really helpful. If you think of anything else, here’s my
card.”
“She
won’t think of nothing, trust me,” said Passant. “And give me one of those,
too.”
We
watched them leave, Passant yammering as Sanfelice stomped ahead of her.
Milo
said, “Blondie was nudging up against you pretty blatantly.”
“You
have no idea,” I said.
“Serious
footsies?”
“Beyond.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll
send the department a bill for freelance decoy work. Did Passant have anything
to add when you got her alone?”
“Nada,
she’s an airhead. Though she did try to fool with my desert boots. If only she
knew, huh? What about Sanfelice over by the john?”
“Please
don’t tell Mom. Looks like Des was a creature of habit.”
“That Kill Me sign’s looking bigger and brighter. Okay, we’re outta here.”
“Italian?”
“You’re
hungry?”
“I
assumed you were.”
“Yeah,
I could ingest, we could even stay here. Alternatively, we could go for the
mixed antipasto, that headcheese with delicate but smoky overtones, the fried
artichokes Roman-style, nice salad with thin-sliced Parmesan and pepperoncini
and intensely cured black olives, the big, hot bowl of baked ziti with the
bread crumbs sprinkled on top. If there’s still room, there’s always the
double-cut veal chop with the Sicilian sauce, wedge of spumoni, triple
espresso, pump in the caffeine.”
Sliding
his bulk out of the booth. “Not that I’ve been thinking about it.”
Out
in the parking lot, I said, “Nice lateral pass on the interview.”
He
grinned. “Nice catch. I figured psychological sensitivity was called for.”
“Flattered.”
“It
had nothing to do with the fact that I don’t sleep with women.”
“That
never occurred to me.”
“No?”
“Who
is more aware than I of your painful shyness?”
“To
be honest, Alex, if we were dealing with men, I’da come out and asked. Because
men can’t wait to talk about their sex lives. I figuredwomen
were different, it would be like oral surgery, but go know. Sorry for your
having to deal with Blondie’s lack of filter.”
“Mercy
me, the trauma,” I said. “Where’s the self-help group?”
He
laughed. Turned serious. “A married woman old enough to be his mama, a wild
girl, and a shy, nerdy type. Guy was all over the map.”
“What
strikes me,” I said, “is that none of them seem particularly impacted by his
death. There was initial shock but once that wore off, all three discussed him
objectively. Same way they did at the cocktail lounge. He meant very little to
them emotionally and probably vice versa, but what if Jane Doe was different?”
“Someone
Don Juan actually got involved with. Maybe. When you factor in the zip code, he
did take her on a fancy date.”
Several
plates full of Italian food later, I drove back to the city over Benedict
Canyon while Milo phoned a judge known to skim rather than read and requested a
victim search warrant for Desmond Backer’s residence.
The
next call was to Santa Monica PD, making nice with the day-shift homicide
lieutenant by promising not to tie up her detectives and convincing her to send
a locksmith to Backer’s apartment as soon as possible.
We
reached Santa Monica at the end of a nice beach day; tourists and wild-eyed
homeless people divvied up Ocean Front Boulevard. Backer’s building on
California was four stories of rain-streaked white stucco pimpled by juliet
balconies too small to be functional and bottomed by a subterranean lot. The
view was the massive, five-story condo across the street.
Three
blocks east of the beach bought you the smell of the ocean but no big blue
kiss.
The
building’s interior was cool and gray and sterile. The locksmith was already in
place at the door to Backer’s second-floor flat, looking sleepy. He said,
“Murder case, huh?” and opened his bag. Milo gave him latex gloves and sheathed
his own hands and mine. The locksmith said, “Must be a biggie,” and got to
work. The
card.”
“She
won’t think of nothing, trust me,” said Passant. “And give me one of those,
too.”
We
watched them leave, Passant yammering as Sanfelice stomped ahead of her.
Milo
said, “Blondie was nudging up against you pretty blatantly.”
“You
have no idea,” I said.
“Serious
footsies?”
“Beyond.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll
send the department a bill for freelance decoy work. Did Passant have anything
to add when you got her alone?”
“Nada,
she’s an airhead. Though she did try to fool with my desert boots. If only she
knew, huh? What about Sanfelice over by the john?”
“Please
don’t tell Mom. Looks like Des was a creature of habit.”
“That Kill Me sign’s looking bigger and brighter. Okay, we’re outta here.”
“Italian?”
“You’re
hungry?”
“I
assumed you were.”
“Yeah,
I could ingest, we could even stay here. Alternatively, we could go for the
mixed antipasto, that headcheese with delicate but smoky overtones, the fried
artichokes Roman-style, nice salad with thin-sliced Parmesan and pepperoncini
and intensely cured black olives, the big, hot bowl of baked ziti with the
bread crumbs sprinkled on top. If there’s still room, there’s always the
double-cut veal chop with the Sicilian sauce, wedge of spumoni, triple
espresso, pump in the caffeine.”
Sliding
his bulk out of the booth. “Not that I’ve been thinking about it.”
Out
in the parking lot, I said, “Nice lateral pass on the interview.”
He
grinned. “Nice catch. I figured psychological sensitivity was called for.”
“Flattered.”
“It
had nothing to do with the fact that I don’t sleep with women.”
“That
never occurred to me.”
“No?”
“Who
is more aware than I of your painful shyness?”
“To
be honest, Alex, if we were dealing with men, I’da come out and asked. Because
men can’t wait to talk about their sex lives. I figuredwomen
were different, it would be like oral surgery, but go know. Sorry for your
having to deal with Blondie’s lack of filter.”
“Mercy
me, the trauma,” I said. “Where’s the self-help group?”
He
laughed. Turned serious. “A married woman old enough to be his mama, a wild
girl, and a shy, nerdy type. Guy was all over the map.”
“What
strikes me,” I said, “is that none of them seem particularly impacted by his
death. There was initial shock but once that wore off, all three discussed him
objectively. Same way they did at the cocktail lounge. He meant very little to
them emotionally and probably vice versa, but what if Jane Doe was different?”
“Someone
Don Juan actually got involved with. Maybe. When you factor in the zip code, he
did take her on a fancy date.”
Several
plates full of Italian food later, I drove back to the city over Benedict
Canyon while Milo phoned a judge known to skim rather than read and requested a
victim search warrant for Desmond Backer’s residence.
The
next call was to Santa Monica PD, making nice with the day-shift homicide
lieutenant by promising not to tie up her detectives and convincing her to send
a locksmith to Backer’s apartment as soon as possible.
We
reached Santa Monica at the end of a nice beach day; tourists and wild-eyed
homeless people divvied up Ocean Front Boulevard. Backer’s building on
California was four stories of rain-streaked white stucco pimpled by juliet
balconies too small to be functional and bottomed by a subterranean lot. The
view was the massive, five-story condo across the street.
Three
blocks east of the beach bought you the smell of the ocean but no big blue
kiss.
The
building’s interior was cool and gray and sterile. The locksmith was already in
place at the door to Backer’s second-floor flat, looking sleepy. He said,
“Murder case, huh?” and opened his bag. Milo gave him latex gloves and sheathed
his own hands and mine. The locksmith said, “Must be a biggie,” and got to
work. The
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