When I produced cream and sugar, he said, “No thanks, black. To match my mood…where’s the pooch?”
“Out back with Robin.”
“Probably for the best. Just read an article, dogs can sniff out the stink of stress. Don’t want her to suffer my reek.”
I laughed reflexively.
He smiled. “Yeah, I’m whining. Figured if anyone would have something supportive to say it would be you.”
I switched to a plummy voice. What screenwriters have determined shrinks should sound like. “Sounds like you’re upset.”
He broke into laughter.
The coffee machine beeped.
“Perfect timing,” he said. “At least someone’s got it.”
—
I poured, we drank.
He drained his mug, chose to inhale this time before blowing out audibly.
“Okay, confession time. Doctor, I have sinned.”
I said, “Second cup?”
“If it ain’t sacramental wine, no thanks.” He inhaled deeply. “Okay, coupla weeks ago I get a morning call on a body. Apartment not far from the Westmont mall. Female victim named Sophie Barlow, sitting atherkitchen table. Her head’s tilted back, rounding her neck.”
He demonstrated.
I said, “Postmortem gravity would tug it down. What was on display, cutting or strangulation?”
“The latter. Ligature mark’s ringing her neck, her eyes are riddled with petechial hemorrhages, and on the table in front of her is a long shoelace, probably from a sneaker.”
“More display.”
He nodded. “In answer to your next question, she’s fully clothed, no obvious signs of a sexual assault or a struggle, I’m figuring she was taken by surprise from behind by someone she trusted. Which leads me you-know-where.”
“A domestic.”
“Backing that up is a plastic bowl on the table in front of her that was used for an ashtray. In it are a couple of Marlboro Gold butts. The fact that there’s no actual ashtray or cigarettes in the entire place suggests Sophie’s not a smoker. So her guest is. By itself that doesn’t mean much, the butts could come from any visitor and why would the killer leave obvious evidence behind?”
“Like you always say, stupid criminals.”
“Thank God for them. So I was hoping that’s where it would end up. The techies tag and bag the butts and I call in some markers at Hertzberg and manage to get a relatively quick analysis. Meaning ten days for a basic DNA. A sample showed an unknown male, no surprise, someone smoked those cigs. But without a suspect, no big deal yet. Then wouldn’t you know it, we get a CODIS hit. Local guy, Michael Heck, has a bit of a felony record, turns out to be Sophie’s ex-boyfriend.”
He reached into a jacket pocket, drew out an enlarged DMV photo, and slid it across the table. Good-looking man, faint smile, late forties, with a meaty chin, thick wavy dark hair graying at the temples, and narrow, acute-blue eyes.
Keeping it in a pocket was interesting. Normally Milo totes case material in a battered, olive-green vinyl attaché case. Not enough on this case to justifyit?
I said, “What’s a bit of a felony record?”
“Assault charge sixteen years ago when he was in the service, basically a bar fight in Oceanside that got pled down to misdemeanor. Unfortunately for Heck, that was after Prop 69 so the arrest was enough for DNA. Bingo, we arrest him and lock him up, he looks shell-shocked but lawyers up. It looked to be an easy one, that’s why I didn’t call you.”
I said, “Given what you had, it sounds more like logic than tunnel vision.”
“Thanks for the therapy,” he said. “Yeah, one would think and one would be wrong…you know, a second cup doesn’t sound half bad.”
