City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(58)

Her lips dipped lower. Vertical wrinkles deepened.

I said, “Charlie didn’t acknowledge that?”

“How could he if he didn’t even know? The time before the anniversary when he called we had a fight. He said the place he found for Joey in L.A. was no better than the dump in Columbus, he wanted serious money to get something better for Joey, family had to stick together. I said why do you need money, everything’s covered by SSI. He said not in L.A., the place he wanted was nicer, it cost extra to keep Joey there. I said, sorry, nothing to spare, and he hung up and that was that. I was surprised when he called about the anniversary. Even though he got the wrong day.”

The on-screen image was too indistinct to make out tears but her swiping at both eyes implied them.

“If I’da had money, I’da given it. Even though Joey was never nice to me, he was the oldest, had started acting like him.”

I said, “Like your father.”

Two emphatic nods. “Drinking himself stupid, getting nasty. That’s how it happened. He got stupid drunk, crashed his motorcycle into a tree, and got totally messed up.”

“And Charlie took over his care.”

“In L.A.,” said Katie Ionnides. “Where it’s expensive. His idea. Like me and Stavros have L.A. money.”

“Was the anniversary call the last time you heard from Charlie?”

“Nope, one more time and it was kinda weird.”

“How so?”

“Like I said, the time before he hung up mad that I wouldn’t give him money for Joey. And to be honest, I was kinda mad, too. That he didn’t understand my situation. So we basically had no contact for a while. Then the anniversary call was just…short. Then, like six months ago, he calls out of the blue and says everything’s great, he’s working all the time doing hair, plans to become famous.”

“How?”

“Through this new friend, some genius psychiatrist—she’s helping him align his spirit or something like that. Also, he changed his name to Caspian Delage. Which I thought was stupid and bogus sounding. I’m also thinking if you can afford a fancy psychiatrist, why are you calling me while I’m cooking chicken to get my money?”

Milo said, “Did he name the psychiatrist?”

“No,” said Katie Ionnides. “Maybe he woulda but I didn’t care and I wasn’t having it.” Another eye swipe. “I hung up on him. Now he’s…so who killed him?”

“We’ve just started investigating.”

“Oh.” Another hand-wipe on the apron. “So is the…do I need to do something about him? About his…you know.”

“Disposition of the body will have to wait a while. You have no obligation but if you’re interested, I can put you in touch with the coroner.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Let me think about it. I need to think about it.”





CHAPTER


    26


Wishing Katie Ionnides well, Milo thanked her and ended the session.

I said, “Another link between Cordi and Caspian. Tough family lives.”

“Misery lusting for company? Nice insight but unless I’m missing something, she told me nothing I can use.”

He got a text. Read, cursed violently, shot to his feet.

Tight lips, hot eyes, white face.

“Mr. Hoffgarden has shown up.”

I said, “Great.”

“Not so great. Let’s take separate cars, don’t know how long I’ll be stuck there.”



* * *



—

The hills above the northbound lanes of the 405 freeway are generally an uncomplicated drive from the station. Sepulveda to Sunset, a quick right, a quick left.

Orange cones due to police activity had stopped the traffic at Sunset and it took me a while to edge close enough to an imperious traffic cop so I could flash my LAPD consultant’s badge. It’s long expired but I’ve never bothered renewing because most people have no interest in details.

Luckily, that applied to Mr. Traffic. Grudgingly, he moved a few cones and I cruised past murderous looks from less fortunate motorists.

The hills are softly rounded suggestions of altitude, sometimes green, now bearded with high dry grass that gave them a frosted look. I parked next to an LAFD ambulance occupied by two firefighters eating sandwiches, walked north to a border of billowing yellow tape, and got waved under by a uniform chewing gum at an aerobic level.

Milo stood fifty or so yards up, flanked by Reed and Alicia. Detective Sean Binchy was positioned away from them, closer to the tape. Tall, lanky, freckled, with spiky red hair, Sean wore his usual navy suit, expressive tie, and the Doc Marten boots that evoke a past life as a ska-punk bassist.

I saved Sean’s life a couple of years ago, spent a long time with him afterward, arranged for a master therapist named Larry Daschoff to help him with incipient PTSD. All that had changed our relationship and Sean tended to avoid contact with me. But he’d never stopped being friendly. Even the day after nearly falling from a twenty-plus-story building.

He stopped working his phone, flashed a country-boy smile. “Doc. Hey.”

We pumped hands.

“Nice tan, Sean.”

“Bible camp near Crater Lake, took the family, did the camping thing, some music, awesome.”