The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(16)

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you at least tell me how he died?” said Hillaire Roget. “Do I want to know?”

“Single gunshot wound. He wouldn’t have suffered.”

“Father hated guns. Never touched a firearm after he was discharged from the Haitian army. I want to come out as soon as possible to bring him back. When may I do that?”

“I’d give it at least a week or so, Doctor. I’ll call you. And you call me anytime you have a question. Here’s my number.”

“Hold on, I’ll get a pen.” Scratchy noises. Exhalation. “Okay.”

Milo recited the numbers slowly. Hillaire Roget recited them back.

“That’s it, Doctor. Are you and your sister the only close relatives?”

“Just us,” said Roget. “My sister and I work together. Madeleine’s a podiatrist.”

“No family here in L.A.?”

“None. God, how are Madeleine and I going to tell our kids? They last saw Father two Christmases ago. We flew him out, first-class. He kept making fun of that, snooty-hooty this, snooty-hooty that. Teasing us about why we picked him up at the airport instead of letting him drive. The kids love him. He loved them…this is…a horror.”

“Again, Doctor, so sorry. Do I have your permission to enter and search your father’s residence?”

“Why would you need my permission?”

“Without it I’ll need to apply for what’s called a victim’s warrant. I’ll certainly get one but your permission would speed things up.”

“Of course, whatever helps,” said Hillaire Roget.

“Would it help to talk to your sister?”

“I doubt she can add anything and I’d rather inform her myself—that’s going to be wonderful. This is the most horrid day of my life. This and when Mother passed.”



* * *



—

Milo clicked off. “That was fun.”

He looked at his Timex. “You up for Alvarez? Take us a while to get downtown.”

“Sure.” I texted Robin. Not sure when I’ll be back.

No prob, I’m in the studio.

Making a left turn on Olympic was tricky but Milo seemed to enjoy the challenge. Setting off a chorus of car-horns, he muscled into an eastbound lane.

I said, “Gurnsey and Roget had no local family ties.”

“Easier victims.”

“Alvarez lives in a care facility and if the woman’s homeless, she’d be the most vulnerable.”

“Predator,” he said. “But what the hell’s the payoff?”





CHAPTER


    8


Skaggs Avenue sits west of Chinatown, in a tight little circle of obscure streets shadowed by the pasta-bowl entwining of the 101 and 110 freeways.

The areas in and around downtown L.A. have been flirting with renewal for decades, with uneven results. A smidge of optimism had made it to Skaggs in the form of crisp, three-story apartments with security parking. Multiple For Sale signs said only a smidge for awhile.

The older properties ranged from fifties dingbats to wood-framed Victorians and Craftsman bungalows nailed up a century ago before earthquakes were taken seriously. A surprising quantity of improbable construction has survived, social Darwinism meets real estate.

Casa Clara Adult Residential Care was on the 800 block of Skaggs and one of the survivors: a two-story Craftsman painted cantaloupe orange, with a wraparound front porch complete with two rocking chairs. The paint looked fresh.

No signage; from the street, just an eccentrically colored house.

A front area behind a low wire fence and gate was cement. Triangle cutouts in the gray surface sported drought-loving succulents. That and the paint said someone was paying attention.

The gate opened on a walk-right-in pathway. From the street, no apparent security. Then the details asserted themselves.

The rocking chairs were bolted to the wide-plank porch floor. Iron bars grilled every window and the four-pane mini-window in a vintage carved mahogany door. Sticker from an alarm company and two serious dead bolts on the door. Maybe to counteract all that, a yellow happy-face decal beamed just below the top bolt.

Milo rang the bell and evoked a wasp-buzz.

Nothing for several seconds, then a female voice sang out, “Wuh-uhn second!”

Footsteps. The same voice, louder, trilled, “Who is it?”

“Police.”

The upper half of a face filled the four panes, pale skin and blue eyes waffled by the iron grid. “Um, I.D., please?”

Milo obliged with the badge. The door opened on a tall, slim woman in her twenties wearing a crimson Harvard sweatshirt, ripped gray jeans, and black flats in need of polish. Square face with a strong chin, upturned nose, narrow mouth, pert chin. Oversized glasses in tortoiseshell frames hazed the eyes, which verged on turquoise. Long caramel-colored hair was gathered in a free-for-all high pony. Long pale fingers moved restlessly, as did her shoulders and the eyebrows.

She smiled at us, what appeared to be a sincere attempt at warmth. The fidgeting reduced the impact, but still, good intentions.

“Someone finally got going on Benson? Please tell me he’s okay.”

She squinted past us at the street. “Is he in your car? Can I go out and get him?”