City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(68)

I was home for most of it and got a morning phone report from Milo. Deputy D.A. John Nguyen had consulted with his boss who agreed that the Tabash twins’ story and the fact that Lisette Montag was the last person to talk to Tyler Hoffgarden justified an arrest warrant. With that set in place, getting a search warrant for Montag’s residence and her Explorer was a formality. Milo, his young D’s, and his army of techs worked late into the night.

The front seat of the SUV gave up a rough match to Montag’s DNA and that of Renny Tabash, sure to be refined later. The rear offered Rodney Tabash’s genetic material and Tyler Hoffgarden’s.

Perfect confirmation of the twins’ account.

In Hoffgarden’s case, sloughed skin cells were also found on the exterior of a size seven sweat sock, with the interior matching Montag’s. The final find was a scatter of barely perceptible dried blood on the back of the driver’s seat, spied and swabbed by a sharp-eyed tech.

The twins, subdued by incarceration, were represented by a lawyer named Harvey DiPaolo who shepherded their comments. DiPaolo did allow them to confirm that Montag had jammed the sock into Hoffgarden’s mouth and that, though restrained, Hoffgarden had struggled “a little” and “by accident” bumped his forehead against the seat.

Dr. Basia Lopatinski had then looked for and found minuscule lacerations—little more than scratches—on the victim’s brow.

“Between us,” she told Milo, “I probably would’ve missed it because I was concentrating on some massive edema under the bridge of what the animals left of Hoffgarden’s nose and another in his chin.”

Both swellings turned out to be resting places for two .32-caliber bullets that had lacked the momentum to exit Hoffgarden’s massively boned head.

Milo said, “How come the animals didn’t chew over there?”

“Good question,” said Basia. “Maybe these are picky Bel Air animals. Or they don’t like the smell of lead.”

The slugs were too degraded to match to a .32 FéG PA-63 semi-auto pistol discovered in Lisette Montag’s nightstand. Hungarian military manufacture, unregistered, never reported stolen. Montag, repped by a lawyer named Alan Bloomfield, wasn’t uttering a syllable.

No need for her cooperation. Toward the end of Milo’s compulsive search of the converted garage, during which he discovered weed, cocaine, meth, Ecstasy, a host of prescription pills, and an admirable supply of beauty and hair products, he got an aha moment.

Two .32 casings wrapped in a black silk scarf and stashed in a jewelry box at the rear of an upper bedroom closet shelf. Milo drove them to the lab at six a.m., charmed a senior tech, jumped the line, and got a quick match to the gun.

“Lying on top of earrings and necklaces,” he said.

I said, “There are all kinds of adornment.”

“Guess she was proud. Must’ve hated the guy big-time, still have no idea why.”



* * *



—

I was playing guitar in the living room as Robin read a book about Amati violins when he called again just before nine p.m.

“Her lawyer claims she has something to offer. I authorized bringing her over from the Pacific Jail, she’s en route. Too late for you?”

I looked at Robin.

She laughed.

I said, “On the way.”



* * *



—

When I arrived, he showed me a cell-tower ping chart that mapped Tyler Hoffgarden’s phone.

Small map: During the last hour of Hoffgarden’s life, he’d traveled from his apartment in Culver City to Montag’s place in Venice. Then the phone was shut off.

Also available was a transcript of texts between Hoffgarden and Montag for five days prior.

No hostility; flirting advancing to sexting.

The three final contacts were calls, not texts, so impossible to know what was said. But given the steamy tenor of the texts, not hard to imagine.

Milo said, “Like we said, booty-call. Works every time.”

He hummed a few bars of “Isn’t It Romantic.” Better than the ringtones but not by much.

I said, “She lured him to her place, his guard was down, the twins materialized from the back of the house, blitzed, bound, and gagged him, then stowed him in the Explorer.”

“Then they all take a ride. I’d be sympathetic but he still coulda killed my victims.”

Officially, Hoffgarden was also his victim. No sense getting official.

He looked at his Timex. “Authorized the jail to deliver her an hour ago, hopefully this is gonna happen.”

Seconds later, his desk phone rang. “Sturgis. Bring her up.”



* * *



—

Milo and I waited by the elevator. A few minutes later, it opened and disgorged Lisette Montag in dark-blue jail clothes. White hair bunned, head down, hands cuffed in front, and shuffling in jail slippers, she was guided by a female uniform from downstairs.

Following closely was a tall, balding, stork-like man in his sixties wearing a black silk T-shirt with a visitor sticker and baggy, stonewashed jeans who introduced himself as Al Bloomfield.

Milo gave Bloomfield my name. It meant nothing to the attorney, which was just fine.

He said, “Pleased to meet you. Considering.”

I smiled and he returned the favor, flashing a great set of dentures.