City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(38)

I said, “Or he planned to take the body somewhere and stage differently. Then the van showed up and he saw it as an opportunity.”

Milo said, “Stage differently, how?”

“Shoot him and pose it like suicide.”

“Why not do that in the house?”

I said, “The noise made it too risky. Especially in the early-morning hours, everyone sleeping in a quiet neighborhood.”

He said, “The van was a lucky break. Cut short how far he needed to take the body.”

“And obliterated the clubbing.”

Milo grinned at Basia. “Unfortunately for him, someone was paying attention.”

She blushed and thumbed the edges of the file. “Now I have a question for you, Alex. The intention to kill her in the bedroom, are we talking a sexual crime? There were no signs of assault.”

I said, “The act of stabbing can be sexual but impossible to say.”

Milo said, “We’ve seen a few of those moon-howlers, the knife’s a—what do you call it, Alex?”

“Surrogate weapon,” I said. “On the other hand, the bedroom could simply have been the place he expected to find her.”

She smiled. “He’s the psychologist and he avoids psychologizing.”

“Tell me about it,” said Milo. “I sweat to get every drop of wisdom. Anyway, however we put it together, we’ve got someone who likely knew Cordi, was familiar with her house and strong enough to subdue her and to shot-put a little guy like John Doe straight at a moving vehicle. And that fits someone we know.”

Basia said, “Mr. Hoffgarden with his anger issues.”

“He’s six-four, works out for a living. And maybe has another homicide under his belt.”

He told her about Forrest Slope.

She said, “Wow.”

“The good news is he’s got an arrest record. Get me DNA from that second O donor and once I find the guy I’ll either have grounds for a sample warrant or I’ll go the discarded coffee cup route.”

“Maybe the organic juice cup route,” said Basia. “Seeing as he’s a fitness type.”





CHAPTER


    18


As we stood to leave Basia’s office, Milo said, “When you have a chance, a copy of your findings would be great.”

She opened a desk drawer and drew out a manila envelope. “I had a chance.”

“Thanks a mil. And when you can—”

“Talk to the DOJ, I will pester them.” She walked around her desk and patted his shoulder. “I’ll walk you out. Fresh air’s always welcome.”



* * *



—

She stood gazing at the parking lot and past it, at the looming bulk of the county complex. Was still there as we slipped out of view.

Milo said, “Amazing human being. One day some private outfit will probably offer her mega-bucks and I’ll have to settle for a mere mortal. So what do you think?”

I said, “I think it firms up what we already suspected. John Doe unlucky and got used as a prop.”

He nodded. “This is a very bad person we’re talking about. Smart, too, at least in the calculating criminal sense. You’ve spent time with Hoffgarden. Is he bright?”

“He didn’t come across particularly clever or dull but I didn’t give him an IQ test.”

“You do that with the parents?”

“I was kidding. We actually didn’t talk much because he was detached from his daughter and bored with the evaluation process.”

“Wanting the gym, not custody,” he said. “Using his own kid as a prop. Interesting, no?”

I nodded.

“Something else,” he said. “You always say people go for the familiar even if it’s destructive. So a guy with lousy daddy skills might’ve appealed to someone like Cordi, no? Then maybe she smartened up and rejected him and he didn’t like it.”

“Could be.”

He said, “Not a rousing vote of confidence. Am I off base?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Just digesting. Given my history with Hoffgarden, I can’t be there when you interview him but I’d sure like to observe once you’ve got him in a room.”

“When, not if.”

“There’s your vote of confidence.”

“Hmmph. Meanwhile, I’ve still got an unknown victim and you heard what Basia said about facial reconstruction. Any suggestions?”

“When we considered John Doe as a suspect we framed his sleeping on the couch as possible evidence of a spat. Now we know nothing sexual happened so maybe he was just a friend without benefits.”

“Platonic sleepover.” He laughed. “Sounds like the name of an indie band. The media blitz is bound to come. Best case, someone who knew them both will come forward.”

He drove a bit more, checked Waze at the next red light. All the freeways pointing westward were snarled heavier than when we’d arrived.

“City of Angels,” he said. “Okay, let’s try for the best room in hell.”



* * *



—

I commandeered Waze and we began a homeward trek through sad, gray miles of warehouses, fast-food joints, knock-up apartments, and geriatric frame houses in varying states of decay.