As we stepped out into the hall, I said, “What did you ask her?”

“What was in the bag.” He rubbed the side of his nose. “Tootsie Rolls, M &Ms, Almond Joy. Ol’ Sonny brings candy for the girls. She said they were all watching their weight, ate very little of it. He finishes off what’s left.”

CHAPTER 28

A block up from Sonny Koppel’s corporate headquarters was a coffee shop with a forties-era starship poised for takeoff atop an aqua metal roof. Milo and I sat at the empty counter, sucked in the aroma of eggs crackling in grease, and ordered coffee from a waitress old enough to be our mother.

He cell-phoned DMV. The address on Edward Albert Koppel’s driver’s license was the building we’d just visited. He’d registered four cars: the Buick, a five-year-old Cutlass, a seven-year-old Chevy, and an eleven-year-old Dodge.

“Buys American,” I said.

“You saw him,” he said. “You figure Mary Lou would go for a guy like that?”

“They were married years ago, when he was in law school,” I said. “Maybe he looked different.”

“The Candy Man… his secretary sure seemed wholesome.” He gulped down his coffee, drummed his fingers on the counter. “Kindly boss, noble patriot, all-around unpretentious guy… if it seems too good to be true, it probably is, right? Ready to go?”

“Where to?”

“You’re going home, and I’m back to the Quicks’ for that toss of Gavin’s room. Did you have a chance to check the psych licensing board on Franco Gull?”

“Clean,” I said.

“That so? Well, maybe Gavin didn’t think so, and look what happened to him.”

It was two days before I heard from him again. Ned Biondi hadn’t called, and my thoughts had drifted away from murders.

Robin came by and picked up Spike. Despite the two days of bonding, he reverted to instant disdain for me at the sight of her Ford pickup. Running to Robin as she crouched in the driveway, leaping into her arms, making her laugh.

She thanked me for babysitting and handed me a small blue gift box.

“Not necessary.”

“I appreciate the help, Alex.”

“How was Aspen?”

“Mean-looking men with bubble blond arm candy, lots of dead animal pelts, the most beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen.” She played with an earring. Spike sat obediently at her feet.

“Anyway,” she said.

When she moved in to kiss my cheek, I pretended not to notice, and pivoted in a way that made me unavailable.

I heard the truck door close. Robin was at the wheel, looking puzzled as she started up the engine.

I waved.

She returned the wave, hesitantly. Spike began licking her face, and she drove away.

I opened the blue box. Sterling cuff links, shaped like tiny guitars.

When Milo finally called, I was getting out of the shower. “Mr. and Mrs. Quick appear to have taken a vacation. The house is locked up tight. Her van’s there, but his car isn’t, and a neighbor said she saw them loading suitcases.”

“Taking some time off,” I said.

“I need to get into that room. I called the sister- Paxton- but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. Onward to Mr. Sonny Koppel. He may drive old cars and dress like a slob, but it’s not due to poverty. Guy has title to over two hundred parcels of real estate. Commercial and residential rentals, four counties, just like his girl said.”

“Definitely a tycoon,” I said.

“He’s also got all sorts of holding companies and limited corporations as shields. It’s taken me this long to winnow through the basics. This guy’s big-time, Alex, and from what I can tell he likes to partner with the government.”

“Federal?”

“Federal, state, county. A lot of his holdings seem to be cofinanced by public funds. We’re talking low-cost housing projects, senior citizen residences, landmark buildings, assisted care. And guess what: halfway houses for parolees. Including the one on Sixth Street where Roland Kristof crashes. The state legislature says we have to pay for the board and care of felonious individuals, and Koppel’s cleaning up.”

“Public-spirited,” I said.

“It’s a great arrangement. Find some building or construction project that’s eligible for bond money or a grant, split your costs with John Q, take all the income. In terms of Koppel’s background, all I can find is that he did his undergrad work and law school at the U. But he never practiced, and I can’t locate any record of his taking the bar. Somehow he got bankrolled and built up an empire.”

“Is the office building where Pacifica practices a government deal?”

“Doesn’t seem to be,” he said. “But not because it’s in Beverly Hoohah. Koppel owns two B.H. properties- a senior residence hotel on Crescent Drive and a shopping center on La Cienega – that were financed with tax bucks. The hotel qualifies for an HUD gift and the strip mall got a FEMA grant because the stores that stood there before were earthquake-damaged.”

“He knows how to work the system,” I said.

“He works it well. The only time his name appears on court documents is when he sues someone or someone sues him. Mostly the former- back-rent and eviction cases. Once in a while he gets tagged with a slip-and-fall by a tenant. Sometimes he settles, sometimes he fights. When he fights, he wins. He distributes his business among eight different law firms, all downtown, all white-shoe. But get this: He doesn’t even live in a house, let alone a mansion. His primary residence- and it was hard to find- is an apartment on Maple Drive in Beverly Hills. Which sounds nice, but it’s not one of the fancy condos, just an old building, kind of shabby, six units. One of Koppel’s limited partnerships owns the place, and Koppel lives in a two-bedroom at the back. The manager doesn’t even know her tenant’s really her boss, because she referred to Koppel as ‘the heavy guy, real quiet’ and said the owners were some Persians who lived in Brentwood. On several of his rentals, Koppel hires a couple named Fahrizad to serve as his front.”

“Elusive fellow,” I said.

“Let’s challenge that.”

Sonny Koppel’s stretch of Maple Drive lay between Beverly Boulevard and Civic Center Drive. Mixed-use neighborhood, the west side filled by a granite-clad behemoth that served as Mercedes Benz headquarters, a high-profile, extravagantly landscaped office complex that catered to entertainment lawyers and film agents, and construction dust from a fulminating high-rise.

Across the street were two-story apartment buildings, souvenirs of the postwar building boom. Koppel’s was one of the dingiest examples, an off-gray traditional with a cheap composite roof. Three upstairs units, three down, a scratchy lawn, struggling shrubs.

Koppel’s Buick was parked in back, squeezed into one of the half dozen slots in the open carport. We cruised and found each of Koppel’s other cars parked within two blocks, each with Beverly Hills street parking permits that were up-to-date.

An Olds, a Chevy, a Dodge. Gray, gray, dark green. Lots of dust on the first two. The Dodge had been washed recently. I idled the Seville as Milo got out and examined each vehicle. Empty.

I parked, and we headed for Koppel’s building.

Sonny Koppel answered the door palming popcorn out of a chartreuse plastic bowl. The fragrance brought to mind the theater-lobby smell of Pacifica’s building. Before Milo had his badge out, Koppel nodded as if he’d been expecting us and beckoned us in. He wore a royal blue U. sweatshirt over plaid pajama bottoms and fuzzy brown slippers.