City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(4)

“What’re you looking for? Dope?”

“I’m sure you guys are clean but—”

“No prob, do your thing,” said LaMotta, gritting his teeth. “My man here was a choirboy and I drank in high school, put weight on, took it off, and haven’t touched a drop since. We do coffee, we’re not Mormons, we like our coffee. Live on coffee. For the purpose of we don’t need anything else besides coffee.”

Moe said, “Got it.”

“You also need to know the company mandates rests and meals, we take every single one, you can check our logs. We slept appropriately, you want to verify, check with the Islander Motel, Anaheim Boulevard. Exactly for that reason—sleeping well, being fit—we sacked out there last night, paid with the company card. You can also check with the twenty-four-hour Dee-Lite Donuts across the street where we got coffee and bearclaws. Kid at the counter had a pizza face.”

Moe copied.

Alfie LaMotta said, “You’re really going to verify?”

“I like to be thorough, sir.”

“Fine. Us, too. We two got the lowest breakage rate in the company. Check that, too. Never had a problem before. Never.”



* * *



—

Moe headed for the body, pausing when he saw the coroner’s investigator show up in an unmarked compact. Gloria Mendez, suited and gloved, got out carrying her big case, the one that included a digital camera and that dealie you could use to get prints that you emailed. Made it possible for an on-site victim I.D., another step for human progress.

He liked Gloria. Thorough and smart and didn’t make mean jokes. They exchanged greetings and continued to the small, cruelly lit, pop-up tent where the victim was.

Poor guy was lying in a strange position, like a piece of paper that had started off folded then released itself but not completely. The lower half, slumped in the street, the upper half lying at an unnatural angle on the breezeway.

Like something tossed aside.

Naked, all right. Pale flesh. Unmarked; where were tattoos when you needed them?

Moe took a closer look, careful not to make contact.

Male, Caucasian or possibly Asian or light-skinned Latino. On the short side, Moe’s guess was five-five, six. Slight build, narrow shoulders and hips, not much muscle or body hair.

A youngish body, which fit the stoned-student scenario. Moe imagined making the dreaded call to parents, once proud Junior had been accepted to the U.

The unbloodied hair strands Moe could see were short, dark, straight. The head below the hair had borne the sole visible impact of the collision, leaving the skull caved in, the face turned to something wet and red and pulpy. Slightly more damage on the right side.

Blood had pooled around the face and dribbled down toward the curb. That made sense; open head wounds tended to bleed profusely.

Gloria said, “Obviously I can’t I.D. him.”

“How about an on-site print?”

“Sorry, the gizmo’s on the fritz. What exactly happened?”

Moe repeated the drivers’ story.

She inspected the body. Photographed. Lifted the small frame obliquely to peer underneath, said, “No defects on the back,” and gently laid the guy back down. “What kind of damage was done to the van?”

“Minimal.” Moe described the concave dent, the blood, and took her to have a look.

When they returned to the body, Gloria said, “Guess that would fit with him tripping, lurching forward, and making contact with his cranium. The impact threw him backward. At least he wasn’t pulled under, good luck I.D.’ing that…poor soul…what’s your take on the nudity?”

“Given the neighborhood, maybe an impaired student wandering around.”

Gloria eyed the body again. “He does look kind of young.”

Moe said, “Can’t wait to notify the parents.”

“Don’t envy you,” she said. “Every year we get a couple of these, right? Precious things sent away to get educated, only to die of alcohol poisoning or falling off balconies.”

Moe nodded. “Not to mention suicides. We had two here last year, both in the dorms.”

“Well, one thing,” said Gloria. “If he is a student, someone cares about him, so I.D. won’t be an issue very long.” She took a closer look at the hands. “His fingertips look pretty good so once he’s back at the crypt they can take a shot at printing him.”

Thinking to herself: You’re right about the notification. Better you than me.





CHAPTER


    3


Sunrise was five fifty-nine and as the moon relented, a soft, silver glow settled over the death scene.

Lights had come on inside a few of the neighboring houses but no one had ventured out at six eleven, when Moe released the tape on the north end of the cordon and allowed the van to pass through before resealing the street. The enormous vehicle moved excruciatingly slowly. Alfie LaMotta at the wheel, now, staring straight ahead and looking put-upon.

The big one, Backus, had seemed stricken and Moe wondered if the company provided psych support. Someone like Delaware.

Gloria’s comment about balconies had flashed images of Sean’s near-disaster a couple of years ago.

On that one, Delaware had done more than get shrinky, he’d actually saved Sean’s life. That meant, he told Sean, that he couldn’t be Sean’s therapist. Something about boundaries and objectivity.