going to ask."

She smiled back. "High school. Anyway, got to run. Hope it helps."

"I owe you, Petra."

"I'm sure I'll find a way to collect." Shifting her bag to her other shoulder, she moved toward the stairs. "I wish I could tell you we'll have our eyes peeled for Salcido, Milo, but you know how it is-sorry to run."

"Good luck in court," said Milo.

"Hopefully I won't need luck. No-brainer shooting that got transferred to SM because downtown's back-logged with potential three-strikers. Unattractive defendant, inexperienced public defender with a caseload as long as The English Patient. Today I will triumph! Nice to see you, Doctor-let's keep rooting for Billy."

Back to Milo's desk. During the time we'd spent with Petra, a new message slip had been added to the stack.

"Special Agent Fusco again. The painting probably heated up his attention-seeking blood." He tossed the slip, looked across the room.

Detectives Korn and Demetri were headed our way. They stopped at the desk, glaring, as if it were a barrier to freedom. Milo made the introductions. They nodded stiffly, didn't offer their hands. Demetri's eyeglasses were slightly askew and his bald head was sunburned and peeling.

"What's up, gentlemen?"

"Nothing," said Demetri. He had one of those voices so low it sounded electronically manipulated. "That's the problem."

Korn ran his finger under his collar. His blow-dried hair seemed an affront to his partner's tonsure. "Nothing with whipped cream and a cherry," he said. "We spent all morning at Haiselden's neighborhood. Found the gardener, big deal. Haiselden's paid up for the month, guy has no idea where senor is, couldn't give a shit where senor went. Haiselden's mail is piling up at the West-wood post office, but we can't get hold of it without a warrant. You want us to do that?"

"Yes," said Milo.

"Figures."

"Problem, Steve?"

"No. No problem at all." Korn played with his collar again. Demetri removed his glasses and wiped them on a corner of his sport coat.

"Don't lose heart, boys," said Milo. "Haiselden's mail stop shows he definitely rabbited. So keep on him-who knows, you might solve this one."

A glance passed between the two detectives. Demetri shifted his weight to his left leg. "That's assuming Haiselden has anything to do with Mate. We discussed it and we're not convinced he does."

"Why's that, Brad?"

"There's sure no evidence in that direction. Besides, it doesn't make sense. Haiselden made money from Mate. Why would he off his meal ticket? We figure he just went on a vacation-probably got depressed because he lost his meal ticket."

"Taking some time off to reflect," said Milo.

"Right."

"Diagnosis of depression, he decided to deal with his feelings on some sunny beach."

Demetri looked at Korn for support. Korn said, "Makes sense to me." His jaw tightened. "With all the publicity over Mate, maybe Haiselden wants time to sort things out. Face it, you've got nothing on his being dirty."

"Nothing at all," said Milo. "Except for the fact that he was a damn publicity hound who rabbited during what has to be the most public moment of his life."

Neither of the younger men spoke.

"Okay then," said Milo. "So how about you write up that warrant for his mail, see if you can get hold of his credit card bills, too. Maybe there'll be a travel agent charge somewhere in there and you can verify your vacation hypothesis."

Another passed glance. Demetri said, "Yeah, sure, whatever you say. We figured we'd hit the gym first. All the hours we've been puttin' in, we haven't had a chance to work out."

"Sure. Get yourselves a coupla Jamba Juices afterward-make sure they put plenty of enzymes in them."

"Something else," said Demetri. "That painting, we just saw it. Real piece of shit, if you ask me."