The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(7)

The trio said, “Sir,” in unison, but looked at me. Expecting wisdom.

I repeated what I’d told Milo about multiple offenders and the theatrical quality of the body dump.

Moe Reed said, “Makes sense.”

Sean Binchy said, “Total sense.”

Alicia Bogomil said, “The posing, Doctor. The way Gurnsey was…” She blushed. “Do you see this as a sexual thing?”

“Could be,” I said. “Or it could all be about power.”

“So are sex crimes.”

Reed said, “Sex crimes are about sex and power.” To me: “Right?”

Milo said, “What Dr. D. would like to tell you but won’t because he’s kind and empathic is we’re starting with a lot of weird and nothing else.”

Alicia said, “So what do we need to do, L.T.?”

“Same as any other case, kiddo: learn about the victims.”

“Speaking of which,” she said, “I just took a closer look at the woman. Like I told you, the purse is cheap-phony. She’s also wearing a lot of makeup but it was put on sloppily and where her skin shows through, here”—touching the space between her cheekbone and her ear—“it looks raw. Wind-whipped. And there are blood vessels all over her nose.”

Reed said, “Street person?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Milo chewed his cheek. “Alvarez’s assisted living place is near downtown, lots of shelters and SROs and encampments. There could be a link between the two of them.”

I said, “Alvarez has some sort of mental disability. Maybe she does, too.”

Binchy looked troubled.

Milo said, “What, Sean?”

“Someone taking advantage of the weak.” His freckled face registered sadness. A detective who still believed in inherent goodness.

Bogomil said, “Gurnsey doesn’t fit with that. Unless he did charity work downtown or something like that.”

Milo said, “I like all this thinking—see, I told you Dr. D. would inspire us. Okay, you all know what you need to start with.”

Binchy said, “Canvass the neighborhood.”

“Every house up and down Benedict.”

“Then four death knocks,” said Reed. “How’re we dividing it?”

Milo said, “We’re not. I’ll take all of them.”

The three detectives said nothing.

“It’s called benevolent leadership,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”

Three yessirs and they were gone.

I said, “Taking on your favorite job. Feeling emotionally resilient?”

“What the hell, they’re young and tender, and I’ve already got a mood disorder.”

“What’s that?”

“Personal variant of bipolar. Half the time I’m pissed off, the other I’m merely irritated.”

He strode to the limo where George Arredondo was still working, had a brief conversation with the tech, repeated it with the bespectacled woman. Then over to Mendez for the same.

Shaking his head as he returned. “Gloria says they’ve got copious samples of everything, we’ll see what the lab says but with the big decomp case don’t expect anything quick.”

We exited the tent again and took a quick walk through the house. Empty, gray, echoing, nothing but more lawn furniture, tatty beanbags, and detritus from the party.

Outside, Milo stretched, fooled with the knot of his tie, and looked up at a bluing L.A. sky. “So much evil, so little time. You don’t have to come death-knocking with me, Alex. On the other hand…”

“Good way to learn about the victims.”

“I thought you’d see it my way. Leave the Seville here, I’m in the mood to drive. More than that, I’m feeling all official.”



* * *



—

As we headed for the front parking area, I texted Robin and told her I’d be gone all day.


Bad?

Complicated.

Ooh. Worse than bad. Okay, love you.

Love you, too.





* * *



—

A skinny, stick-legged man was exiting the FD ambulance, elbows gripped by two EMTs.

Medium height, caved-in thorax, long gray hair, ragged beard. He wore a brown T-shirt several sizes too large, droopy jeans, and sneakers. The hair flapped as his head shook from side to side in protest.

“Our reporting person,” said Milo. “Care to meet him?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

As we walked toward Enos Walters, Milo said, “The posing. You said stage production. It reminded me of one of those museum dioramas.”

I said, “What would you title it?”

“Un-civilization.”



* * *



—

When Walters saw us he tried to break free of the EMTs’ grip, couldn’t, and shouted, “Fuck this! I’m no suspect!”

Milo said, “Let him go, guys. Mr. Walters, Lieutenant Sturgis, we spoke briefly before.”

“What, you think I can’t remember?”

“You were a little shaky—”

“Wouldn’t you be, seeing something like that?” Walters shook himself off like a gun dog shedding water.