Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

During my first visit to the crypt, I hadn’t thought that through and expressed surprise to Milo at the greenish patches mottling a corpse lying on a gurney in the basement hallway.

Middle-aged man with a John Doe designation, awaiting transfer to the crematorium. Paperwork laid across his decaying torso, listing the meager details known.

Milo’s answer had been painfully glib: “What happens to steak when you leave it in the fridge too long, Alex?”

Now he told Lou Giacomo: “I’m really sorry for your situation, sir. If there’s anything else you want to tell us about Tori, I’d like to hear it.”

“Like what?”

“Anything that would help find her.”

“The restaurant she worked, her mother thinks it had something with ‘Lobster’ in it.”

“The Lobster Pot,” said Milo. “Riverside Drive, in Burbank. It went out of business eighteen months ago.”

“You checked it out,” said Giacomo, surprised. “You’re looking for Tori because you do think it had something to do with the other girl.”

“I’m exploring all the possibilities, sir.”

Giacomo stared at him. “You got something you’re not telling me?”

“No, sir. When are you going back home?”

“Who knows?”

“Where are you staying?”

“Same answer,” said Giacomo. “I’ll find something.”

“There’s a Holiday Inn on Pico past Sepulveda,” said Milo. “Not far from here.”

“Why would I wanna be close to here?” said Giacomo.

“No reason.”

“What, you wanna keep tabs on me?”

“No, sir. Got plenty to do.” Milo motioned to me. The two of us headed for the door.

The bespectacled woman said, “Was everything tasty, Lieutenant?”

Milo said, “Great.”

Lou Giacomo said, “Yeah, everything’s fantastic.”

Giacomo’s rental Escort was parked in a loading zone ten yards from Café Moghul, the predictable ticket secured by a wiper blade. Milo and I watched him snatch the citation and rip it into confetti. Paper snow floated to the curb.

He shot Milo a defiant look. Milo pretended not to notice.

Giacomo stooped, picked up the shreds, put them in his pocket. Rolling his shoulders, he got in the Escort and drove off.

Milo said, “Every time I start off in one of those situations I tell myself to be sensitive. Somehow, it gets messed up.”

“You did fine.”

He laughed.

I said, “With all his frustration and grief it couldn’t have gone any differently.”

“That’s exactly what you were supposed to say.”

“At least something in life’s predictable.”

We walked east on Santa Monica, passed an Asian import shop where Milo stopped and pretended to be fascinated by bamboo.

When we resumed walking, I said, “Think Giacomo’s right about Tori being dead?”

“It’s a distinct possibility, but maybe her mother’s right and she’s off partying in Capri or Dubai. What do you think of the acting-school angle?”

“Lots of those in L.A.,” I said.

“Lots of young waitpersons aiming for bigger and better. Be interesting if Tori took classes at the PlayHouse but short of that you see any stunning parallels?”

“A few similarities but more differences. Michaela’s body was left out in the open. If Tori was murdered, the killer sure didn’t want her discovered.”

We turned right and walked south on Butler.

“What if we’re looking at an escalation thing, Alex? Our bad boy started off hiding his handiwork but acquired confidence and decided to advertise?”

“Someone like Peaty moving from peeping to assault,” I said. “Getting progressively more violent and brazen.”

“That does come to mind.”

“A sexual aspect to Michaela’s killing would support it. There was no positioning and she was left fully clothed. But maybe she was played with at the kill-spot, tidied up before being transported. Autopsy’s due soon, right?”

“It just got kicked up another day or two. Or four.”

“Busy time at the crypt.”

“Always.”

“Are they really moving the bodies out that fast?”

“If only the freeways worked as well.”

“Wonder how many Jane Does are in storage?” I said.

“If Tori ever was there, she’s long gone. As her daddy will learn soon enough. What are the odds he’s calling them right now?”

“If she was my daughter, that’s what I’d be doing.”

He sniffed, cleared his throat, scratched the side of his nose. Raised a pink, wormy welt that faded as quickly as it had materialized.

“Got a cold?” I said.

“Nah, air’s been itching me, probably some crap blown in by the Santa Susannas…yeah, I’d be hounding them, too.”

Back at his office, he tried the coroner’s office again and asked for a rundown on young Caucasian Jane Does in the crypt. The attendant said the computer was down, they were short-staffed, a hand search of the records would take a long time.

“Any calls from a guy named Louis Giacomo? Father of a missing girl…well, he probably will. He’s having a hard time, go easy…yeah, thanks, Turo. Let me ask you something else: What’s the average transfer time to cremation nowadays? Just an estimate, I’m not gonna use it in court. That’s what I thought…when you do check the inventory, go back a couple of years, okay? Twenties, Caucasian, five five, a hundred twenty. Giacomo, first name Tori.” He spelled it. “She could be a blonde or brunette or anything in between. Thanks, man.”

He hung up, swiveled in his chair. “Sixty, seventy days and it’s off to the furnace.” Spinning back to his phone, he called the PlayHouse again, listened for a few seconds, slammed the receiver down. “Last time, it just rang. This time I got sultry female voice on tape. The next class- something called ‘Spontaneous Ingathering’- is tomorrow night at nine.”

“Nocturnal schedule, like we guessed,” I said. “Sultry, huh?”

“Think Lauren Bacall getting over the flu. Maybe it’s Ms. Dowd. If she’s an actor herself, velvety pipes wouldn’t hurt.”

“Voice-overs are a mainstay for unemployed actors,” I said. “So are coaching gigs, for that matter.”

“Those who can’t do, teach?”

“Entire universities operate on that premise.”

He laughed. “Okay, let’s see what DMV has to say about the golden-throated Ms. Dowd.”

Nora Dowd’s DOB made her thirty-six, five two, a hundred and ten pounds, brown and brown. One registered vehicle, a six-month-old, silver Range Rover MK III. Home address on McCadden Place in Hancock Park.

“Nice neighborhood,” he said.

“Bit of a drive to the school. Hollywood’s just across Melrose from Hancock Park, you’d think a Hollywood address would attract screen-hopefuls.”

“Maybe Dowd got a break on the rent. Or she owns the place. McCadden and her wheels says she’s got bucks.”

“A wealthy dilettante who does it for fun,” I said.

“Hardly a rare bird,” he said. “Let’s see if this one sings.”

Wilshire Boulevard near Museum Mile was disrupted by filming and we sat with the engine idling, an audience for nothing. Half a dozen triple-sized trailers filled an entire block. A fleet of carelessly parked smaller vehicles choked an eastbound lane. A squadron of cameramen, sound techs, gaffers, gofers, retired cops, and unionized hangers-on laughed and loafed and stalked the catered buffet. Two large men walked past, each carrying a lightweight, folding director’s chair. Stenciled names on the canvas backs that I didn’t recognize.

Public space commandeered with the usual insouciance. The motoring public on Wilshire wasn’t happy and tempers flared in the single open lane. I managed to escape onto Detroit Street, hooked a right on Sixth Street, cruised across La Brea. A few blocks later: Highland, the western border of Hancock Park.