Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

Sergeant Patrick Sunshine recommended Milo talk to the car covering that sector of Venice.

A patrolman named Thorpe answered. “That’s one of the last coiners still works, mostly transient dopers use it. Once in a while, street girls when they don’t want to run up their hours.”

Milo said, “My tipster was a male. Older, or trying to sound like it. Pointed me at someone named Monte.”

“Monte,” said Thorpe. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. What time did the tip come in?”

Milo checked the still-thin murder book. “Just after six p.m.”

“Could be anyone. Want me to ask around?”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“Phone booth,” said Thorpe. “Darn thing’s on its last legs, bet the phone company kills it like all the others.”

I woke up at four a.m., inspired. Minutes later, I was at the computer.

Five hours later, I was headed toward Milo’s office.

He was away from his desk. A report from the fingerprint lab sat next to the murder book. Desmond Backer’s latents had been found on a wall of the turret, just to the right of the top step, and near the bottom frame of a window hole. Brigid Ochs, still listed as Jane Doe 014, had left palm prints on the floor.

Backer’s could be explained as reaching for support while he climbed the rickety stairs, then sauntering over to enjoy the view.

The only explanation I could find for hers was a sexual position.

Milo plodded in, drinking coffee.

“Morning.”

“Zippity-do-nothing to you, as well.” He sat, drank. “No one’s budging on telling me who DSD is and I can’t find a judge who disagrees. No call-back from Hal, which isn’t his usual style, no weapons registered to Charles Rutger other than flintlocks and muskets classified as antiques. He might be nuts but he’s never been in criminal trouble. Lab sent over prints from the scene but they don’t mean much.”

“Just read the report.” I offered my interpretation. “Sounds about right.” His phone rang. He clicked to conference. “Sturgis.”

A woman said, “This is Dr. Jernigan from the coroner’s returning your call.”

“Thanks for getting back, Doctor. I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to autopsy my victims.”

“The Holmby double?” she said. “Gunshot for your male, strangulation for your female.”

“That was quick, thanks.”

“No autopsy was done,” said Jernigan. “Not necessary. We also did a rape kit on your female. No sexual assault.”

“So the semen on her leg-”

“What semen?”

“There was a stain on her leg. I saw it at the scene.”

“Not when I inspected the body. How do you know it was semen?”

“I’m not an expert-”

“Exactly.”

“Was it something else, Doctor?”

Silence. “There was no stain of any kind, Lieutenant. Sorry to cut this short, but I need to go.”

“No autopsy necessary,” said Milo.

“You’ve been doing this for a while, Lieutenant, so you know we don’t cut unnecessarily. I x-rayed both of them. There’s a bullet in his head that we’ll pull out soon as we can, no metal in her and ruptures in all the right places. For all the talk about a crime drop, we’re swamped because the powers-that-be refuse to hire any more staff and the bodies are still coming in faster than we can process. Twenty minutes ago, I received four little kids from a house fire in Willow-brook and they do need to be opened up to check for soot in the lungs. Trust me, we’re taking your case seriously, the bullet will be pulled.”

“Okay, thanks. Sorry about Bobby.”

“You knew Bobby?”

“Only Bobby I know is Bobby Norchow.”

“Norchow retired last year, this is Bobby Escobar. Bright kid, spent a couple of years with us then left to get a master’s in bio at Cal State.”

“I heard he got shot near the crypt.”

“Few blocks away, vacant lot that’s actually county property,” said Jernigan. “He was here working, we gave him a little space so he could have peace and quiet. He had three little kids, including a baby.”

“Oh, man.”

“Oh, man, indeed. For three years he goes through DBs’ pockets, now he’s one.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“Sheriff assigned a couple of rookies and they’re calling it robbery gone bad-hey, how about a quid pro? You solve Bobby and we grant you autopsies on demand for the next five years, even when the body doesn’t merit it?” Dropping her voice. “Wish I wasn’t kidding. Bye, Lieutenant.”

He hung up, stretched his neck, produced crackle and pop. “Welcome to my world.”

I said, “Maybe I can cheer you up. Sranil.”

“What’s that?”

“An oil-rich island near Indonesia.”

“Never heard of it. And…”

“The government is one of Masterson’s clients-major medical center still on the drawing board. Given how intimidated everyone seems by the gag agreement and the rumors of DSD being Middle Eastern, I went searching for petro-VIPs who’d lived in L.A. within the last ten years, co-referenced with Masterson. No Arabs came up but Asian royalty did: Prince Tariq of Sranil, aka Teddy. By Forbes’s last count his older brother, the sultan, is worth twelve billion. The country’s Muslim, so maybe that’s the source of the confusion. According to the blogosphere, Teddy came here five years ago to go to law school, got called back to Sranil around two years ago. That fits the Borodi construction schedule perfectly.”

“Why was he called back?”

“The prevailing wisdom is he partied too much, spent too much of his brother’s money. And guess what: The sultan’s name is Daoud-he’s the sixth of seven Daouds in the royal line-and his palace’s official name is Dar Salaam Daoud.”

“DSD… got a full official name for Teddy?”

I pulled out my notes. “Tariq Bandar Asman Ku’amah Majur.”

He swiveled, logged onto the department’s database. “Like he’s gonna be in here-well looky here! Still on the books for… I’m counting twenty-six parkers and three speeders. Most are on the Strip… here’s one in B.H.-North Beverly Drive… another on Rodeo… Dayton… the shopping district… five different vehicles… Ferrari, Lamborghini, Rolls… wonder why he didn’t weasel out of it using diplomatic immunity.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to bother. Or he got booted back home before the traffic nazis came after him.”

“Too many toys, huh? Sultan controls the purse strings?”

“Seems to, and there could be a personality conflict. The sultan’s devout, shows relative restraint for someone that wealthy.”

“Only a dozen Rolls-Royces?”

“Three, according to the royal website,” I said. “And two are classics he inherited from his grandfather. But we’re not talking the simple life. The royal palace is something out of a storybook-think Taj Majal on steroids.”

“That mean a turret?”

“Whole bunch of turrets. The royal site also claims the sultan opens the place to the public several times a year. Same for his yacht-used for charitable fund-raisers. And a hefty percentage of oil profits gets reinvested in infrastructure and hospitals. I can’t judge the truth of any of that, because freedom of the press is nil. But the sultan could have good reason to share the wealth. Two competing rebels groups are camped in the jungles of Indonesia, itching to get their hands on his fossil fuel. One bunch thinks he’s insufficiently religious, the other’s Maoist. So far, they’ve spent more time beheading each other, but it pays to be careful.”

“Bread and circuses,” he said. “Brother Teddy’s profligate ways would be bad P.R.”

“Ergo confidentiality pledges. It’s clearly in Masterson’s best interest to keep the sultan happy. The Sranil project is one of their biggest: massive health-care complex, a med school, state-of-the-art research labs, luxury residential towers for imported doctors and nurses. A complete city based on health care, really. Phase One is an oncology center. I called my old department head at Western Pediatric and he’s actually been to Sranil as a consultant. Described the island as a strange place-skyscrapers rising from the sand, everything spookily clean and organized, but relatively primitive tribes still living in the central jungle. He also told me the sultan has personal motivation for that cancer center: One of his children was diagnosed with neuroblastoma as an infant, sent to England for treatment but died. There’s no reason to believe any of his other kids will get sick but the sultan’s being careful.”