The sliding metal door of the garage was open and the silver Bentley Turbo was positioned half-in, half on the sidewalk. The driver's door was still open and the dome light illuminated black leather seats, chrome knobs, polished wood.
But no driver. Cruvic was standing nearby, wearing a black suit and black turtleneck, talking to a uniform and rubbing his knuckles. A black-and-white backed out and turned left, hooking around the municipal parking lot.
The cop smiled at Cruvic, who smiled back, flexed his foot, and pointed to the Bentley. The officer trotted over, got in the big car, drove it to the corner, and let it idle. When he came back to Cruvic, the doctor shook his hand, then that of a second cop. Male-bonding smiles all around. Then Cruvic saw the press and said something to the uniforms.
As the cops held the microphones at bay, Cruvic jogged, head-down, to the Bentley. Milo and I made it over just as he touched the door handle.
“Evening, Doc,” said Milo.
Cruvic turned sharply, as if ready to defend himself again. The black sweater was skintight over a broad chest. Rubbing his knuckles again, he said, “Why, hello, Detective Sturgis.”
“Quite an evening, sir.”
Cruvic looked at his hand and grinned.
“Sore?” said Milo.
“It smarts, but a little ice and some anti-inflammatories should do the trick. Good thing I don't have any surgery scheduled tomorrow.”
He got in the Bentley. Milo positioned himself between the open door and the car.
“Nice wheels, sir.”
Cruvic shrugged. “Four years old. Finicky, but overall it runs pretty well.”
“Can we talk a bit, sir?”
“About what? I already gave my statement to the Beverly Hills police.”
“I realize that, Doctor, but if you don't mind-”
“Actually, I do.” Smile. “It was a tough day to begin with and this was the capper.” He looked at his hand and put it in his pocket. “Got to ice up before it balloons.”
“Sir-”
Shaking his head, Cruvic said, “I'm sorry, I've got to take care of my hand.”
He turned a gold ignition key and the Bentley started up almost inaudibly. Country-rock music boomed from lots of speakers. Travis Tritt singing about T-R-O-U-B-L-E. Cruvic turned the volume up even higher and put the Bentley in drive.
Milo stood there. The camera crew was headed toward us.
Cruvic lifted his foot off the brake and the car began rolling, the door pressing against Milo's back. He stepped away quickly and Cruvic closed the door.
“When can we talk, sir?”
Cruvic's slanted eyes tightened. “Call me tomorrow.”
As the Bentley glided past smoothly, the police cleared a way for its escape.
22
Darrell Ballitser was indeed skinny. Five-ten, 117 pounds according to the booking officer. Nineteen years old, born in Hawaiian Gardens, his current address was an SRO hotel near Skid Row.
He sat in the Beverly Hills PD interrogation room holding a paper cup of Mountain Dew. Third refill. His face was long and narrow, his shaved head topped with bumps. A blond mustache and goatee weren't much more than dandelion fluff. Bloodshot blue eyes that couldn't decide if they were tough or scared looked nowhere.
A blue Harley-Davidson tattoo marked the spot where the back of his neck met his shoulder blades. Another inscription proclaiming PARTY! was a magenta smear on his right bicep. L-I-F-E on the fingers of his right hand. D-E-A-T-H on the right. A blue-and-red Gothic CHENISE across his neck. His baggy white tank top was soiled, as were low-rider jeans barely held up by a wide black leather belt. Two hoop earrings in one ear, three in the other. A nose ring. Nature had provided additional decoration: angry patches of acne, random as buckshot wounds, on his face, back, and shoulders. Cruvic had contributed a black eye, split lip, bruised chin, lumpy jaw.
He rocked in his chair, attaining as much mobility as the hand cuffed to the bolted table would allow. They hadn't cuffed him at first, but he'd screamed and thrashed and tried to hit Milo.
Milo sat across from him, placid, almost bored. Ballitser drank the rest of the sweet yellow soda. He'd finished two sugar doughnuts provided by a slim young brunette detective named Angela Boatwright, chewing painfully, each swallow marked by the rise and fall of a plum-sized Adam's apple.
Boatwright was cheerful, a few sunburns past beautiful, with a surfer-girl rhythm to her speech, faint freckles and pale eyes, a tight runner's body, and slightly oversized hands. She wore a blue-black pantsuit and black flats with stockings. When she was with Ballitser she seemed more sorry than scornful, a long-suffering big sister, but out of earshot she'd referred to him as “a sorry little asswipe.”
Now she drank coffee and sat back behind the one-way glass flexing her hands. It had taken almost an hour to do Ballitser's paperwork. I was surprised at the ease with which Boatwright and her partner, a bald man named Hoppey, had relinquished control to Milo. Maybe she read my mind, because as we entered the viewing room, she said, “We booked him on attempted assault but the murder thing takes precedence. Lucky that doctor had his wits about him.”
A printout of Ballitser's criminal history rested on a fake-wood table between us. Mostly blank, except for notation of a sealed juvenile record and twenty unpaid parking tickets.
“Occupational hazard,” Milo had explained. “When Darrell works he's a messenger.”
“Car or bike?” I said.
“Both.” He gave a tired smile and I knew he was thinking, All that time spent on another stupid one?
Now he said, “I'm gonna get you a lawyer, Darrell, whether you ask for one or not.”
No answer.
“Darrell?”
Ballitser crumpled the paper cup and threw it on the floor.
“Is there any particular lawyer you want me to call?”
“Fuck.”
Milo started to get up.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck, yes, or fuck, no?”
“Fuck no.”
“Fuck no to a lawyer?”
“Fuck yeah.” Ballitser touched his jaw.
“Aspirin didn't kick in, yet, huh?”
No answer.
“Darrell?”
“Fuck.”
Angela Boatwright stretched. “Talk about your one-note solo.”
Milo got up and entered the observation room. “How many public defenders do you have on call?”
“All the PD's are tied up,” said Boatwright. “We've been into the private list for a while, compassionate Wilshire Boulevard guys doing pro bono. I'll go find someone.”
Two more Mountain Dews, a hamburger and fries, and two bathroom breaks later, an unhappy-looking attorney named Leonard Kasanjian showed up with an ostrich-skin briefcase too small to hold much. He had long black hair brushed straight back, a five-day beard, and minuscule pewter-framed eyeglasses over resigned, dark eyes. He wore a tailored olive gabardine suit, tan-check snap-collar shirt, hand-painted brown-and-gold tie, brown suede loafers.
As he approached, Boatwright smiled and whispered, “Pulled him out of Le Dome.”
“Hey, Angela,” he said, brightening. “You in charge, tonight? How's it-”
“Evening, Mr. Kasanjian,” she said in a hard tone, and the lawyer's smile died. She said, “Let me tell you about your client,” and did.
He listened, said, “Sounds pretty clear.”
“Maybe to you.”
“Mr. Ballitser,” said Kasanjian, putting his briefcase on the table.
The boy's free hand shot out, fisted, knocking the case to the floor.
Kasanjian picked it up and flicked lint from his lapel. Smiling, but his eyes were furious.
“Mr. Ballit-”
“Fuck you!”
Milo said, “Okay, we'll transfer him downtown, pull warrants on his room.”
Kasanjian looked down at the booking slip. “Hear that… Darrell?”