called Milo again. He said, “Just found her myself, meeting her tomorrow at eleven. I’m assuming you don’t want to miss the fun?”
“Where’s it happening?”
“Her place, she’s on reduced hours due to budget issues. Sounded scared witless about being contacted by the police but didn’t put up a fuss. As to her curiosity level, we’ll see. Meanwhile, mine’s spiking out of control.”
CHAPTER
9
H e picked me up the following morning. “Got your ear-plugs? She lives right near the airport, I’m talking flight-path hell. This is probably why.”
He handed me two sheets of paper. The first contained Samantha Pelleter’s credit report. Two bankruptcies in the last ten years, a foreclosed house in San Fernando, a slew of confiscated credit cards. The second page bore his handwritten notes: Pelleter had no criminal record, owned no property. County records pulled up a divorce six months prior to losing her home.
“Her title’s a mouthful,” he said. “Qualification consultant. Looks like that and chairing the company party supplied more ego dollars than the real stuff. This is a lady on the downslide and I’m wondering if that’s related to some sort of serious mental problem.”
“I found a picture of her. She’s small.”
“I know, got her stats. So she’s got a large friend. Maybe someone else at Well-Start who Vita accused.”
“A revenge killing?”
“Talk about a classic motive.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t think so.”
“Don’t know enough to think.”
He laughed. “Like the engine ever stops running.”
Samantha Pelleter lived in a two-story, block-wide apartment building within walking distance of Sepulveda Boulevard. Aging stucco was the color of freezer-burned chicken. Incoming planes descended at angles that seemed too acute, casting terrible shadows, turning conversation moot. The air smelled of jet fuel. Not a tree in sight.
Pelleter lived in a ground-floor flat on the west end of the complex. The half-second lapse between buzzer-push and open door said she’d been waiting for us. From the look in her eyes and a freshly gnawed thumbnail, not a relaxed wait.
Milo introduced himself.
She said, “Sure, sure, come in. Please.”
The apartment was small, dim, generically furnished, not dissimilar to Vita Berlin’s place.
The woman Vita had accused of masterminding harassment was a shrunken figure with a quavering voice and the slumped-shouldered resignation of a child waiting to be slapped. Watery eyes were blue and so was her expression. Blond had mostly ceded to gray. Her haircut was short, ragged, probably a do-it-yourself. She fooled with the hem of a faded red sweatshirt. A misshapen glass pendant hanging from a thin black cord was her sole adornment. The glass was chipped at one end.
Brushing off the seats of the folding chairs she offered us, she hustled to a cluttered kitchenette, returned with a plastic tray bearing a pitcher, two cups, a jar of instant coffee, a pair of tea bags, loose packets of sugar and sweetener.
“Hot water,” she said. “So you guys can have coffee or tea whatever. All’s I have is decaf, sorry.”
“Thanks, Ms. Pelleter,” said Milo, but he didn’t touch anything on the tray and neither did I.
She said, “Oh, I forgot the cookies,” and turned back.
Milo placed a gentle hand atop her forearm. That was enough to freeze her in place. The blue eyes turned huge.
“Not necessary, Ms. Pelleter, but thanks again. Now please sit down so we can chat.”
She tugged an index finger as if trying to remove a nonexistent ring. Complied. “Chat about Vita? I don’t get it, all that happened last year, it was supposed to be over.”
“The lawsuit.”
“Not allowed to talk about it, sorry.”
I said, “Must’ve been an ordeal.”
“Not for her, she got rich. The rest of us—no, no, I can’t talk about it.”
“Her accusations were false?”
“Totally, totally, totally. I never did anything to her.”
“What about
“Where’s it happening?”
“Her place, she’s on reduced hours due to budget issues. Sounded scared witless about being contacted by the police but didn’t put up a fuss. As to her curiosity level, we’ll see. Meanwhile, mine’s spiking out of control.”
CHAPTER
9
H e picked me up the following morning. “Got your ear-plugs? She lives right near the airport, I’m talking flight-path hell. This is probably why.”
He handed me two sheets of paper. The first contained Samantha Pelleter’s credit report. Two bankruptcies in the last ten years, a foreclosed house in San Fernando, a slew of confiscated credit cards. The second page bore his handwritten notes: Pelleter had no criminal record, owned no property. County records pulled up a divorce six months prior to losing her home.
“Her title’s a mouthful,” he said. “Qualification consultant. Looks like that and chairing the company party supplied more ego dollars than the real stuff. This is a lady on the downslide and I’m wondering if that’s related to some sort of serious mental problem.”
“I found a picture of her. She’s small.”
“I know, got her stats. So she’s got a large friend. Maybe someone else at Well-Start who Vita accused.”
“A revenge killing?”
“Talk about a classic motive.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t think so.”
“Don’t know enough to think.”
He laughed. “Like the engine ever stops running.”
Samantha Pelleter lived in a two-story, block-wide apartment building within walking distance of Sepulveda Boulevard. Aging stucco was the color of freezer-burned chicken. Incoming planes descended at angles that seemed too acute, casting terrible shadows, turning conversation moot. The air smelled of jet fuel. Not a tree in sight.
Pelleter lived in a ground-floor flat on the west end of the complex. The half-second lapse between buzzer-push and open door said she’d been waiting for us. From the look in her eyes and a freshly gnawed thumbnail, not a relaxed wait.
Milo introduced himself.
She said, “Sure, sure, come in. Please.”
The apartment was small, dim, generically furnished, not dissimilar to Vita Berlin’s place.
The woman Vita had accused of masterminding harassment was a shrunken figure with a quavering voice and the slumped-shouldered resignation of a child waiting to be slapped. Watery eyes were blue and so was her expression. Blond had mostly ceded to gray. Her haircut was short, ragged, probably a do-it-yourself. She fooled with the hem of a faded red sweatshirt. A misshapen glass pendant hanging from a thin black cord was her sole adornment. The glass was chipped at one end.
Brushing off the seats of the folding chairs she offered us, she hustled to a cluttered kitchenette, returned with a plastic tray bearing a pitcher, two cups, a jar of instant coffee, a pair of tea bags, loose packets of sugar and sweetener.
“Hot water,” she said. “So you guys can have coffee or tea whatever. All’s I have is decaf, sorry.”
“Thanks, Ms. Pelleter,” said Milo, but he didn’t touch anything on the tray and neither did I.
She said, “Oh, I forgot the cookies,” and turned back.
Milo placed a gentle hand atop her forearm. That was enough to freeze her in place. The blue eyes turned huge.
“Not necessary, Ms. Pelleter, but thanks again. Now please sit down so we can chat.”
She tugged an index finger as if trying to remove a nonexistent ring. Complied. “Chat about Vita? I don’t get it, all that happened last year, it was supposed to be over.”
“The lawsuit.”
“Not allowed to talk about it, sorry.”
I said, “Must’ve been an ordeal.”
“Not for her, she got rich. The rest of us—no, no, I can’t talk about it.”
“Her accusations were false?”
“Totally, totally, totally. I never did anything to her.”
“What about
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