Chapter 27
Chapter
I didn’t hear from him the rest of the day so I figured he’d ignored my theory.
The following day, I had back-to-back evaluations from nine to six, switched my phone off as I always do and stashed it in a bottom desk drawer.
Five minutes after I saw the last patient out, Robin and I were on our way to a mom-and-pop Italian place on the southern edge of Westwood. By eight o’clock, we were home, by nine still naked and relaxed, by nine thirty showered and ready for some quiet time.
Still nothing from Milo. Then I remembered and retrieved my phone.
Two attempts, an hour ago and twenty minutes later.
I pushed the little red button.
—
He said, “You don’t like me anymore?”
“Patients all day, turned the phone off and forgot.”
“I’m hurt,” he said. “Anyway, you got me thinking so I rooted around on Alberts.”
He’d had no luck retrieving any official paper on the case.
Backtracking local press coverage revealed that Kevin Van Osler, the politically motivated federal prosecutor who’d spearheaded the probe, had turned corporate litigator at a New York firm.
A year later, he was dead. Heart attack at an Oyster Bay country club.
Unable to find mention of any other attorneys on the case, he’d tried Deputy D.A. John Nguyen. Reaching John at home and annoying him.
“No idea and don’t ask me to look for it.”
“Just an initial stab, John?”
“The only stabs I’m into are when you bring me corpses.”
“John—”
“We are swamped, man. The case is ancient history and got beaucoup press coverage. Go find some alleged reporter.”
“The Times guy’s in Thailand and not answering emails and the rest of it was wire service with no bylines and online rehash.”
“Then I guess you’re S.O.L. Let’s face it, the entire premise sounds freakin’ flimsy. The daughter was likely some homeless deal and if Villalobos gets anywhere it’ll be because some homeless blabs.”
“You don’t think mother and daughter could be linked.”
“Because they both got done? West L.A. and Irwindale? Totally different methods? Plus the daughter had IQ issues? I know you think Delaware’s a genius and granted he’s been right about stuff, but stick with the here and now.
Do your due diligence and if that doesn’t turn up anything and you’re struggling to breathe, maybe I’ll find you an oxygen tank. ”
I said, “That’s cranky even for John.”
“I think I interrupted a date. Timing’s everything, right?”
Ignoring Nguyen, he’d persisted, chewing up most of the evening trying to find anyone who’d worked the Alberts case. A series of calls to former colleagues finally got him a name but no details. A White Collar Crimes detective named Angela Batchelder.
“Retired, lives near Spokane. Right off she tells me, ‘Sure, Martha was part of the team, sorry to hear about her.’ Do I have to say it? Yes, I do, self-abasement’s good for the soul. You. Were. Right.”
“What was the team?”
“Three D’s from us and a bunch of FBI agents specializing in money crimes.
Martha was on it for a year. Batchelder said Martha had been a real bulldog, extremely detail-oriented—compulsive, she called her.
Working long hours, compiling the thickest file.
Knowing what we know now, that makes sense.
What would Freud call it—adapting your hang-ups to the job? ”
“Sublimation. But Freud had an answer for everything.”
“Well,” he said, “doesn’t sound like Martha was sublime.
Just the opposite, according to Batchelder.
Hyped up, almost manic. To the point where she and the others were wondering about her.
Then suddenly, she surprises everyone and packs it in.
No face-to-face, she put notes on everyone’s desk. Wanna guess what I’m thinking?”
I said, “Some sort of payoff.”
“Unfortunately, yeah. Don’t wanna see her as corrupt, Alex, but one day she’s digging up dirt on Alberts like a hyperactive gopher and the next she’s gone? But even with that, why would someone want to kill her and cut off her arms years later?”
“Could be someone with their own mental health issues,” I said.
“Last year, I read a case in a psych journal. IRS clerk in Cleveland, had problems with co-workers, quit and went on disability. Eleven years later, she walks into the office and shoots four people. People who see themselves as aggrieved can stew and seethe. If their lives turn out okay, they may be able to put it aside. If not, the anger festers. It’s the root of most workplace homicides. ”
“So all I need to do is to find someone in Alberts’s firm whose life has totally dead-ended and who hears voices telling him to wreak vengeance.
Problem with that, Alex, is Batchelder couldn’t tell me who else worked in the firm because for all the dough Alberts took in, it was a one-man operation.
No other lawyers, just him and a bunch of paras and secretaries and Alberts was the sole defendant. So why would they be aggrieved?”
“None of them were subpoenaed?”
“Not that she was aware of but she said the Feds mighta done that.”
“And kept it to themselves?”
“That’s how it was throughout the entire investigation.”
“The in-crowd and the out-crowd.”
“She said Van Osler favored the Feds, basically gave her stuff to file, made her feel like a clerk, the whole assignment was a giant pain in the ass. In fact that was her guess as to why Martha retired.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “So maybe I’m off base.”
“Stop. It’s too late in the day for heresy. Can you give me more about what kind of personality would do what was done to Martha? And Lynne. Because despite Nguyen’s bile-based sermon, a connection is obvious.”
I said, “Someone who amplified whatever injury he suffered due to delusional thinking. It could’ve been as simple as losing a job and then having difficulty finding another one due to personality issues and substance abuse.”
“Paranoid doper nutcase with crap job skills.”
“Given the precision of Martha’s murder, a paranoid schizophrenic is unlikely. But psychopaths always blame others and that can lead to delusions of persecution.”
“So how do I find this gem of a human being?”
“You could try Mike Heck, see if he remembers anyone.”
“Actually, I couldn’t. Captain and all the brass hats are well aware of the lovely Ms. Bel Geddes and the certainty of a civil suit. I am enjoined from further contact with Heck.”
“How about one of the FBI agents?”
“Batchelder recalled a couple of their names but I haven’t been able to locate them.
Makes sense if they’re retired. Cops who leave the job usually want to be forgotten.
Only reason I got lucky with Batchelder is she and her husband breed show horses and have a website.
I did bring up the possibility that someone’s after everyone who worked Alberts.
She said she lives on two hundred fifty acres with an ex-SWAT hubby, coupla Neapolitan Mastiffs, and an arsenal. Her exact words were ‘Let ’em try.’ ”
I said, “Contacting the FBI’s out of the question?”
“I’ll try it but they’ll probably stonewall me on principle and tell me to file a Freedom of Information request. There’s got to be a quicker way in but so far I haven’t come up with it—hey, you know what, I’m gonna send Alicia out to the facility where Alberts is housed, see if he’s actually that far gone. No offense to your friend.”
I said, “I’ve always found her reliable but go for it.”
“Yeah, yeah, probably a waste of time. But when the going gets tough, the tough turn to creative futility.”