Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

I'd seen it or one just like it this afternoon, parked across the street from the Carmeli house.

The alley was narrow and the van had to manipulate a three-point turn, exposing a side panel.

I tried to force the window wider but it wouldn't budge. Straining, I made out the name of the company.

HERMES ELECTRIC. SPEEDY SERVICE.

Winged-messenger logo. An 818 number I couldn't catch.

A van. These guys love vans.

The Econoline straightened and the tires rotated. Dark windows, no view of the driver.

As it sped away, I tried for the license plate, managed to get all seven digits, kept reciting them out loud as I fumbled for a pen and a paper towel from the dispenser.

Milo got up so hard the table shook. “Stalking us, the Carmelis? He's that arrogant?”

He hurried back to the bathroom area and shoved the emergency door open.

Outside, the air was warm and the alley smelled of rotted vegetables. I could hear sirens, probably from the station. I handed him the paper towel.

“Hermes Electric,” he said.

“An electrician would wear a uniform. One of those anonymous beige or gray things that could resemble a park worker's. Electricians also carry lots of equipment, so who'd notice an extra camera in the back of the van? And I remember something Robin told me when we were rebuilding the house. Of all the tradesmen, electricians tend to be the most precise. Perfectionistic.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “Slip up and get fried… Was the van at the Carmelis' the whole time?”

“Yes.”

We walked through the restaurant, moving quickly past diners. The unmarked was parked in front, in a loading zone.

“Hermes,” I said. “The god of-”

“Speed. So we've got a fast little motherfucker on our hands?”

He used the mobile digital terminal to connect to DMV, then typed in the plate number. The answer came back within minutes.

“Seventy-eight Chevy Nova registered to P. L. Almoni on Fairfax. So the asshole switched plates. This is looking better and better- I'm heading right over to the address… looks like between Pico and Olympic.”

“The number on the side of the van was an 818.”

“So he lives in the city, works in the Valley. Has a personal car and a work van and switches plates around when he wants to play… Almoni… that could be Israeli, too, right?”

I nodded.

“Juicier and juicier… okay, let's see what the state crime files and NCIC have to say about him.”

Checking those data banks produced no hits. He started driving.

“Clean record,” said Milo. “A goddamn beginner like you said… Let's see how this asshole lives- unless you want to go home.”

My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. “Not a chance.”

The east side of Fairfax, a dark, relatively untraveled section of the avenue, was filled with one shabby storefront after another. Every store closed, except for an Ethiopian restaurant with no drapes over the window. Inside, three people sat concentrating on heaping plates.

The sign atop P. L. Almoni's address read NOTARY PUBLIC, PHOTOCOPY SERVICES, MAILBOXES FOR RENT. We got out and looked through the window. Three walls of lockboxes, a service counter in back.

“Goddamn mail drop,” said Milo. “Onward to his business.”

We got back in the car, where he phoned Valley Information, waited, said, “You're sure?” and wrote something down.

Hanging up, he gave a sour smile. “It's a Valley exchange all right, but the address is in 310 territory. Holloway Drive in West Hollywood. Welcome to the maze, fellow rats.”

Holloway was a ten-minute drive from the mail drop, nice and convenient for the convoluted Mr. Almoni. West to La Cienega, then north just past Santa Monica Boulevard, and a left turn onto a quiet street filled with apartment buildings. Well-designed buildings, many of them prewar, some concealed behind tall hedges. I guessed Almoni's would be one of them.

Only a short walk to Sunset Strip but insulated from the din and the lights. I noticed a woman walking a huge dog, its gait and hers long and confident. Tucked among the apartments was an old Mediterranean mansion turned into a private school.

So dark it was hard to read addresses. As Milo searched for the right number, I composed news copy in my head:

Not much is known about Almoni. He was a quiet man, residents in this comfortable neighborhood said.

Suddenly, he pulled to the curb.

Bad guess: Hermes Electric's home base was a newer, well-lit three-story structure with an unshielded brick face and glass doors leading into a bright, mirrored lobby.

A short walk, also, to Milo and Rick's West Hollywood house.

He was thinking the same thing, clenched his jaw and said, “Evening, neighbor.”

Out of the car, he studied a collection of parking signs on a lamppost. Bottom line: permit parking only.

Placing an LAPD sticker on the dash, he said, “Not that it'll help. West Hollywood's county territory, the meter-leeches they contract with could give a shit.”

We walked up to the glass doors. Ten mailbox slots, each with a call button.

Number 6 said I. BUDZHYSHYN. HERMES LANGUAGE SCHOOL, INC.

“Multitalented,” Milo said, squinting at his Timex. “Almost midnight… no jurisdiction, no warrant… wonder if there's an in-house manager- here we go, Number 2, hope he's not a morning person.”

He finger-stabbed Unit 2's button. No answer for several moments, then a thick, male voice said, “Yes?”

“Police, sir. Sorry to bother you but could you come down to the lobby, please.”

“What?”

Milo repeated the greeting.

The thick voice said, “How do I know you're the police?”

“If you come down to the lobby, I'll be happy to show you identification, sir.”

“If this is some kind of joke-”

“It's not, sir.”

“What's this all about?”

“One of your tenants-”

“Trouble?”

“Please come down, sir.”

“… hold on.”

Five minutes later a man in his late twenties came into the lobby rubbing his eyes. Young, but bald, with a light brown mustache and clipped goatee, he had on a baggy gray T-shirt, blue shorts, and house slippers. His legs were pale, coated with blond hair.

Blinking and rubbing his eyes again, he stared out at us through the glass. Milo held out his badge and the goateed man studied it, frowned, mouthed, “Show me something else.”

“Great,” muttered Milo, “a picky one.” Smiling, he produced his LAPD business card. If the goateed man realized the department had no jurisdiction in West Hollywood, he didn't show it. Nodding sleepily, he unlocked the door and let us in.

“I don't understand why you couldn't come at a decent hour.”

“Sorry, sir, but this just came up.”

“What did? Who's in trouble?”

“No real trouble yet, sir, but we have some questions to ask you about Mr. Budzhyshyn.”

“ Mister Budzhyshyn?”

“Yes-”

The young man smiled. “No such animal, here.”

“Unit 6-”

“Is the home of Ms. Budzhyshyn. Irina. And she lives alone.”

“Is there a boyfriend, Mr.-”

“Laurel. Phil Laurel. Yeah, yeah, as in “and Hardy.' Never saw a boyfriend, don't know if she dates. She's gone most of the time. Nice, quiet tenant, no problems.”

“Where does she go when she's gone, Mr. Laurel?”

“Work, I assume.”

“What kind of work does she do?”

“Insurance company, some type of supervisor. She makes a good living and pays her rent on time, that's all I care about. What's this all about?”

“It says language school.”

“She does that on the side,” said Laurel.

“Budzhyshyn,” said Milo. “That Russian?”