“A dog’s life,” said Milo.
“On the bright side, Sean had good luck with Roget’s phone records, they’re coming tomorrow.”
“Fingers crossed, Moses.”
“Speaking of crosses,” said Reed, “be nice to crucify this bastard.”
CHAPTER
18
We stopped for coffee at a diner on Moorpark near Fulton. Twenty-year-old retro refit of what had once been a chain restaurant. Two decades of paradigm shift made it an L.A. antiquity.
The place was thinly occupied and smelled of vintage grease. Pastries revolved in a slo-mo, sugar-flecked case. Milo glanced at them, contemplated, shook his head.
A middle-aged waitress in a too-tight brown dress came over smiling, took our coffee order, and straightened her lips when Milo said, “Just coffee.”
“We’ve got nice pies, boys.”
Milo glanced at the menu. “Okay, throw in a slice of your ‘famous berry-merry.’ ”
“There you go, bone-apperteet.”
“Is it really famous?”
“Sure,” she said. “Isn’t everything, nowadays?”
* * *
—
A copper-colored thermal pitcher, two mugs, and a wedge of pie bleeding crimson on two sides arrived moments later.
Milo’s fork descended like a hawk blitzing a nest of hatchlings. Half the pie vanished before he put it back down.
“Cerillos just put our working hypothesis into words: Gurnsey demeaned the wrong woman. Likely one who knew the Benedict house. But maybe not because she’d partied there, because she once owned it.”
“Mrs. Ansar?”
“Why not, Alex? Same scenario Joan Blunt described: cheating husband, nasty divorce, time for some fun. How about calling your judge buddy and finding out when Mrs. A. left the country.”
I tried Bevilacqua’s chambers. His Honor was gone for the day but the paralegal who picked up was someone I knew, a veteran named Linda Montrose, long assigned to family court, long past mere cynicism and into a tortoiseshell view of the world.
“Alex. Didn’t see your name on the docket.”
“Nothing pending, Linda.”
“So what’s up?”
“I’m wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“Depends on what it is.”
“The Ansar case—”
She groaned. “The paper storm? More like a used-toilet-paper storm, totally clogging up the system. Don’t tell me you’re on it, now. I thought we were full-up with shrinks.”
I said, “I’m not, this is a police matter. Someone was murdered on the property and I’ve been asked to check something out.”
“Murdered,” said Montrose. “That one, Beverly Hills? Paper made it sound like a gang thing.”
“It wasn’t.”
“The cops think one of them did it? Oh my, wouldn’t that be cool, finally get rid of the case so we can concentrate on someone else’s misery.”
“They’re not suspects, Linda. And if you could keep this call to yourself, I’d appreciate it.”
“High intrigue,” she said. “I’m intrigued. What do you need to know?”
“If you could check when Mrs. A. left the country—”
“Don’t need to check, I’ve had to read and collate so many whiny motions that I know everything by frickin’ heart. She took off seven months ago, give or take a few days.”
“Has she ever returned?”
“Nope. The latest jokes around here have her in the desert with the kids, turning them into mini-ISIS types.”
I said, “Afghanistan is the Taliban.”
“Doctor Detail,” she said. “That’s why Big B likes you. Anything else?”
“That’s it, thanks, Linda.”
“When can I tell someone?”
“I’ll let you know the moment it goes public.”
She laughed. “Make it a moment before and we’ll stay friends.”
I relayed the news to Milo.
He said, “Boom. That’s the sound of a hypothesis blowing up. Want some pie?”
“Small piece.”
“Really? You’re actually indulging? That’s a switch.”
“Why turn my nose up at fame?”
* * *
—
He was driving back to the city and I was on my phone checking messages when his played something heavy and Teutonic. Maybe Brahms during one of his depressive episodes.
He scanned the screen, switched to speaker.
Basia Lopatinski said, “Hey, guys!”
A woman who cuts up corpses all day and is constitutionally cheerful. I wondered what she thought of Brahms.
Milo said, “What’s up?”
“Good news and more good news. I hydrated your female vic’s fingertips and got enough ridge to send to AFIS. The first AFIS database I tried was kind enough to give me a name. I emailed it to your office computer, you should have it but I wanted to tell you personally.”
“You’re a saint, Basia.”
“Normally,” she said, “I don’t like it when men tell me that, it means they expect too much. But from you, I accept it.”
He pulled over and checked his mail. Said, “Bingo,” and handed me the phone and resumed driving.
Mary Jane Huralnik, fifty-nine years old. Much younger than I’d thought. She’d looked elderly for a decade of progressively sadder mugshots.
No felony arrests but plenty of misdemeanors up and down the state over a thirty-three-year period. Public drunkenness, public indecency, vagrancy, shoplifting, petty larceny, illegal panhandling, trespassing, failure to show on a slew of warrants for many of those offenses.
The most recent charge, an indecency bust eighteen months ago. Defecating on a sidewalk in the Sixth Street tunnel downtown.
I said, “Not that far from where Benny worked.”
He said, “Like we said, someone prowling downtown for vulnerables. I’ll call a Central D and ask if she knows Huralnik.”
This time he phoned while in motion. I continued to read. No jail for Huralnik on the tunnel offense; with the crowding situation, the priority is those who draw copious blood.