His phone tooted something baroque. He glanced at the screen, said, “Alicia,” and clicked in. “What’s up, kid?”
For the next minute or so he listened and said nothing, eyes widening, head pitched forward.
“Gimme the address…okay, be there in twenty.”
Clicking off, he scooped up Michael Heck’s photo and turned to me. “Still free?”
“I am.”
“Good. Time for a ride-along.”
Chapter
2
This crime scene was twenty-five minutes from my house but seven minutes from the West L.A. station.
Yellow tape fenced off a one-story bungalow on a block of nearly identical structures five streets south of the monstrous mall at Westwood and Pico.
Many of the small, simple houses shouted pride of ownership. This one didn’t.
Mint-green stucco had faded to sludge-gray sallow in spots. The lawn was skimpy and bristly, green conceding to brown. A gray asphalt roof sported black rectangles where shingles had fled. A dirty, older beige Lexus sat in a cracked, weed-choked driveway.
Black-and-whites positioned perpendicular to the street extended the cordon beyond the death house, walling in two neighboring properties on either side. Parked in front was a black unmarked Ford. Detective Alicia Bogomil’s ride.
A few neighbors gaped from a distance but like most L.A. streets, this one reacted to daylight with isolation. The only other people in sight were uniformed officers doing what everyone else does with spare time: practicing self-hypnosis by phone.
No vans from the Hertzberg crime lab or the coroner had arrived. Same for the compact cars coroner’s investigator used.
Nothing but the initial police presence said a recently discovered body.
Milo said, “Let’s find Alicia.”
Before we took a step, she emerged from behind the Lexus and strode toward us. Trim and purposeful, hair clipped shorter than the last time I’d seen her and tipped with magenta and peacock blue, she wore black slacks, a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt, and black flats. Looking like anything other than what she was.
We’d met her working private security for a hotel where a hundred-year-old woman had been murdered. She’d been a major factor in closing the case and Milo had encouraged her to apply to the department. Then he’d helped fast-track her to detective.
“One of the smartest things I ever did,” he told me shortly after. “Super smart and that work ethic!”
Now she was frowning. “Wouldn’t have called you, L.T., but it’s a strange one.” Her lean avian face canted toward me. “Glad you’re here, Doc. Same reason.”
Milo said, “Thanks.”
“Sir?”
“You rescued me. We were just conferring on Sophie Barlow.”
Alicia smiled faintly. “That one. Okay, let me show you this one.”
—
The three of us gloved and bootied and Alicia led us past the Lexus toward the rear of the green house, keeping up a steady pace while reporting.
“It started a couple hours ago when a neighbor—I took her statement and had her go back to her place but she’ll be available—this neighbor called in a possible welfare check on the occupant because she hadn’t been seen in a while and mail was piling up. I found three days’ worth but it was a pretty big pile so I could see the neighbor’s point.”
Milo said, “Anything interesting?”
“Like what?”
