Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

Milo was thinking like a detective. “You met Britnee but not the assistant who died.”

Bonhomme thought. “Yes, that is interesting. Assistants of senior partners rarely descend to the dungeon. They tend to make their requests by text or phone. Perhaps Blondie didn’t know the drill. Or she was hired at a lower pay grade. They’re doing a lot of that. Belt-tightening.” He flexed the book. “Another reason to keep my options open.”

Milo said, “Good luck with that.”

“Good luck to all of us,” said Tony Bonhomme.

As we returned to the car, I said, “Britnee went down there because Loach planned on fun with Enid and gave her a make-work assignment mission. Unfortunately for him, she got back early.”

“Yeah... an accident. If it wasn’t classified as a crime, we won’t have it. I’ll check with the crypt.”

“One way to find out.”

“Soon as we get back.”

I had other ideas. No sense arguing.

He drove and I played with my phone.

L.A. murders are cataloged in several places. There’s the LAPD roster, the list kept by the coroner, and supplemental files, mostly for statistical purposes, maintained by a host of state and federal agencies.

All of which require a password or other evidence of official approval.

Anyone with Internet access can log onto the Los Angeles Times Homicide Report, a regularly updated cache that promises to provide “a story for every victim,” and does a fine job of fulfilling that pledge.

I had the name in less than a minute. Told him and read him the summary, verbatim.

“ ‘Roderick Salton, thirty-four, a white man, was found dead in a warehouse district near the courthouse on 1945 South Hill Street in Historic South Central. Though Salton worked as a legal assistant at a downtown law firm, his employers said his job wouldn’t have included court business. His family had no ready explanation for what Salton, a Utah transplant slated to enter law school this fall, would be doing in a warehouse district at night. Anyone with information is requested to contact Detective Roger Enow, LAPD Southwest Division.’ ”

An attached color photo showed a full-faced young man with short dark hair and an open smile. Date of death: sixty-eight days ago.

Milo said, “Enow. Good luck.”

“Not an ace?”

“You’d never mistake him for someone who cares. I gave testimony in that court, what a dump.”

“I’ve been on the stand there, too.”

“Custody cases get heard there?”

“They do when the main court’s overloaded.”

“So you know the neighborhood, like they said — industrial and storage. Supposedly respectable citizen ends up dead like that, it’s usually sex, dope, or both. But everything around there closes up at night. Never heard of hookers or dealers congregating.”

I said, “Which would make it the perfect dump spot. So would being relatively close to Salton’s work downtown. And a lawyer would be familiar with the area.”

“Back to that damn firm. Something bad starts there and finishes a few miles south? Did I miss cause of death?”

I re-read. “None listed.” My chest got tight. “Do me a favor and call Bernstein now.”

“Why?”

I told him.

He went bone-white.

The pathologist’s voice boomed through the hands-off speaker. “Correct, Victim Salton is the only other adult poisoning of uncertain manner in the county other than Victim Chase. I already told you it wasn’t the same toxin so don’t get all heated up.”

“You have any feelings about manner?”

“I don’t deal in feelings, I deal in data. If I was a betting man, I’d go for suicide as most likely, then homicide. But until I get some evidence, it will remain undetermined.”

“Enow’s on the case, you’re unlikely to get anything close to evidence.”

“I’m aware of that, not my problem,” said Bernstein. “How’d you come across it?”

Milo explained, leaving out Alicia and Imelda and concentrating on the link to J. Yarmuth Loach.

“DePauw’s lawyer?” said Bernstein. “You’ve got a connection between him and Victim Chase?”

“He’s got business and personal relationships with DePauw. Is managing the property in her absence.”

“That’s a connection?” said Bernstein. “What, you’re thinking she’s absent because he wants her to be? Be careful, too much creativity erodes the soul.”

Milo and I looked at each other. That possibility hadn’t entered our minds.

He said, “Anything’s possible, Bill.”

“Hopefully not,” said Bernstein. “A universe of possibilities is the definition of hell. Well, this isn’t probative but I suppose it’s provocative. You’ve complicated my life.”

“Complicated my own. Could you please fax Salton’s file?”

“I don’t fax, my assistant does and she’s gone home. I should be gone, too — all right, I’ll bring it to your office, you’re on the way. I’m talking the original, you’re responsible for copying and getting it back to me.”

“Great. When?”

“Confirmation: You’re at your office.”

“On the way.”

“I beat you there, I’m not waiting around.”

Milo raced back to the station, we ran up the stairs to his office, and he pulled up the file on Roderick Salton.

“Typical Enow,” he said, reading. “The bare minimum. He even spelled the guy’s name wrong, here. R-O-D-R-I–C-K, in one place, an E in the next paragraph.”

His desk phone rang.

Bill Bernstein said, “Come down immediately.”

The coroner idled a car in the entrance lane of the staff lot, wearing a white baseball cap over the same brown tweed suit and a bright-orange tie patterned with silver scalpels. The car was a sixties Corvette Stingray convertible, electric blue, the white canvas top lowered, chromed tailpipes growling.

Bernstein said, “Finally.” He revved the car. Smoke unfurled around him.

It had taken us all of a minute to reach him.

Milo held out his hand.

Bernstein said, “We’re going to discuss this. Get me in the lot.”

Milo used his card to open the gate and Bernstein sped into a slot marked Reserved Deputy Chief. He stepped out hatless, carrying a larger version of a black leather doctor’s bag, continued past us, and crossed the street without apparent caution.

Milo said, “Thanks for taking the time, Bill.”

“You need to work on your parking situation. I shouldn’t have to make a special request. No way am I leaving my other girl on the street.”

“Nice wheels. You actually drive it to East L.A.?”

“Why not? I’ve got a designated space there in full view of the camera.” Bernstein hefted his bag hard. Something thumped. “I’ve also got a Glock nicer than the ones you get and a carry permit, let some scum try to jack me.”

Milo grinned at me. “We should start calling you Wild Bill.”

“My fraternity brothers beat you to it.”

Bernstein threw open the station door, bounded up the stairs, stopped at the mouth of the corridor. “Which one’s your office?”

Milo led him there.

“This?” said Bernstein. “Who’d you offend? Find somewhere appropriate for human habitation.”

Milo already had; an interview room several doors down. He said, “Good idea, Bill — okay, that one will work.”

“It better,” said Bernstein. “You’ve put me in a foul mood.”

Once inside, he said, “Three chairs, good.” His pug nose wrinkled. “Stinks, you need better maintenance.”

My nose picked up a faint trace of perspiration. I’d been at the crypt when the stench of decay permeated the entire building.

Bernstein placed his black bag on the floor, sat and unclasped, placed papers on the table and squared the pile. “Victim Salton.”