City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(88)

This from a man who’d nearly been thrown off a twenty-four-story building.





CHAPTER


    38


I heard from Milo that evening.

“Nothing dramatic on Deeb. He left his apartment to jog, came back, didn’t reemerge. Alicia and Moses got a look at him in a tank top and she said his arms are substantial.”

I said, “Moe wasn’t impressed.”

“Godzilla might impress Moe. Apparently, the arms are minimally okay but Deeb’s soft everywhere else, the arms were okay.” He laughed. “Bottom line, Deeb looks fit enough to tote and toss Caspian. In terms of getting some DNA, nada. His pad’s in a security building with the trash going into dumpsters out back. Unfortunately, the bins are kept in a gated area and pickup’s by a private service, so the truck probably card-keys in. Meaning no curbside access to Deeb’s gar-baaahge and so far he hasn’t eaten, drunk, sneezed, spit, or discarded anything.”

I said, “What’s the undramatic part?”

“Always interpreting,” he said. “Yeah, I was getting to it. Sean found his birth certificate, he was born in Rahway, New Jersey. Both parents are deceased. Mom because Dad killed her and Dad maybe because jail food for life ain’t good for longevity. Though Manson did make it to eighty-three.”

Undramatic. He probably saw Deeb’s childhood as an ingredient for a defense maneuver and chose not to think of it.

I said, “How old was Deeb when it happened?”

“Twelve,” he said. “Yeah, yeah, poor little kid was traumatized blah blah blah. It wasn’t a huge story, couple of lines in a local newspaper article found by Sean. The lad does have a knack for paper. The only other bit of info has to do with the late Mr. Hoffgarden. His Mini Cooper showed up in Watts last night, minus tires, windshield, convertible top, radio, and seats. That came courtesy of Alicia via Al Freeman. Al does a daily check of every stolen vehicle in the county.”

I said, “Any idea how it got there?”

“Al’s guess, and I think he’s right on, is that Hoffgarden parked on the street when he headed for what he thought was a hot night with Montag. That area of Venice is notorious for street robberies and GTAs. Either way, it doesn’t matter, that one’s closed, time to prioritize.”

“When are you planning to get Deeb?”

“If his daily routine doesn’t change, probably tomorrow. I caught Nguyen in a good mood and he’s all for an arrest warrant. Though he did term the motive ‘fucking bizarre.’?”

“When tomorrow?”

“No idea. And alas, my friend, you won’t be there seeing as Deeb has sat on your couch.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I said.

He said, “Shucks, that was too easy.”





CHAPTER


    39


It happened at four a.m.

I learned about it at seven a.m. after I checked my email and opened the attachment from Milo titled Case Closed and garnished with a mass of happy, sun-yellow emojis.

Footage from the body cam worn by Detective Sean Binchy.

Entry to Conrad Deeb’s apartment complex had come via a master key provided by GJS Properties, the owner/managers.

No persuasion necessary; Deeb was three months in arrears on his rent, eviction proceedings had begun, and per the company’s attorney GJS was more than happy to “cooperate with law enforcement provided the arrest be carried out as discreetly as possible with due consideration to other tenants.”

Milo had clipped and pasted that onto another email sent at six a.m. via his personal account. Followed by an emoji with a protruding tongue and, “Oh, sure, that was our main consideration.”



* * *



—

I triggered the video.

Multiple footsteps amplified by the body cam’s audio recorder sounded like a distant cattle stampede.

The screen bounced in time with Sean’s rapid walk.

Sean’s breathing was regular but rapid and a bit shallow, made raspier by the cam’s speakers. Like the rhythmic whoosh that fills your head when snorkeling or scuba diving.

No conversation during the climb up three flights of stairs.

Long view of a hallway. Lit dimly. Thrifty owner/managers.

Milo’s deep voice: “Three eleven.”

Sean: “Got it, Loot.”

More hoof-clopping, then silence.

Sean’s left arm extended. Fist at the end of it.

Knock knock knock.

“Police. Open up.”

Silence.

Sean, louder. “Police, Mr. Deeb. Open up.”

Milo: “Do it, kick it ajar and wait.”

Sean’s right arm inserted the key.



* * *



—

Nothing for five seconds.

Milo said, “In,” and a louder stampede punched through the cam’s speakers.

Seven people, I learned later. Milo, Sean, Reed, Alicia, three uniforms, everyone in Kevlar vests.

Sean’s right arm again. Stretched forward, now holding his black Glock.

Not the two-handed thing you see hundred-pound actresses do in movies. Confident, single-handed grip.

Steady, not a hint of shake. Good for you, Sean.