Unnatural history, p.19
Unnatural History, page 19
“Did you see where he got the money?”
He nodded. “This wooden thing near the camera—like a closet, but wood. Same place where he kept the clothes, he reaches in and out comes this effin’ wad. I’m thinking this can’t be real. Waited until I was outside and alone to count it. Twenty twenties tied up with this paper thing from a bank. I had to break it up into three sections so it wouldn’t bulge my pockets, you know?”
“Pays to be careful,” said Milo.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“Unfortunately, Donny may not have been careful.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. He’s giving me a wad, I’m grateful, I’m thinking good thoughts. What if there was an evil dude who wasn’t and came back for more?”
“You never came back.”
Yellow eyes bugged. “No-oooh. No, no, no, no, don’t go there, sir. Do not go there. Please.” Cudahy dropped the donut and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m thinking I should leave.”
“Sorry, Gene. These are just questions we need to ask.”
“You already asked, I already told. He gave me extra I never asked for. To me, he’s like a god, you don’t mess with a god. No way, sir. Don’t go there, sir.”
“We’re not, Gene, but I do need to ask you another question to be thorough.”
The arms tightened. “What?”
“Where were you two Mondays ago?”
Gene Cudahy’s face screwed up. “Two…Mondays…how the eff am I…like I said, I’m not real good with time…” He brightened. “Two Mondays? The one before the last? Ha!” The arms dropped. A finger pointed at Milo, then over at me. “Gotcha! Two Mondays I was at Pitchess.”
County Jail branch in Castaic. Intended as an honor farm before the number of inmates forced diversity.
Milo said, “How long were you in Pitchess?”
“Eighteen days, just got out three ago. That’s why I was at DSS.”
“What landed you in Pitchess, Gene?”
“The usual.” Cudahy looked down at the bench, took hold of the donut, and raised it to his lips. Three quick bites; nothing left but crumbs.
Milo said, “The usual.”
“I got found with paraphernalia. Usually they let me go with that but this time I also had a little extra dirt in there.” Pointing to his left sneaker. “Trying to stretch it out so I could be healthy all day. Serves me right.” Ragged grin. “Trying to be mature. So now it’s paraphernalia plus the dirt and they could’ve still let me go but they didn’t, that’s how it is, you never know what’s gonna happen. So my PD says plead out, you’ll get minimum security—basically room and board for a couple. So I did. That proves it, right?”
“Proves what, Gene?”
“That I’m no criminal. It’s effin’ Pitchess. Know what they used to call it? The Drunk Farm. Now it’s the stupid stuff farm. They put me in Fire Camp but they didn’t try to teach me how to do fireman shit ’cause I was too old and wasn’t staying long enough. You can look it up. That’s where I was. Fire Camp.”
He brushed crumbs from dirty jeans, sat back, and observed with amusement as Milo made a call, got transferred several times, finally confirmed the dates of incarceration.
“Okay, Gene.”
Cudahy snickered. “Sometimes you should just believe folk.”
Milo smiled at him. “Think so?”
“Nah. That would be effin’ insane.”
* * *
—
Milo showed him the shots of the other Wishers as well as Colin Klement’s DMV shot. Cudahy took the time to study each photo before shaking his head. “Who’s the Black guy? He doesn’t look street.”
“Someone Donny knew.”
“You think he did it?”
“No evidence of that, Gene. How about this guy?”
Showing Cudahy a ten-year-old mugshot of Abel Rodriguez.
Cudahy tightened up. “He did it?”
“Nope. So you know him.”
“Eff yeah, that’s Cap. He’s who hooked me up with Mr. Donny.”
“How’d that happen?”
“I’m sitting in the park—Lafayette, near that courthouse.”
Cudahy’s eyes shot to the left and he rubbed his arm.
No mystery about the sudden edginess. Years ago, I’d testified as an expert in an injury case at the Civil West Courthouse on Commonwealth adjoining Lafayette Park. The bailiff had warned me, “Don’t go in there, it’s nothing but hypes, pushers, and other lowlifes happy to cut your throat.”
Milo said, “We couldn’t care less why you were there, Gene. Tell us about Cap.”
“Nothing to tell. He’s walking around, like he does.”
I said, “When he’s looking for someone.”
Nod. “He sees me and comes over.”
“He capped you before.”
“Not for a while. Medical things, he drives me somewhere, they give me X-rays, measure my head, my teeth, my legs, put a thing across here and let it beep.”
Rubbing his chest. “Sometimes they stick a needle in and take blood. Or shoot something in.” Sudden smile. “Not a problem, right? Sometimes they put something up my you-know-what. Afterward, they pay me. But not like Mr. Donny. Twenty, thirty, I think the most was like…fifty a thing.”
“How many things were there?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“More than twenty?”
“Maybe…I don’t know. Not going to lie, don’t know numbers.”
“A few,” I said. “But not for a while. How come?”
“I been traveling,” said Cudahy. “Went back to Chicago to see my mom then she died. Came back here like…two years ago?”
“Got it. So Cap remembered you and came over. What’d he have to say?”
“ ‘Hey, man, got something sweet.’ I’m thinking, Here goes something up my you-know-what again but I said ‘What?’ ’cause I needed to stay healthy. Then he told me some rich dude wants to take your picture. I say okay, just X-rays. He says, no, not X-rays, real pictures. Photography. I say naked? Something filthy? ’Cause I got my limits. He laughs and says, ‘You’re paranoid, dude. Normal photography and you get paid a hundred.’ So I did it. And that’s all I know.”
Milo said, “Okay, thanks for your time, Gene. Where can we take you?”
“No place, sir. I’ll just sit here, there’s nice sun.” He raised his face to heat and light, accenting every flaw in a once sturdy structure.
“If you think of anything, here’s my card, Gene.” Wrapping it in a ten.
Cudahy unfurled the bill. “What’s this for?”
“Cooperation. Take care of yourself.”
Milo held out his hand. Cudahy hesitated then shook it. Spreading the bill tight, he slipped it into a pocket and smiled. “Not a twenty like Mr. Donny used, but okay.”
The smile wavered and died. “Shouldn’t happen to him. Not right, not right at all.”
* * *
—
We left Cudahy on the bench and returned to the unmarked. I got in but Milo went to the trunk and retrieved something. Bottle of liquid disinfectant that he squirted on the hand Gene Cudahy had touched. Rubbing both hands together for good measure.
Cudahy hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t followed us at all, as he remained peering upward. Enjoying a warm bath of L.A. sunlight.
Sooner or later, the comfort would pass and he’d experience chills and go searching for a remedy, ten-dollar bill in hand.
CHAPTER
26
“Alibied by the penal system,” said Milo, driving back to my house. “Theoretically, he coulda gotten a buddy to do a break-in but I believe him about liking Donny. You feel any different?”
“I don’t.”
“So for the time being, two Wishers down, six to go. If I include the women.”
“I would,” I said. “A woman could pull off a shooting and strangling an eighty-nine pounder. A bludgeoning, too, if she was strong enough and had the right weapon. But even without that, what’s to stop one of them from getting a boyfriend to collaborate on a big-money break-in. Or to do it as a couple.”
“Big easy money, kept in full view and shelled out freely,” he said. “If he gave five hundred to Gene, no reason to think he skimped on the others.” He shook his head. “Lottery time for people without a crumb to their names. Poor guy was a victim made to order. It’s almost like he had a death wish, Alex. You talked about guilt. Think on some level he coulda been suicidal?”
“So far we haven’t heard about any serious mood issues or desire to pack it in. Even if there was guilt, I still think he was primarily trying to be kind.”
“Flash a little white card and every day’s Christmas,” he said. “You live like that, money takes on a whole new meaning.”
I said, “More like lack of meaning.”
“Too much, too soon warps you?”
“Satiation screws up perspective, especially when it’s seen as undeserved. Animals know that intuitively and opt for something called contra-freeloading. When given a choice between a bowl full of food and one that requires some work, they choose work.”
“Really,” he said. “We talking your maze-rat buddies?”
“Rats, canines, birds, apes, even some fish.”
“Hunh…so maybe ol’ Victor didn’t do his kids any favor. At least one kid, the others seem to have done some kind of work.”
“The others are considerably older, it may have taken time. Or they brought more resources to the table. Colin certainly did. Smart, athletic, and his mother was a good role model. Working herself up the ladder when that wasn’t easy.”
“Adonis’s mother, on the other hand, O.D.’d and left her golden boy to find her body.”
“Toss in severe dyslexia and it couldn’t have been easy.”
We drove for a while, not speaking.
The conversation had brought to mind the comfortable life I enjoyed now, years after my escape from Missouri. Arriving in Oakland and lucking out with a kind aunt who prevented me from starving and bankrolled my application to the U. Entering college at sixteen, barely shaving, lying my way to pick up guitar gigs in places I was too young to enter legally.
Milo said, “Helluva noisy silence. What?”
No sense getting into ancient history.
I said, “There was a poster that circulated years ago. I’ve been rich, I’ve been poor, rich is better. Sure, thinking you have too much and you don’t deserve it can be an issue but you’re always free to give away as much as you want. Which is exactly what Donny may have been trying to accomplish. No way to know how far he would’ve taken it. In contrast, people like Jangles and Gene don’t have much by way of choice. Maybe that really got to one of them.”
“Encountering Mr. Generous.” He sighed. “Then he gets encountered.”
“Could be someone asked Donny for more than five hundred and got turned down.”
“I can see him doing that,” he said. “Not to pull rank. To be fair.”
His phone abused Delibes’s Lakmé “Flower Duet.” He handed it over.
I read the screen. “Andre Friederich.”
“After midnight in Paree—push the button.” Click. “Bonne nuit, monsieur.”
Friederich said, “You speak French?” No bistro sounds in the background. I pictured a walk-up flat, shabby but elegant, in one of the moderate arrondissements.
Milo said, “Not much beyond that, Andre. What’s up?”
“I am calling to inform you that Victor Klement was spotted at his château yesterday. He did not look happy but I cannot tell you why. How’s your investigation going?”
“Not brilliantly.”
“Ah, well, such is life. No suspects?”
Milo chuckled. “When it’s resolved, you’ll know. So who saw Klement?”
“My source,” said Friederich. “I’m sorry, he—she—whoever—must remain confidential because good positions are hard to find. And this person knows nothing that could be of use to you, merely what I just told you.”
“Victor showed up,” said Milo. “Big stretch limo?”
Friederich laughed. “We don’t do that in France. A Mini that he drove himself.”
“Was he by himself?”
“With his bride-to-be. Neither of them looked happy. I doubt that has anything to do with your case, life offers many opportunities for la grande tristesse.”
A woman’s voice filtered through. “Aahn-dre?” Soft, sultry.
Friederich said, “I must go. Be well, Lieutenant.” Click.
Milo said, “No big sadness for him tonight. So Daddy’s in a blue mood. Maybe he found out about Donny or maybe Friederich is right.”
A moment later: “Probably nothing to do with Donny. If he’d heard, he’d likely get in touch with me, no? Or maybe not, since this isn’t a real family and he isn’t a real dad.”
As I handed the phone back, it began to abuse another piece of music. The victim never to be known because I killed it after two notes.
Sean Binchy said, “Loot, I’m back in the shop and there’s some people here to see you about Klement.”
Milo said, “His father?”
“Couple of fathers but not his. Along with their kids. They just showed up, it’s kind of interesting.”
“Kind of?”
Sean summarized.
Milo said, “Give ’em something to drink. Offer them nibbles from the snack bin downstairs, be there in fifteen.”
CHAPTER
27
Larry Amundsen was fiftyish, heavyset, and pink-faced, with thinning gray hair.
Frank Cervantes was fiftyish, heavyset, and bronze, with thinning gray hair.
They lived within a hundred yards of each other but hadn’t been aware of that until today.
Amundsen worked as a night security guard at an amorphously shaped new building on Washington Boulevard that housed a videogame unicorn.
Cervantes worked as a night clerk at a twenty-four-hour truck rental yard on Culver Boulevard.
Their homes were apartments on the street perpendicular to Donny Klement’s studio, less than three blocks north of the crime scene. Neither man had anything to offer about the murder. Neither had heard of it. Until hours ago.
That insight had come from a series of terrified texts exchanged between their respective oldest children, aged sixteen.
Frank Cervantes, a marine vet who viewed the world as inherently corrupt, more so since the inception of the internet, made a point of monitoring all his five kids’ cyber-communications. Whether they liked it or not.
“My house, my rules,” he told us, man-spreading on a folding chair in the big interview room with the twin whiteboards, now wiped clean. Milo and I sat facing him. Sean Binchy stood in a corner.
Next to Cervantes, positioned similarly, Larry Amundsen nodded appreciatively. “Smart. Should’ve done it, myself.” He turned to glare at his son Aidan. That cued Cervantes to glare at his daughter Tiffany.
Both teens squirmed.
Aidan Amundsen was blond, gawky, a little weak in the chin, six-two, one forty after feasting. Tiffany Cervantes was a foot shorter, a hundred pounds, if that, and wore transparent-framed eyeglasses that magnified squinty brown eyes.
They both attended a charter high school for artistically gifted students, Tiffany’s specialty being creative writing, Aidan’s, computer graphics. The divergence in interest minimized the classes they attended together, but Honors English had seated them next to each other and that had sparked romance.
A year of covert romance, enabled by the fact that Aidan’s father didn’t check his three kids’ texts and Tiffany had been conscientious about deleting anything to do with Aidan or any other boy.
Until this morning, when she’d slipped up. Insisting to Aidan that we need to deal with it its seriously moral!!!
Wrong morning to forget. Frank Cervantes, sleeping in on a rare day off, had come into the kitchen for breakfast, ready to kiss his wife and lecture his progeny about table manners. On the way, he passed the bedroom Tiffany shared with her two sisters and spotted her on her lower bunk, fingers racing and “looking like a scared rabbit.”
Stomping in, he’d snatched the phone from her hand. Read. Bellowed.
“Serious? What’s serious? You talking moral or immoral? Don’t go telling me you’ve done something seriously stupid, girl. Don’t go telling me that!”
Obviously, Tiffany had burst into tears and continued sobbing as she threw her arms around her father. His impulse was to hug her back but he stood there because this was no time to get mushy.
“Tell me you’re not pregnant!”
At that, Tiffany drew back and planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I can’t believe you said that! That is shameful!”
Frank, relieved and chastened, said, “Then what’s immoral?”
“Not immoral.” As if talking to a moron. “Moral. Like one of those choice things they teach us about.”
“Fine, fine. What? Spit it out.”
Taking a deep breath, Tiffany told him.
He sat down on the bunk next to her, shaking his head. “Too much, girl. You are complicating my life.”
Then he texted Aidan. This is Tiffany’s dad. Get yours on the phone. Now.
* * *
—
Milo looked to the leftmost chair where Aidan Amundsen sat, both knees pumping up and down, fidgeting with his cuticles. Poor kid already had nails bitten down to nubs.
In the rightmost chair, Tiffany Cervantes alternated between looking put-upon and sneaking glances at Aidan.
Between them, several hundred pounds of paternal bulk.
