City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(49)

I said, “Cold-blooded murder of a daughter to keep up her self-image? That’s pretty strong even for a bad mother. And no way she’d have the strength to take care of Caspian.”

“So she hired someone…I know, way out there. But you know that some of the nastiest stuff gets cooked up on the family stove. This is a lady with a bad past who’s moved on to tennis and mani-pedis. Last thing she’d want to be reminded of is the bad old days. Toss in her chronic pain, maybe some mood swings due to arthritis or meds? She’s in no shape to do the deed herself but maybe her past came in useful.”

“She knew people.”

“Bad guys, like Cordi told Aaron. I mean it’s not impossible.”

When it comes to people, nothing is. But it didn’t feel right.

I said, “Her phone records could be educational.”

“If I could get them.” He frowned. Had wanted more from me. As I was thinking of something to say, his desk phone jangled. No music abuse coming through the department’s wires; small blessings.

He picked up, listened, grabbed a pen. “Okay, go.” Scrawling rapidly, he hung up and shot a fist in the air.

But despite the gesture, no glee on his face, just an odd distracted look.

“That was Moses, he got Charlie Bankster’s address, turns out to be close to here.”

He stood and tossed the unlit cigar with its splintered tip.

The lack of cheer puzzled me. I said, “Sounds like good news.”

“If the roomie’s there and has something substantial to say. If not, it’s another dead end plus a goddamn notification.”





CHAPTER


    23


Two names on the mailbox: Kramm/Delage.

One of sixty or so boxes in the unlocked, whey-colored lobby of an eighties-built nine-story building on Barrington Avenue three blocks south of Wilshire.

That decade was renowned for the abandonment of architectural style in favor of cramming as many renters as possible into sad, jerry-built warrens. Zoning laws have since been passed but they still vanish when you know who to phone at City Hall.

A few years ago, a sex trafficking gang had operated out of a tower just like this one. Women from Eastern Europe lured to sunny L.A. by a group of former Lebanese army officers with promises of modeling gigs, only to be stripped of their passports, confined, and rented out by the hour.

A woman had died. Someone had talked. Headline arrest, everyone deported. No one with a working brain believed it had made a difference.

I thought about that as Milo pushed the Kramm/Delage button.

A female voice said, “Yes?”

“Ms. Kramm?”

“Yes?”

“This is Lieutenant Sturgis of LAPD. Could we please come up and talk to you about Caspian Delage?”

“Caspian? Something happened to him?”

“Could we come up to discuss it, ma’am?”

“Um,” she said. “That doesn’t sound good…let me come down to the lobby, make sure you are who you say you are.”

Milo said, “Great, thanks.”

To me: “Smart move, if I was a scammer I’d probably split.”

Six minutes later, the elevator door slid open and a red-haired woman wearing a pink silk kimono patterned with white peonies over black leotards and red ballet slippers walked toward us.

Mid-thirties, pretty in an elfin way. Keeping her distance as she assessed us.

Milo flashed the badge. “Ms. Kramm?”

“Mona…I guess that looks pretty official.”

He smiled and stayed put. “Couldn’t be more official.”

Mona Kramm held back for several seconds. Then, like a wary animal tempted by food, she stepped forward tentatively. When she was close enough, she read the badge. “Pretty fancy. Okay, let’s go up.”



* * *



—

The elevator groaned arthritically and took a while to reach the fourth floor. No one spoke.

Milo and I were keeping silent because bad news is best handled in a private place. Mona Kramm, tapping her foot and playing with her hair, maybe for the same reason. But also because she was in a confined space with two male strangers, however official.

During the ride, she bent her knee, placed her sole against her shin, and stood perfectly balanced. When the elevator belched, shuddered, and stopped, she unfolded slowly as the door made spitting noises and ground open.

Mona Kramm said, “Piece of junk. I usually take the stairs but didn’t know if you guys were into that.”

The three of us stepped into an off-white corridor faced with plywood doors painted black. At Unit 407, Milo and I stood back as Mona Kramm removed a key ring from her wrist and unlocked.

The apartment was what you see in L.A. when people settle for whatever they can get. Small, dark, close-feeling, all the charm of a hospital room.

Besides the expected doorway to bedrooms and lav, the rest of the layout was what’s peddled as open-plan but really means let’s save money by knocking up as few walls as possible.

Maybe two hundred square feet. Another arbitrary living area, eating limited to three stools at the counter of a kitchenette that made Shari Benedetto’s efficiency look like something out of a design magazine. The counters were some kind of turquoise plastic that made no pretense at being natural. But food prep went on here, nearly every inch crowded with pots, pans, utensils, a microwave, an industrial-strength juicer, assorted boxes and cans.