Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

Plastic-wrapped six-packs of generic springwater filled the upper shelf of the low-profile fridge. Three bottles of Corona below, along with unopened salad bags and a vacuum-wrapped package of organic trout. The fake-granite counter of the mini-kitchen held a coffeemaker, a juicer, knives in a block, yesterday’s paper, still folded and rubber-banded.

No disorder, no obvious blood. No woman’s presence.

Same for the puny, dim bedroom nearly filled by a king-sized bed in a black wood frame. A single high window framed the blue flank of the building next door. A birch cube nightstand hosted a gooseneck lamp, a box of tissues, two more books on forestry. No dresser, but part of the closet was sectioned into drawers. Not a lot of clothes, but what was there was high quality. Two cashmere sweaters, navy and chocolate brown, same style as the black one worn by Backer on his last breathing night. Italian loafers and a pair of New Balance running shoes.

Milo inspected the soles of the runners. “Sand in the grooves, probably jogged on the beach.”

A you-build desk next to the closet hosted a silver iMac and a second adjustable lamp. In a top drawer, Milo found condoms, boxes of them, in a variety of brands, styles, and colors. Below all that, several pages printed from the Internet. Straight sex, athletic positions, women in ecstasy, genuine or not, nothing cruel or outré.

I said, “He practiced safe sex but left semen on Jane’s thigh and no condoms at the scene.”

Milo scratched his nose. “Maybe a box of rubbers was another take-home goodie for Baddie.”

“Jane’s purse, whatever bedding Backer brought, the BMW,” I said. “Interesting haul.”

He got down and peered under the bed.

I said, “Catching Backer in the act of unpeeling a condom would be a perfect time to make your move.”

“Zoned out, off-guard, off-balance,” he said. “Here comes the big death.”

“The alternative is, Backer didn’t glove up with Jane because he did have something special with her.”

He thought about that, returned to the closet, checked a high shelf, then the floor beneath some long coats. Slid out a box. Drawing pads, pencils, erasers, pens, last year’s tax return, a few credit card bills, cell phone records, loose photos.

Milo examined the receipts first. “Not much activity last month… talking to someone in Washington State… four times-and here’s our tyke, again.”

Unfolding four snaps in plastic holders.

Solo portraits of “Samantha” except for one shot in which the child appeared on the lap of a good-looking woman in her thirties. Next to her a large-jawed, bespectacled blond man and a golden retriever. Decorated Christmas tree in the background, everyone in matching reindeer sweaters.

Dear Uncle Desi, Merry Christmas. Thanks for the play oven, I love to cook on it. Yumm numm. I wish we could hang out. Love, Samantha .

Milo said, “Someone cared about him,” and headed for Backer’s computer.

The screen opened directly to a server, preset by a “remember me” password. Nine unread e-mails, all spam except for a missive from rickimicki08@gmail.com.

hey lil sib, how goes it? really desi you need to write more miss you, specially sam. write, call, sing a song, send an e-card use a messenger pigeon. lol. Luv xoxox ricki

Milo printed the page, slipped it into an evidence bag. Returned to the screen and checked the toolbar for Backer’s recent searches.

“Nothing’s been cleared for days,” he said, “the guy definitely wasn’t worried about privacy.”

I said, “Fits with the direct approach.”

He ran his finger down the list of recently visited sites.

EBay, news outlets, ecology chat rooms, online men’s clothing resellers. In a solid block at the bottom, thirty-three porn sites.

“What a shock.” He began scrolling.

Five minutes later: “Same straight-on stuff. Okay, let’s see if I can ruin someone’s day.”

The Washington State number connected to a message machine. Identifying himself by rank, he left his number.

“You have reached the home of Scott and Ricki and Samantha and Lionel, we’re not in now but please blah blah blah. My hooh-hah detective instincts tell me Lionel’s the pooch.”

Returning to the closet, yet again, he pawed through the pockets of Desmond Backer’s clothing. Four crumpled Trader Joe’s receipts, a half-year-old sales slip from Foot Locker for the running shoes, a cheap plastic pen, a few loose coins.

“So what’s missing from this picture, Doc?”

“Anything to do with Jane Doe.”

“So-and perish the thought-you could be off about her being a significant other, she was just another booty-cutie.”

“He took Holman to Santa Monica, stayed in the Valley with Passant.”

“So maybe she lives near Holmby? But her clothes say not as a resident-an au pair or something? Time to revisit the hood. But first, this Shangri-la’s parking amenities.”

The building’s sub-lot was one-third full, and Backer’s BMW was easy to spot. Milo gloved up again, peered through the windows, tried the doors, found them locked, ran his flashlight over the interior.

“Nothing looks off, but let’s see what the techies have to say.”

I said, “Backer and Jane got to Borodi some other way.”

“She drove? Why not, a smooth guy like Uncle Desi could probably get women to do all sorts of things. And if I had any idea who the hell she is, I could look for her goddamn car.”

“You up for another visit to the scene?”

“Why?”

“Nothing else comes to mind.”

Milo punched in Robin’s cell as I headed to Holmby Hills. Her voice filtered through the dash-mounted speaker. “Hi, babe. Long day?”

Milo said, “And not over yet, Sugarplum.”

“Big Guy,” she said, laughing. “You’re his receptionist?”

I said, “No, I’m his unpaid driver.”

“Or I’m his patient,” said Milo. “How’s it going, kid?”

“It’s going well. You guys sound far away.”

“It’s the hands-off,” I said, “ergo the lack of privacy. I should be home within the hour.”

Milo said, “Privacy? There’s something to hide from Uncle M?”

Robin said, “Never, m’dear. Not over yet as in making progress or just the opposite?”

“Nothing plus nothing, Rob. I’ll get him back to you A-sap.”

“Come on over for dinner, Milo. I’ll grill something.”

“I drool in anticipation, but Dr. Silverman is expecting a cozy dinner.”

“Rick can come over, too.”

“Thanks, kiddo, but he’s on call until late. The plan is we grab something at Cedars.”

“Cafeteria food is cozy?”

“Love hurts, darling.”

A single uniform remained at the construction site, leaning against his cruiser and talking on his cell phone. Yellow tape ran along the fence. The chain was still loose enough to allow a walk-through.

Milo sat up and shot his jaw. “Oh, gimme a break!” Jabbing his finger at the parking ticket pinned under one of the unmarked’s windshield wipers.

Before I cut the engine, he was out, ripping the summons free.

The patrolman lowered his phone. Milo strode over to him. “Were you here when they papered me?”

Silence.

“You just let it happen?”

The uniform was young, smooth-faced, muscular. A. Ramos-Martinez . “You know the traffic nazis, sir. They’re on commission, sir, can’t talk them out of nothing.”

“Did you try?”

Ramos-Martinez hesitated, decided against lying. “No, sir. I was keeping my eye on the scene.”

“Gee, thanks, Officer.”

“Sorry, sir. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do, sir.”