Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

“Two bodies ruled inadmissible?”

“Not likely,” said Nguyen, “but anything’s possible, like I said: anticipate. As is, we’re vulnerable because the poison stuff was missed twice, I can see some defense ace claiming it was planted. Ha ha. It’s lame but L.A. juries believe in screenplays. When are your suspects due back?”

“Five days.”

“Little luxe jaunt to Rrrroma, ” said Nguyen. “Rat-bastards. They should choke on pasta.”

The warrant arrived shortly after eleven a.m. Two suspects named in the murders of three victims, Rod Salton excluded because Nguyen termed him “insufficiently related.”

Permission granted to enter and search indoor premises as well as the entire 5.23-acre parcel. Milo said, “So what do you think? Day or night?”

I said, “Still day. Night’s more likely to attract attention.”

“I agree. Got the schedules for the cleaners and the gardeners and tomorrow’s clear. Hopefully, a pool service won’t show up. Let’s see if Liz can.”

The anthropologist would be back tonight from San Francisco, would begin setting it up and be ready to work.

Milo told her about the plan to mislabel civilian vans. “How many vehicles will you need and what kind of staff are we talking about? Fewer the better.”

“If I can poach the new postdoc for a day, two of us should be able to handle the digging. Equipment’s nothing heavy. At this stage, we’re talking stakes, rope, chisels, trowels, spades, cameras, brushes, distilled water, vials for samples. One good-sized van should be fine.”

“I’ll get two.”

“This is all covert because you don’t want it getting back to the suspects.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, that’s fine for initial exploration but I can see a problem if we find something. The crypt won’t allow transporting remains except in their vans and those are anything but inconspicuous.”

Milo groaned. Picturing the vehicles like I was: official seals and blue stripes running across the sides topped by Coroner in the same color. Just in case you missed that, the same identification in larger lettering at the rear, along with multiple applications of the legend Law and Science Serving the Community.

“I’ll talk to Bernstein, see if he’s flexible.”

“I can raise it with him, was figuring to ask him to borrow Gregor — the postdoc. Otherwise, I’ll need to find a grad student on short notice and try keeping their mouth shut.”

“Let me do it, Liz. Hope he doesn’t screw us up.”

“He probably won’t. Not because he’s a softie at heart but he’s after the same thing you are. Pathologists hate undetermined.”

Bernstein said, “Your geniuses missed an entire damn section? After my geniuses did the same damn thing?”

“There’s a high wall that’s easy to mistake for the property line, Bill.”

“Bleh bleh bleh bleh. All right, spilled milk. What’s the alleged plan?”

Milo filled him in.

Bernstein said, “Not terrible. Okay, take Gregor, I’m tired of hearing that accent of his and all he’s been doing is rehydrating disarticulated fingers so he can learn how to print our more damaged guests with finesse.”

“I’ll need help with transport if we find something. Vehicles without official labeling.”

“You need?” said Bernstein. “Didn’t you ever study economics? There are no needs, only preferences.”

“Okay, I strongly prefer—”

“All because you don’t want to spook these fine citizens currently cavorting in Rome.”

“They’re rich and socially connected—”

“They’re still thousands of miles away. I think you’re worrying over nothing.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“Passive resistance?” said Bernstein. “Okay, maybe I can fix your problem. One of our vans is supposed to be repainted. It’s stripped down to primer, looks like crap, but we’ve been keeping it in service because we can’t afford to give it up, does that tell you about our workload and our budget? We send it to socially un connected neighborhoods and stick on a magnetic sign. Kind of — what do those idiots call themselves... Goth.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

“Hold on, I said maybe. For all I know they took it to the paint shop. Wait.”

Moments later: “Your lucky day, it’s still in service, currently doing a pickup in Willowbrook, should be back in a couple of hours. You need it, come pick it up. Hideous ugly heap of scrap, you don’t think that’s going to bend some Bel Air noses?”

“Better than going public, Bill.”

“Your call,” said Bernstein. “I don’t want to hear any more about this until there’s something to dissect.”

Logging onto the White Glove Cleaning website, capturing an image of their sign, and having six copies made at a sign store in West L.A. took a while. I stood outside the sign store and watched as Milo, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, paid cash, hoping the man behind the counter wouldn’t ask questions.

The guy didn’t even look up. Most people aren’t overly afflicted with curiosity. It separates the creative and the tormented from the rest of the pack.

At noon the following day, a white Ford Econoline driven by Liz Wilkinson, and a blue Dodge Ram ProMaster with Milo at the wheel, made their way from the impound lot to Bel Air. Both were tagged with White Glove signs. If you didn’t notice the three bullet holes in the rear bumper of the blue one, you’d never give it a second thought.

No one around to think. The only human walking on St. Denis was a uniformed maid accompanying a mastiff the size of a pony. The dog noticed us. She didn’t.

Once we arrived at the DePauw estate, there was still the matter of getting onto the property without attracting attention or inflicting conspicuous damage.

Milo nosed his van to the gates first, got out and walked to Liz’s window. “I’ll climb over, there’s gotta be a button on the other side. If not, we’ll figure something out.”

“I will do it,” said the crypt postdoc, a crew-cut, muscle-bound M.D., Ph.D. from Warsaw named Gregor Poplawsky. Before Milo could argue, he’d bounded out and scaled the wall. Seconds later, the gates swung open.

Poplawsky beamed. “Correct hypothesis, Lieutenant.” Pointing to a red button atop the swing-arm of the right-hand gate motor.

“Good to hear, Gregor.”

“Yes, I like that, too,” said Poplawsky. “The world being sometimes rational.”

The five-hundred-foot path I’d walked the night of Zelda’s death was a brief motorized ascent. The vans parked in front of the house, the four of us got out and gloved up, and, just as before, we entered the garden on the north side. First step: inspect the house’s rear loggia for potted plants. Seven large ones, in blue and white porcelain pots. Four palms, three ferns. Milo peered through French doors into the house and said, “Nice place. Onward.”

In daylight, the terraced garden was glorious, hedges razor-edged and emerald, trees shaped to uniform height dripping with oranges, mandarins, and lemons. The air was tangy with citrus perfume and wealth.

Despite that, a rancid stink of evil squatted in the back of my sinuses but I doubted anyone else could smell it.

Nothing rational about it; the spot where Zelda had lain was clean. As if she’d never been there.

Liz, Gregor, Milo, and I descended slowly, inspecting flowers along the way. Tea roses, barbered and abloom, were bottomed by hexagonal, brick-edged beds of begonia and vinca. The latter could be used therapeutically — vincristine was an anti-cancer drug. Nothing here suggested the destruction of life.

We kept climbing down, passed the statuary — Greek warrior goddesses — and the pool, a bit tatty, up close. The menagerie of topiary animals was anything but martial: bunnies, squirrels, kittens, birds.