City of Saviors, page 26
“Speaking of getting out,” I said, “you told me that back on Monday night, you took Brandon to football practice.”
“That’s right.”
“I talked to a couple of people who told me that practices are on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
She hesitated, then said, “Usually, but not this week.” Her eyes darted to the shield on my hip. “The coach changed it. Something about park permits.”
I said, “Ah,” with the tiniest smile on my lips.
“Who told you that?” Her brows furrowed, but then she shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Whoever it was obviously doesn’t take Brandon to practice.”
“Helen Montgomery owned the original house, right?” I asked.
“Helen?” She narrowed her eyes. “Oh. You mean Nell. I don’t know her by Helen.”
Then, you must not know her. But I didn’t say that.
“So if you’re not buying then, you’re here . . . ?” Charity asked.
“To learn more,” I said.
“About?”
“Helen Montgomery.”
“Because?”
“Police business.”
She turned to light a cookie-scented candle. “Well, let’s see. Sister Montgomery passed back in January—”
“From?”
She struck a match. “She died peacefully in her sleep.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
Charity didn’t blink. “She helped George Washington Carver plant that first peanut, Sergeant.”
I laughed. “Yes, she was old. Had she been ill?”
“Diabetes. And she was kind enough to bequeath us her house. We remodeled, and here we are, overlooking the—” She blew out the match. “Entertainer’s backyard.” She pointed to the kids. “Brandon and Mica don’t come with the house—they’re mine.”
I snapped my fingers. “Gee whiz. And I was gonna pay cash right now. Oh, well.” I leaned against the banister. “Were you also the selling agent on Thomasina Jacobs’s house and now Marcus Sandford’s house?”
“I am.” She leaned beside me and gazed out to the yard. “Marcus was such an honorable man. Served in the US Marine Corps for almost fifteen years. Saw all that Mideast action, and then to survive all that only to die at home.”
“Strange way to die.”
She turned to wave at her kids. “Since when are heart attacks strange?”
“When they happen to fifty-year-old men.”
She shrugged. “So Brother Washington’s house: Ike told me that you’re at a standstill.”
“Yep.”
“Any ETA on when he can start back to cleaning again?”
I faked a smile. “Lemme guess: you’re selling that house, too?”
She grinned and nodded. “This girl is on fire.”
“How long has Ike worked for you?”
“He’s worked for Sol since the eighties or something. Way before me.” She blew a kiss at her daughter, now a pilot in the play set’s wheelhouse. “Guess you could say Blessed Mission is Ike’s rehabilitation program.”
I arched an eyebrow, surprised that Charity knew Ike Underwood’s background.
“He was in jail for, oh . . . two years or so for burglary and assault,” she said. “But Ike has a kind heart. Solomon realized that Ike was good with his hands and put him to work, kept him busy. And the rest is history.” Her perfect eyebrows scrunched. “So I want to continue keeping Ike busy, know what I mean?”
I stepped back into the dining room. “So Marcus Sandford’s family—?”
“Marcus had no family.” Charity followed me, tossing a last wave to her daughter.
“Oh, so he left the house to . . . ?”
“A friend of his in the congregation, Richard Trudeau. I don’t know all the details, but I do know that Marcus had a will.”
“And Tommie Jacobs?”
“She drew up her will once she was diagnosed with colon cancer.”
“Know what else is strange?” I asked. “Having to show something as private as your tax forms to your church.”
Charity’s mouth tightened, and those Sophia Loren eyes narrowed. “If we are to do the Lord’s work, everyone must give their fair share. And the only way we can ensure that is—”
“To invade the financial privacy of your congregants.”
“Invade?” She sucked her teeth. “Not at all.”
“The church told Thomasina Jacobs to stop chemotherapy.”
“It’s poison,” Charity announced, standing straight. “It’s poison and she was old.”
“So you killed her. Basically.”
Charity laughed. “Are you kidding me? You are, right? You’re not. Look: People live. People die. There are different approaches to cancer treatment, and patients succumb all the time on chemo.”
“When did she change her will?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Tommie Jacobs,” I nearly shouted, “or are there other old women you’ve convinced to surrender their only shot at survival?”
She glared at me and crossed her arms. “Maybe you should go now.”
I smiled and my teeth dug into my lip like knives. “You got me confused with them little church ladies you direct. Don’t get it twisted.”
She shrunk some. “What else do you want from me, Sergeant Norton?”
“Your fingerprints. You were supposed to give them to me three days ago.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”
“Yes, I know. Taking Brandon to football practice.”
She smirked. “Yes, and if you had a family, you’d know that your life is not your own. But you obviously don’t have kids—and if you do, you obviously don’t have custody.”
My face must’ve contorted and darkened because Charity flinched and took a step away from me. “Anything else?” she whispered.
“Oswald Little.”
“Oswald Little is a church member in good standing.” She canted her head. “Even without hands.”
“When was the last time you’ve seen him in the flesh?”
Charity thought for a moment, then shrugged. “But I’ve talked to him plenty on the phone. He’s one of our most committed . . .” She sighed. “Sergeant Norton, I still don’t understand why you have such a problem with us. I know I’m about to sound snotty and not first-lady-like but . . . Did God do something to you? Not give you a puppy after you prayed for one or something? And so now you’re cynical and critical of those of us who still believe He answers prayers?” She pointed at my head. “You’re . . .”
I touched my hairline, then inspected my fingers. Blood. Fresh. Bright. I plucked a crumpled tissue from my pocket and dabbed at the wound. “And the insurance policies you have on your members?” I asked.
A stab in the dark.
“We don’t take policies out on members,” Charity claimed. “Sister Walker died two weeks ago. She had a nice home on Denker. We didn’t inherit that. Sister Benetiz died, and she had two houses and some land down in Louisiana. We didn’t inherit any of that. I could name you twelve members who’ve died in the last year where we didn’t receive one cent, including Marcus Sandford. Other than the commission I’m getting for selling it, Richard Trudeau is getting the rest.” She pushed out a breath, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. We aren’t who you think we are.”
The Tate children charged into the dining room. Mica, the girl, hugged her mom around the waist.
“You said we could go to Dave and Buster’s now,” Brandon whined. He held up his phone. “It’s five thirty.”
“Umhmm. A promise is a promise.” Charity kissed the top of Mica’s head, then gazed at me with tear-filled eyes. She shook her head, a silent plea to not discuss death and murder around her kids. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Sergeant Norton? I really do want to help.”
The blood in my hair turned cold. “No. It’s time for chili cheese fries and video games. But I still need something from you before you go.”
The cool air kissed my skin as I retreated to the car. Residents were watering their lawns with hoses and movable sprinklers. Teens sat on the curbs, laughing, chatting, texting. Purple-gray smoke that smelled of meat and onions wafted behind the California ranch. Charity’s agent slid an OPEN HOUSE sign into the back of her Nissan Pathfinder.
Colin was snoring.
I plopped back into the passenger seat of the car and elbowed him. “Get up.”
He startled awake, then rubbed his face. “Yep.”
I pointed out the window. “Get her prints, will you?”
Charity Tate locked the front door while her kids somersaulted and cartwheeled across the front lawn.
Colin wiped the drool from his chin and scratched crust from his eyes. He reached to the backseat for the print kit, then climbed out of the car.
I slapped down the visor to scrutinize my head wound— blood made that patch of hair glisten. I dabbed tissue at that spot, wincing from the sting as well as Colin’s strained conversation with the preacher’s wife.
My phone rang and Luke’s number popped on the screen. “What’s up?” I asked, still dabbing at the freshly opened wound.
“AFIS is back up.”
“Finally.”
“The prints on that cobbler dish we took from Washington’s house?”
“Yeah. What about them?”
“One set of prints are still out, but we got a hit on the second set.”
My hand froze. “Whose prints are they?”
“Isaac Underwood.”
42
IKE UNDERWOOD HAD TOUCHED THE CASSEROLE DISH OF KILLER COBBLER.
“But we don’t know if he actually baked the cobbler,” Colin argued.
I blinked at him. “True, but he lied about going to the house.”
“Maybe the killer borrowed the dish from Ike,” Colin said. “There’s still that second set of prints we haven’t IDed.”
I rubbed my temples. “Fine.” I grabbed the Motorola from the car’s floorboard and requested an undercover unit to surveil Oswald Little’s home until we got there.
By the time Colin and I had departed from Helen Montgomery’s home just a mile or so away, Brooks and Dr. Goldberg and his forensic anthropology team had discovered a second thumb, arm bones, a few ribs, and a skull—all buried in Eugene Washington’s garage.
And now a few researchers sifted dirt and concrete through large sieves as others laid out bones on a plastic sheet to recreate the skeleton. Colin stood over the huddle and snapped pictures on his phone.
The hole in the back of the skull was the size of a kumquat. Fractures spidered from that crater toward both ears. There was no obvious exit wound.
My pulse raced as Dr. Goldberg turned the skull this way and that. “It’s definitely human.”
“But then it can’t be Oz Little,” I said. “This person has hand bones—and we have Oz Little’s hands. Can you tell from just looking how old this person is or how long he’s been dead?”
“I can’t say right now.” Goldberg tilted the skull again, and this time an object dropped from somewhere inside of it into his hands. We peered closer at the metal flower-like object.
A fuse lit my brain. “It’s the bullet. It looks like it stayed put all this time.”
We took pictures of the smashed projectile before we bagged it for ballistics.
“And we’ll have them compare it to the guns we found in the house,” I said, leaning against what I thought was a solid, standing pile of push brooms, rusted spades, and rakes.
The whole pile toppled over, creating a chain reaction of falling piles, boxes, and a paint can filled with . . . not paint. After the ruckus died and the twentieth person came in to ask, “What happened?”; after every cat and roach had scattered three cities over; after I said “Sorry” for the thirtieth time, I crept over to that paint can that had spilled something not paint.
Cash—about sixty dollars in fives and tens, a tarnished gold crucifix, and a Louisiana driver’s license. The name beside the picture of the black man’s picture was RICHARD TRUDEAU.
My face numbed—Charity had mentioned that Richard Trudeau had inherited . . .
“What did you find?” Colin asked.
“I think the bones may belong to this man.” I stepped away to let Colin and the other photographer document my accidental discovery. “He’s from Louisiana. Didn’t Judith say something about the hoard getting worse after Hurricane Katrina?”
“You think this Richard Trudeau was an evacuee?” Colin asked.
I shrugged. “I do know that he inherited Marcus Sandford’s house.”
“But how could he, if he’s dead?”
“But who knows that he’s dead?” I asked. “Who knows if those are his bones out there? A lot of people, including him, scattered all around the country after the hurricane.”
“What the hell happened here?” Goldberg whispered.
“The envelope I found with the initials,” I said. “There was an R.T., remember?”
Colin nodded. “I’ll get Pepe to run this guy through Missing Persons.”
“Yeah.” I could barely hear over my pounding heart. “Maybe Ike knew that Washington was dangerous. He knew and had to—”
“Kill the monster?” Colin asked.
Electricity crackled across my skin. Solving this case— getting a confession, finding even more victims—would be a fuck you to O’Shea, to the captain, and to Lieutenant Rodriguez.
“You were right, Lou,” Colin said. “On that first day, you called it. I know a whole buncha dicks who would’ve just said, ‘Hell, he’s old.’ No digging, no autopsy . . .” He shrugged. “And I was one of them.”
I pushed past the blue tarp and entered the dusty air. Over to my left and right, plots of land had been gridded with little yellow flags and yellow tape. Another body. In the backyard, another taped-off piece of land and more flags. Another body. A man and his GPR buggy rolled over a strip of land beneath the den’s bathroom window.
Four possible bodies, a pair of dismembered hands, human remains in the fridge, human remains in his stomach . . .
Eugene Washington was a serial killer.
The three sisters stood at the white picket fence. Arms outstretched, their faces were lifted toward heaven as they prayed. News cameras and neighbors recorded their prayers and the latest adventures of the LAPD. The sun had dipped behind the trees, leaving us with a less Popsicle, more dragon-scale sky. Even with the roar of generators and the thwack of shovels against packed earth, even with the buzz and chatter of the forensics team, I could still hear the rustling of leaves from the magnolias and the lazy swishes of tall, tall palms that had found a wind wave to ride.
Dust, like mist, wrapped the house and glistened like pulverized diamonds in the glare of the bright lights. Someone’s bones—that’s what we were breathing. That’s what was settling on our clothes, in our hair. Bones and rotting bodies and asbestos and lead from crumbling, chipped walls and pipes. My own death would come a little quicker because of 8711 Victoria Avenue.
Brooks took my arm and guided me toward Washington’s rusted Le Baron. Dust covered the lenses of his glasses, and he plucked them off. “How are you today?” he asked.
My eyebrows scrunched. “That’s nice of you to inquire.”
“We’re friends.”
“We are?”
“I’m angry with you because . . .” He placed his hands on his hips, then turned to look at the scene behind us. “You almost died, Lou. Then you came back so quickly after being broken.”
“And that’s pissing you off?”
“Yes, it is. Why so soon? None of this madness is going away. You say it all the time. Roll the boulder up the hill all for it to roll down the other side.” He clasped my hand and squeezed. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re all getting older. We’re not college kids or even Taggert’s age anymore.”
I nodded and tears burned the back of my throat.
“We all have to figure out what’s our ‘more,’ ” Brooks said. “We cannot give the county of Los Angeles so much of us that there’s nothing left once we retire.”
“So what’s your more, Spencer?” I whispered.
He blushed, then studied the leaves of the big magnolia. “Traveling. Asking Syeeda out. It’s not a mystery that I carry a torch for that woman. And now that Adam’s totally out of the picture . . . I think my parents would like that, too.” He shrugged, then searched my face for clues.
“Go for it,” I said, smiling. “You’d make her happy.”
We hugged.
“Shall we return to the Hoard of Horrors?” he asked.
“Let’s.”
Still: what was my more?
And on Monday, after an appointment with Dr. Popov for blood pressure medication, and after a shampoo, relaxer, and trim from Herschelle, I planned to uncover that great mystery. After tromping through roaches and dead cats, after finding dismembered hands and a man that ate other men and knowing that somewhere else in this city, an equally fucked-up scenario existed and would forever exist . . . After all of that, I needed to know, had to know, my “more.”
43
ELEANOR ROOSEVELT SAID, “DO ONE THING EVERY DAY THAT SCARES YOU.”
And at seven thirty on Saturday evening, I had done one and seventy things that had scared me. I now stood in a strip mall parking lot down the hill from Oswald Little’s Ladera Heights home.
The sun had left us, and now the sky sparkled with airplane landing lights and helicopter landing lights, with a star or three dotted in between. Cars heading eastbound on Slauson Avenue slowed as they passed us. There were no swirling lights or sirens, but we didn’t need much to stand out in a mall lot known for the nasty Mandarin takeout joint.
Colin checked his Beretta.
Pepe and Luke talked about the World Series.
I checked my Glock, then knocked on the ballistics vest that protected my torso.
Serving warrants in the middle of the day always made my heart pump harder—gun battles and babymommas wielding knives to protect babydaddies hiding in the closet. But we were dropping by the Little home on a Saturday night. People were always bonkers on Saturday nights, and I hoped that Oswald Little and Ike Underwood were like logy, morning-time houseflies.
