Petra said, “No decomp, a bit of livor, rigor’s come and gone, and he’s cold. Given liver temp and cool weather until an hour after sunrise, C.I.’s guessing sometime in the early morning. When was he seen dumping poor Marissa?”
“Just before three a.m.”
“Perfect fit,” she said. “He goes home to celebrate getting away with it but someone has a different idea.”
She pointed to the other end of the balcony where a hibachi with a grill that needed cleaning squatted. Just left of that were a pair of yellow plastic chairs and a matching table. On the table was a bottle of Casamigos Tequila. On the floor, a pair of unlaced black-and-orange basketball shoes.
“There was also half a hand-rolled joint near his body, techs took it, along with his glass.”
Milo said, “No blood trail or drag marks so he was shot near where he fell.”
Petra nodded.
Milo said, “So what, he kicks off his shoes, toasts himself near the table, then gets up to stretch or goes to the head, comes back and gets nailed?”
“That’s exactly how I see it.” Her eyes swiveled to the neighboring building. Separated from O’Brien’s by a driveway leading to its sub-garage and a chain-link fence laced with struggling clematis.
Newer than O’Brien’s sixties-era structure. Probably from the nineties when faith in large-scale Hollywood renewal hadn’t yet ceded to reality. The charmless block-like design that goes with exploiting every inch of land. Someone paying off a city council member or a municipal pencil pusher in order to violate setbacks.
No balconies, just windows. Row after row of identically sized squares.
Milo said, “Who’s the warden?”
Petra said, “Exactly. Hopefully we can narrow down the origin of the shot. One of the techies went to get one of those laser dealies.Knowing O’Brien’s height should help us get a trajectory. Meanwhile, I’ll be trying to get hold of the owners and convince them to give us entry. Raul’s on his way. When he gets here, we’ll assemble a battalion of uniforms and start door-knocking.”
“Did you have time to check if anyone 911’d a gunshot?”
“I did and they didn’t,” she said. “I’m figuring a single pop wouldn’t have made an impression, especially from up here. Ready to seeyourcrime scene?”
Chapter
7
The apartment’s single bedroom was twelve square feet carpeted in frayed navy blue and set up with a king-sized bed. Dull black sheets, glossy black duvet. The semicircular headboard, nightstand, and six-drawer dresser were imitation black lacquer chipped white.
Three posters hung on facing walls. Pink Floyd’sThe Walladorned by a hideous screaming face, a full-on shot of a scarlet Lamborghini Countach looking ready to loft airborne, and a promo for a film calledBlood Warrior.
Petra said, “Reminds me of my brothers’ rooms.”
Milo said, “Living in the past. Maybe he was once a contender.”
“Or had delusions.”
I said, “Have you found his car?”
“Parked around the corner. Ten-year-old black Accord. Another fit to your video.”
Milo looked at the Countach. “Definitely delusions.”
Petra said, “Where’s Marissa’s car?”
“Don’t know yet. Hopefully near the party where she hung with O’Brien and the BOLO will snag it.”
I took a closer look at the movie poster, searching for O’Brien’s name in the small print and not finding it.
Milo had already shifted to the blue carpet. Near the edge of the bed was a jumbled pile. Red dress, panties, shoes, a black clutch purse.
Petra said, “Kate Spade. I’ve got the same one, how’s that for creepy? I was ready to send all of it along with the bullet, then I found out about Marissa and wanted to check with you first. Do you want your case number on it or mine?”
