“Fake news,” said Milo.
Fosburgh took another look at the bodies. “Sitting right there…shit, they could be anyone.”
“They’re anything but.”
“He just hauled off and cut her?”
“Straight in then around to her right carotid. Two seconds.”
“Fuck,” said Fosburgh. “Someone also called in about a guy getting punched out and croaking of a heart attack. I guess nothing like that. What kind of poison?”
Milo took a deep breath. “He pulled that little blue box on the table out of his pocket, swallowed a little white dealie, and said it was a breath mint.”
“Like those Nazi suicide deals in the movies?”
“That would fit.”
“He’s a Nazi, also?”
“It’s complicated, Eric.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry it went to shit, I know what it’s like when things go to shit…you know, your color isn’t looking so good. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
Fosburgh studied him, shook his head. “Your call.” He looked back at his officers. “This is crazy but I’m not going to lie, I’m relieved it’s not an active shooter. When’s the crypt van coming?”
“They’ve been notified. Traffic, who knows?”
Fosburgh took a step closer to the remains of Candace Kierstead, flinched, and retreated. “God, that’s awful, doing her right here, in front of all those people…all right, I’m going to leave as many of my troops here as I can afford. Some may get called away.”
“Whatever you think is best, Eric.”
“Not that you’ll need us if it stays this quiet—totally dead. No pun intended. Or maybe yes, pun intended…a good thing, I guess. The quiet. No civilian pains in the ass, easier to preserve the scene. Not that the scene’s a big deal, no whodunit, you saw it…all those fake news calls…not going to lie, my friend, I’m glad it’s you and not us.”
“It’s definitely us, Eric.”
“It is. Definitely.” Fosburgh patted his shoulder the way Milo sometimes does when he’s feeling avuncular. Milo didn’t react.
Fosburgh, one eye twitching, resumed prating. “That’s the job, eh, Milo? Nothing happens then it does. Between us, when it happens to the bad guys, I say great, save on a trial, move on. In the end this might work out for you. Not being personally involved, I can say all that with some…perspective. Never did homicide, never wanted to…did some burglary and fraud, last few years it’s been traffic, that’s a big deal, here, traffic…guess it’s relevant right now, keep the street clear, what’s done is done.”
Milo nodded.
Fosburgh said, “Doesn’t get more done than this—all right, so I’ll leave all ten until someone gets called. Want me to also tell the fire studs you don’t need them?”
“Good to have them here, Eric. If you can ask them to move one truck and block Brighton.”
“Sure. Good idea. Box it in, keep it mellow. All right, I’m off, got to call my chief, she’s at a conference in Arizona. Tell her everything’s under control. Anything else I can do for you?”
Milo shook his head.
Fosburgh said, “Know what you mean. You’ve got yourself a situation. Good luck.”
Translation: You’re on your own, pal.
CHAPTER
53
By the time the coroner’s vans arrived, darkness had fallen. The fire trucks remained in place but three of the police cruisers had been called away.
The remaining four cops had resorted to working their phones. Looking up briefly as the bodies were loaded.
Sean had hung on the periphery, looking miserable. Milo handed him the search warrant on Medina Okash’s apartment. “Take your time, do every single inch. Landlady’s a peach, she may give you attitude.”
“I can handle that, Loot.”
“Exactly.”
Milo’s next call was to the LAPD Safe Detail, requesting locksmiths for entry to the Clearwater and Conrock houses and the gallery building on Hart. The last would take time, Central Division smiths tied up at a pair of ultra-high-tech-secured toy district warehouses suspected to be the storage facility for a violent home-invasion gang.
He assigned Alicia the houses.
When she was gone, Reed gave an expectant look.
“You and me, downtown, Moses. It’s a big space. If I can get Coolidge and Freeman, I’ll use them, too.”
Next communication: his captain. Who referred him to a deputy chief. Who told him to contact the Public Affairs office. Which was closed.
He texted a message, got a call two minutes later.
Dr. Basia Lopatinski said, “Just got your message.” I didn’t know he’d left one.
He said, “No mystery on cause and manner but any guesses about the poison pill?”
“What did it look like?”
“Little white square thing, came in a blue tin with Chinese lettering.”
“What were his symptoms and how long did he take to die?”
“He got weak, started foaming at the mouth, vomited, seized, and that was it. Maybe half a minute start to finish.”
She said, “Except for the half minute I’d say potassium cyanide, which usually takes a couple of minutes. It’s similar to what the Nazis used. Also Tamil, for bombers in Sri Lanka and various other fanatics. I suppose it could be KCN kicked up by a chemical accelerator. An antidepressant would do.”
“Could we be talking literal Nazi stuff saved from back then?”
“With Chinese lettering? Doubtful. Their factories make all kinds of illegal products. Including most of our fentanyl.”
“Any legit uses?”
“Here, only industrial purposes. Photography, mining, fertilizer manufacture. And for those you’d use liquid, not pills. In the Wild East, who knows? Hold on…here we go. I’m going to send you a picture from an alleged assisted suicide website and you’ll say, hey, that’s the one.”
Seconds later, an image.
He saved. “Hey, that’s the one. Why alleged?”
“It’s obviously a commercial site aimed at exploiting depressed people. They also sell a clone of Nembutal to ensure that death is as quick and painless as possible.”