Part 47 (2/2)
A review of the little we knew about the suspects suggested Rieffen would be less violence-p.r.o.ne, more likely to turn. Maybe.
Reed and Binchy took separate cars and began subtle surveillance on the man calling himself M. Carlo Scoppio. He'd left for work at nine a.m., drove to the East L.A. law firm, was still there by eleven thirty.
”Loo, one thing occurred to me,” said Reed. ”The office is awfully close to where that C.I., Escobar, got shot.”
”How close, Moses?”
”Like three blocks. It's county land, owned by the med center but undeveloped.”
”You scoped it out?”
”It was close, I started wondering. There's an intersection nearby. Not much traffic but a long red light. If Escobar was a law-abiding type, it would've been easy enough to catch him when he was stopped, commandeer the car.”
”Go back and take photos,” said Milo. ”After Sean takes over the watch.”
”I'll buy a camera,” said Reed.
”A cheap one's good enough for making memories, Moses. One day, we'll sc.r.a.pbook.”
Lara Rieffen was on s.h.i.+ft at the crypt, processing a shooting in Pacoima. The plan was to ”find” her in the parking lot when she returned to file paper, Milo coming on friendly, pretending to be there on business. Then walking her in and finding a s.p.a.ce in the building for a ”follow-up” interview. Keeping it low-key, so she wouldn't be threatened and the coroner's staff wouldn't be aware of any disruption.
But the boss had to know so Milo phoned Dave McClellan, gave him the bad news.
He said, ”I've been grinding my teeth since we spoke. She's really that evil, huh? That makes us look great.”
”No way you could know, Dave.”
”Whatever it takes to nail the b.i.t.c.h, Milo. I'll make sure there's an open room on the bottom floor.”
”Thanks. I'll keep it as quiet as possible.”
”Way I'm feeling about her, you can hog-tie her in full sight,” said McClellan. ”And don't worry about quiet, we're already crawling with cops, anyway.”
”Why?”
”Bobby Escobar. All of a sudden, Sheriff's Homicide decided they need to inspect his office, sent their own techies over, but they won't say why. They've been all over us since six a.m.”
”Who's the lead detective?”
”New replacement, Irvin Wimmers.”
”I know Irv. Good man.”
”I think they're here just to cover their a.s.ses. Anyway, want me to reel Rieffen in at any particular time? Or whatever the h.e.l.l her name really is.”
”When's she expected back?”
”Four, five, depending on particulars and drive-time.”
”Let's aim for five.”
”You got it,” said McClellan. ”Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Milo phoned Sheriff's Homicide Detective Irvin Wimmers and asked for a meet when Wimmers had time.
Wimmers said, ”I'll make time, Milo. How about now?”
”You don't even know what it's about, Irv.”
”You're calling me is what I know. How many of the same conferences we been to? Denver, D.C., Philadelphia-that fun one in Nashville, all those slides on decomp. When we see each other, we generally sit down for coffee. We get back to L.A., how many times do we call each other?”
”I don't know.”
”I'll tell you how many,” said Wimmers. ”Once. That Compton hatchet case, you clued me in on that old file one of your retired guys worked, we ended up nailing the b.i.t.c.h for turning two husbands to hamburger, not just one. So I'm figuring you've got something else useful to tell me. Maybe about Escobar? Say yes, it would make my day.”
”It is about Escobar, Irv, but it could turn out to be nothing. Did he have a predictable schedule at the crypt?”
”He had no schedule at all,” said Wimmers. ”Going to school, not working there anymore, but they let him keep his key, gave him a little closet office for working on his master's thesis.”
”What was he researching?”
”The technology of negligent evidence transfer-people s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up with fingerprint brushes, careless fiber collection, that kind of thing. What's on your mind, Milo?”
Wimmers listened to the bare-bones recap, said, ”That's pretty freaky-okay, this is something I need to sit down and think about. My partner's due in soon and I been up since five, need to eat or I'm gonna pa.s.s out. Where you calling from?”
”The office.”
”You got the time for meeting about halfway? I know a place, you'll like it.”
Ruby's Theatre of Turkey operated from a storefront on Eighth Street just west of Wilton.
Monumental birds dunked into deep-fryers, carved to order, served up glistening.
Irvin Wimmers was a black man taller and wider than Milo, with a pencil mustache and a soul patch and a gleaming shaved head furrowed longitudinally. He wore a double-breasted cinnamon-brown suit, a long-collared maroon s.h.i.+rt, a narrow olive tie patterned with orange battles.h.i.+ps.
The platter in front of him held a crisp, brown turkey quarter, chunky cranberry sauce, okra, collard greens, a sweating heap of macaroni and cheese. A side plate hosted biscuits the size of baseb.a.l.l.s, sodden with what looked like redeye gravy. Leave your Louisville Slugger at home, the turkey leg would be a fine subst.i.tute.
Milo said, ”Thanksgiving came early, Irv.”
Wimmers said, ”My philosophy, celebrate anytime you get the chance. So how's it going, City Boy?”
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