Chapter 17
Chapter
Friday, I had custody consults from ten a.m. to two p.m. When the door closed on my final patient, I checked messages. Mostly junk and one call-me-back from Milo at noon.
I reached him at his cell.
He said, “Busy day?”
“Just finished. What’s up?”
“Coupla things happened today that dovetailed in a weird way. This morning I get a call from Michael Heck. Seems he’s been thinking about who might want to frame him and came up with a guy Sophie dated before him.
Who she met at the gym. Which he named—Steam Iron—meaning Moses and I can stop canvassing sweatboxes.
Interestingly, that one was next on our list.”
“Jealous ex?”
“He thinks so.”
“Thinks?”
“He and Sophie never talked about it but the guy threw him dirty looks when they happened to cross paths. I know I asked Heck to let me know if he had any ideas but now I’m wondering you-know-what.”
“Is he being conveniently helpful to cast suspicion away from himself?”
He said, “And if that’s the case, why? He’s been cleared and will probably make a bundle in the civil suit.”
“So maybe he’s not innocent,” I said. “Hired someone to do Sophie and it’s making him nervous.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m assuming Bel Geddes doesn’t know he called you.”
“You’re assuming right,” he said. “He made a point of letting me know that.”
“Trying to ingratiate himself?”
“Almost to the point of kissing up, Alex. Lieutenant this, Lieutenant that. Or maybe I’m just too damn cynical and the guy’s sterile-clean and being a solid citizen.”
“Who’d he direct you to?”
“Fellow named Frank Winchell. Moses ducked into the gym. The woman at the desk must’ve admired his muscles ’cause she gave up that Winchell was Black and a dentist. We rooted around and found a Francis Allan Winchell, male Black, forty-three, no priors, not even a parking ticket.
Lives in Brentwood near his job as a dental hygienist at a practice on Twenty-Sixth Street.
Where he is currently scraping and flossing for the next hour.
I figured to catch him when he leaves. You up for some highly paid consultant work? ”
When I stopped laughing, I said, “Sure.”
—
He was at the house twenty minutes later, marched to the fridge without comment, slapped together a cold steak sandwich and finished it by the time we got down to the Impala.
The drive to Brentwood took longer than it should’ve due to a lane closure on Sunset with no apparent purpose followed by a queue of glossy vehicles picking up students at an exclusive girls’ school.
Milo checked his Timex. “Still plenty of time, Winchell doesn’t finish for twenty-eight minutes.”
“How’d you find out his schedule?”
“I lied about being a patient and wanting a cleaning appointment with him. Apparently at Dr. Loring’s office closing time means closing time.”
Twenty-two minutes later, we’d pulled up to a profoundly charmless two-story building faced with liver-colored brick. Cater-corner to the Brentwood Country Mart where movie stars pretended to want privacy.
The lack of style and generous outdoor parking in back screamed construction during the blithe seventies. Being situated this close to the mart made the property prime L.A. dirt. Aesthetics wouldn’t matter but the parking lot would when the time came for the inevitable teardown.
A silver Audi that Milo had identified as Winchell’s was parked at the back. Milo slipped the Impala next to it.
“Four minutes to go, if he’s punctual.”
Eight minutes later a tall, broad-shouldered man in an aqua uniform exited the building and headed toward us carrying a cellphone.
Milo said, “Here we go.”
Frank Winchell had close-cropped hair, a neat goatee, and an easy walk.
Milo was ready for him, smiling and flashing the badge and saying, “Mr. Winchell, Lieutenant Sturgis and this is Alex Delaware. Don’t be alarmed but if we could talk to you for a second about Sophie Barlow that would be great.”
Winchell stopped, wide-eyed. His torso stiffened. “Sophie? What about?”
“You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what—Oh, Lord, cops. You’re going to tell me something horrendous.”
“Afraid so, sir. She was murdered.”
Winchell’s eyes rounded and his lips parted on perfect teeth. “You’re kidding—no, of course you’re not.” A hand rose to the side of his face. “Oh my God, when?”
“Several weeks ago.”
“Several weeks ago,” said Winchell. “Meaning it’s unsolved so you’re flailing around talking to everyone.”
“We’re trying to learn what we can about Sophie.”
“Sophie murd…I—well I don’t know what you think I can tell you.” Winchell’s eyes swept the lot. “I’m not comfortable talking to cops out here. All I need is for someone to see it and the rumor mill kicks in.”
“Got it,” said Milo. “Where would you like to talk?”
“I don’t know—this is freaking me out. Last time I had anything to do with cops was in college.
Walking to my dorm, bunch of you converge on me flashing guns and put me down on the sidewalk.
Supposedly I resembled a mugging suspect.
When I was in high school and had the nerve to drive while overly pigmented, I got stopped all the time for nothing. ”
His head jerked back. Two women had left the building and were headed toward the lot. “Oh shit.” Sidling past us to his Audi, he remoted the driver’s door open and bent low, using us for cover. “I’m not trying anything, just let me sit inside till they’re gone.”
The women headed to separate Mercedeses and drove away.
Winchell rolled down his window and said, “Those were my bosses, Dr. Loring and Dr. Chan. Last thing I need is them wondering.”
Talking rapidly, licking his lips. “Now you probably think I’m all nervous because I’ve got something to hide but I don’t. It’s just…”
“We get it, sir,” said Milo.
“Do you? Well, anyway, there’s nothing I can tell you about Sophie. And come to think of it, why’d you even come here? Did someone tell you something about me? If they did, it’s bullshit.”
Talking louder and faster.
Milo said, “We’re just trying to educate ourselves, sir. Do you want to have the conversation here?”
“I don’t want any conversation,” said Winchell. “But I also don’t want you harassing me because you think I held back. I mean you say you get it, but what does that mean?”
“It means, sir, that we’re not out to hassle you in any way. Or to put you in a tough situation. So if you’d prefer, I’ll give you my card, you call me, and we can arrange a sit-down.”
“And if I don’t want a sit-down?”
“You’re under no obligation.”
“But you’ll suspect me,” said Winchell. “And maybe get more aggressive, like marching into the waiting room and making a big thing of it.”
“That won’t happen, sir. Scout’s honor.”
“That,” said Winchell, “means nothing to me unless you were a scout.”
“Eagle.”
“Where?” said Winchell.
“Small town in Indiana.”
“That so.”
“It is.”
“Well, I earned my Eagle badges in St. Louis, Missouri. Collected twenty-six of them, which is five more than I needed.”
Milo said, “I squeaked by. Scored my twenty-first at the last moment.”
“Maybe you should’ve paced yourself better,” said Winchell.
“No doubt. Here’s my card.”
Winchell took it. “Homicide. Ugly ugly word. Hard to believe Sophie—what exactly happened to her?”
“You do want to get into it here?”
“I’d like to know—no, no—okay, no sense stretching it out. You want to speak to me, drive out of the lot, turn right, and go up a block. If there are no busybodies around, park and we’ll talk. If there are, keep going until there aren’t.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Be prepared,” said Frank Winchell. “Any Eagle knows that.”