According to prison records, Walls was a no-problems inmate, hampered by diabetes, heart disease, and liver disease, loosely connected to the Aryan Brotherhood but not a member. A mugshot revealed a shaved-head, facially tattooed, sunken-eyed con with a goatish white chin beard bottoming a pale, collapsed face. Forty-eight but looking closer to seventy.
Marc Coolidge said, “Bunch of alkies, quality family.”
Al Freeman sitting next to Alicia Bogomil, their legs occasionally bumping, said, “Same old story.”
Alicia said, “Ain’t that the truth,” and smiled at him. Bump.
Milo said, “There’s no record of any domestic calls to the family and outwardly they look respectable. Dad was an IRS lawyer and they lived in a nice neighborhood.”
Moe Reed said, “Putting up a façade.” His voice emerging from Milo’s laptop.
He and Binchy were linked in to the meeting on FaceTime, Binchy now back on the Hart Street watch, Reed soloing Benedict Canyon and Conrock. So far, no movement at either location and neither the Volvo nor the Rolls had emerged from behind the black gate.
“The good news,” said Milo, “is I just got arrest warrants for both of them along with paper to enter both houses and the entire gallery building. We can also confiscate Okash’s car, which is still parked out back. I don’t wanna confront the Kiersteads or make a show of entering the gallery. Too many unknowns so we’re in a holding pattern, hoping to spot them on the road and take them.”
Coolidge said, “Avoid a hostage situation.”
“That and giving them time to destroy evidence. These are people responsible for at least six murders, likely seven. Once they’re in custody, we’ll separate them and take our time. Any questions?”
Al Freeman said, “They’re Nazis and her brother’s linked to the Brotherhood. Any connection?”
“Not so far and prison records say Candace never visited him. In fact, he’s gotten no visitors, period. The nun told Alex they weren’t exactly close-knit.”
“Bastards,” said Alicia. “Those poor dogs.”
Freeman said, “Hating’s an overall thing.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Bump.
I checked my watch and stood and headed for the door.
No surprise on Milo’s face. Freeman and Coolidge and Bogomil stared.
He said, “Dr. D.’s got a woman to talk to.”
CHAPTER
46
Identifying Jane Leavitt had been easy: On the Daylighters’ website, her face was displayed prominently above the motto Vanquish Breast Cancer!
Executive chairperson of the group. For the past five years, also head of the steering committee for the group’s annual Newer Than New Year’s Fling.
No listing for Candace Walls Kierstead, despite her claim. I’d also failed to find verification of dancing ballet in San Francisco.
Reaching Jane Leavitt had proved a challenge. She hadn’t responded to Milo’s calls of a few days ago; his emails remained unanswered as did voicemails left on the group’s business number.
I gave it a shot, texting an oncologist I’d worked with at Western Pediatric Medical Center and asking her to call Warren Giacomo, M.D., professor of clinical medicine at the U. and the Daylighters’ medical advisor.
Giacomo phoned me at one forty-five p.m. He proved to be a genial sort who’d heard about the Benedict murders and termed them “unbelievable, way too close for comfort.” He had no idea who Candace Kierstead was but assured me, “Jane’s a sweetheart, let me see what I can do.”
I said, “So it’s a good group?”
“Sterling. Older demographic, mostly survivors and relatives. They’ve been extremely generous and once they give money they’re not pushy about how to spend it. So the police think something happened at their party?”
“They do.”
“Wow, I was there,” said Giacomo. “Now that you mention it, Jane did seem upset toward the end of the evening. I didn’t push it. Golden goose and all that. Let me try her personal email.”
“I really appreciate it.”
“No prob, I live on the 500 block of Roxbury. Not a hop-skip but close enough to give my wife and daughters serious creeps.”
* * *
—
Three minutes later, a 310 number flashed on my phone screen.
A throaty voice said, “Dr. Alex Delaware, this is Mrs. Jane Leavitt. Dr. Giacomo informs me you wish to talk about our last fundraiser.”
“That and Candace Kierstead.”
“You bet, sir. Four p.m. You darn well bet.”
* * *
—
The house was a half-timbered, fieldstone-faced, slate-roofed Tudor on the 800 block of North Camden Drive in the Beverly Hills flats. The English gentry thing was thrown awry by a dense palm forest out front. L.A. improvisation, part of what makes the city great.
A pearl-gray Lexus LX was parked in an impeccably clean driveway. A bumper sticker read Kill Cancer!
Before I got to the front door a woman opened it. Seventy or so and tiny—five feet tall, ninety pounds after gorging. A narrow, powdered face was topped by a stiff, black bouffant that swelled like a turban. She wore a pale-blue sweater set, pink quilted Chanel flats, and silver lorgnette opera glasses suspended from a seed-pearl chain.
“Dr. Delaware, Jane.” Quick once-over. Sly smile. “You’re so young. And handsome!” A bird-hand grasped mine and shook with astonishing vigor. Maintaining her grip, she swung me toward the entrance.
As I stepped in, Jane Leavitt’s arm slipped through mine. Chanel perfume. Lots of it.
She half pulled, half pushed me through a foyer with niches holding urns, then down three steps to a sunken living room that looked out to a walled garden crammed with more palms.
Expensive interior decades ago, now charmingly dated: hand-scored, peg-and-groove pecan floors, walls covered in linenfold pickled oak, a coffered ceiling of the same wood. Chairs and sofas were upholstered in velvet, paisley, and bright florals. A Chagall fiddler painting looked real, as did a Warhol soup can, a Lichtenstein comic strip send-up, and a massive Frank Stella chevron.
Candace Kierstead had set out graham crackers and coffee. Jane Leavitt had turbocharged the concept of hospitality.
A silver-and-glass coffee table was laden with bone china plates of croissants, raisin bread, sesame flatbread, and brioche rolls. A tub of soft butter sat next to a tub of strawberry preserves. Gigantic purple grapes were presented in triads dangling from stems, haloing slices of cheese arranged like the folds of a geisha’s fan. In addition to all that, bowls of nuts and dried fruits and pink meat sliced tissue-thin.