“Okay, thanks—do you think Tori and Bethany would have anything to add?”
“Probably not,” said Yoli. “We’ll ask them. If they have something, they’ll call you, what’s your number?”
Milo handed out two cards.
Yoli said, “Homicide. Ecchh.”
Milo said, “How can we reach Marissa’s family?”
“There isn’t one, not really. She never knew her dad and her mom died like…three years ago. Some sort of neurological thing, she didn’t want to talk about it. There’s an aunt, she mentioned an aunt. I’ll see if Tori and Bethany know about her.”
“I’d really appreciate that, Yoli. Thanks for your time.”
We stood.
Beth Halperin said, “At the border I used to hear rockets explode. This is worse.”
—
Out in the car, Milo said, “Fake movie producer, makes sense, everything’s falling into place. When we get back I find out who her phone carrier is, put in the affidavit for the subpoena, see who she talked to before she died, and hopefully come up with a name. Once I get a name, I go back to the databases and if they don’t tell me anything, I recheck with Leary because sleazy is sleazy, you never know, maybe the bastard got busted for something but didn’t get charged.”
Long oration.
He turned to me. “That’s the plan. Comments?”
I was forming the word “None” when his phone rang.
The screen saidPetra.
He switched to speaker. “What’s up, kid?”
She explained.
“The plan” was now a thing of the past.
Chapter
6
Detective III Petra Connor had a cool, confident voice and told the story with her usual economy.
Just after twelve noon, Oleg Karkovsky, an off-site manager for a real estate conglomerate headquartered in Las Vegas, had entered one of the eighteen buildings he oversaw in L.A. County. This one sat on Selma Avenue between Sunset and Hollywood, two blocks short of the street’s termination at Highland.
Karkovsky’s destination was a third-floor one-bedroom unit scheduled for inspection of a faulty water heater. The tenant had demanded immediate repair, irate and foulmouthed because of lukewarm showers. Despite being three months behind in his rent.
Karkovsky had knocked, received silence, used his master key to get in. Calling out and receiving no reply, he’d headed for a utility closet off the kitchen. Before he got there, something out on the unit’s narrow balcony caught his eye.
Petra said, “I’m quoting verbatim, you add the Russian accent. ‘The guy’s lying there, I think idiot fell sleep, maybe out there all night. The fools I deal with in Hollywood are worse than in Moscow.’ Anyway Karkovsky opens the slider ready to do a wakey-wake and sees the blood.”
—
Paul Allan O’Brien, forty-three, had been shot once through the neck, the bullet nicking his carotid artery and his jugular vein before passing through cleanly and exiting through the back. Bouncing off an external wall behind him, it had landed on the floor and settled beside a long-dead potted palm.
Petra said, “Full metal jacket, .308, don’t see those often. The techs confirmed it but I could see it myself, the cartridge was pretty much intact. I’m figuring the pass-through was due to the jacket being unmodified because something military—hollow point, a custom job—would’ve exploded inside him. Hopefully, the fact that it didn’t go deep into the wall will tell us about distance and trajectory. The most likely origin—the only thing I can see—is it came from somewhere in the building next door. We’re talking fifty or more units and two stories higher. But it’s got a security door, no one answers my button-pushes, and I haven’t had time to seriously look for access yet. So why am I calling you? Because on the floor of O’Brien’s bedroom is a skimpy red rayon dress with cutouts, lacy thong panties, five-inch-heel shoes, and a purse. Inside the purse is the I.D. of a Marissa French, a wallet with money and cards but no phone and no Marissa. I look her up and she’s brand new on the murder list as one of yours. So here we are again, sir, pooling our talents. What’s Marissa’s story?”
Milo told her. “Does O’Brien fit my bad guy?”
“To a T. Big and muscular, one sleeved arm, soul patch, the Pink Floyd tee. Karkovsky knew nothing about him other than he owed rent and was a jerk. So looks like he took her home, overdosed her, did whatever he did to her, then dumped her over by you and came back here. Then someone shootshim.Beyond weird.”
