Killer (31 page)

That was
perfectly
consistent with an adolescent able and willing to set up an elaborate frame.

I reviewed the call, looking for other diversions. Found the biggie.

Not a uniform
.

So look for someone
in
uniform.

And that led me straight to a throwaway line from the
Ventura Star
article.

Aunt and uncle, both L.A. County Sheriff’s deputies
.

The type of connection that could help score a plum job in Superior Court.

I’d just witnessed a husband and wife in matching tan uniforms. Eating Japanese food.

One of whom had daily access to the court record on the Sykes case.

I began typing like a demon. This time Facebook yielded a prize.

The personal page of Willa Nebe, smiling and upbeat, eager to share her taste in music with her eleven friends. Ditto, a snapshot from her road trip last summer to Arizona.

Along with husband Hank.

And niece Desiree.

The three of them, posing in sweatshirts and jeans, backed by red rock.

Willa, wearing a Dodgers cap and her usual grin, holding a super-sized soda. Hank in a ten-gallon hat, eyes shielded by bronze lenses, hulking and saturnine.

Niece Desiree (“who I think of as my daughter”) positioned between them physically and emotionally: daring a smile, but the twisting of her lips was tentative. More than that: wary. A crooked, uncomfortable smile. Stiff shoulders. Eyes drifting to the side.

Expecting deception at any moment because she lied as easily as she breathed and figured so did everyone else?

That could make the world a threatening place. Lead you to make pointless phone calls just
in case
.

I studied Fallows’s face. Thin, clear, pretty, but for the tension.

Young woman with a more-than-casual interest in a guardianship case that had nothing to do with her.

Aunt and uncle …

I’d told Lionel Wattlesburg not to bother giving her my name. The old bailiff was a sensible fellow yet Kiara claimed he’d ignored the instruction.

I reached him at Marv Applebaum’s courtroom.

“Hey, Doc.”

“I’m going to ask you a strange question, Lionel. Would you do me a favor and keep it to yourself?”

“Now you got me intrigued, Doc. Sure.”

“Kiara Fallows called me yesterday, said you told her I wanted to talk to her.”

“That’s kinda bizarre,” said Wattlesburg. “What happened was I ran into her when she came in for her check, asked her how come she was quitting. She said the work environment was unhealthy. I said how so? Her answer was too many criminals around.”

He laughed. “Criminals, big shock, seeing as it’s a Superior Court, huh? I guess that annoyed me—another spoiled little quitter, so I gave her a hard time about being a fraidy-cat. She got all huffy and stomped off. But no, I didn’t mention your name, Doc, so I have no idea why she’d call you. What’d she want?”

“Looking for a new job, did I know anyone who was hiring.”

“Typical, this generation. Well, anyway, Doc, she didn’t get it from me, I pride myself on being discreet. Have to be, all the crazy things I deal with every day.”

Put another lie on the fire.

Framed as sociopathic thinking, both of Kiara Fallows’s calls made sense.

First, she’d pretended to offer me information but her goal was finding out what I knew about the Sykes sisters. Failing at that, she’d hung up frustrated. And like most antisocial types, delay of gratification was a problem for her.

That led to her big mistake: the second call.

Trying to steer me away from the Nebes.

At their behest? Or was it Little Miss Devious’s bright idea?

More important: Why?

Either way, she’d screwed up because she didn’t know me well enough to grasp how the
obsessive
mind deals with frustration.

Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig.

Keep digging.

Rinse and repeat.

Eons in the future, some historian in a cyber-garret will aim a laser-cognitive gizmo at a sensory-digital receptor whatcha-mahoosis and record an obvious but profound truth:

In the twenty-first century, privacy died
.

I found no address for Desiree Kiara Fallows but a residence for Henry and Willa Nebe popped up in fifty-nine seconds: Zillow listing of their one-family property on Haynes Street in Van Nuys, complete with square footage, purchase price, property tax, and a color photo.

The structure was a two-story beige smudge partially blocked by vine-crusted chain link. Padlocked gate, gigantic pine obscuring another chunk of façade.

Occupants who
liked
their privacy.

Tough luck.

Robin entered the kitchen just as the sun was setting. Her eyes drifted to the car keys in my hand.

“Need to take a short drive back into the Valley.”

“This hour you’ll hit crazy traffic.” As I weighed that, she smiled. “You’re doing that thing with your hands,” she said.

I looked down at my fingers. Curling rapidly, as if touch-typing air. I stilled them.

She said, “Didn’t mean to make you self-conscious, sweetie.”

“Do I do it a lot?”

“When you’re keyed up. I used to think you were mentally practicing guitar.”

I touch-typed the back of her neck, ran my fingers down her spine, drew her near and kissed her.

When we broke, she said, “Now you’re getting me thinking about fun. When will you be back?”

“Let’s eat dinner first and then I’ll go. That should clear the roads.”

“Have you cooked? Me, neither. So either we pull a Milo and forage, or we go out.”

“Either way.”

She laughed. “I look like Milo to you?”

Two hours later, nourished by a boozeless Italian meal, I was back on the Glen heading north. Take rush hour out of the equation and the trip from Bel Air to Van Nuys is a short hop. Van Nuys to the court complex downtown is a bit longer but a routine commute for lots of people, including Kiara Fallows’s aunt and uncle. Her avoiding the drive seemed even sketchier as a motive.

Deceptive at seventeen, no reformation at twenty-four? How did that connect to two murders?

No matter how hard I tried, I could produce no answer.

When all else fails, snoop.

The beige blur was a narrow, characterless rectangle on a poorly lit block north of Victory Boulevard. Proportional to its neighbors in style
and size, unremarkable in every way. That part of Van Nuys had begun as white working class, shifted to majority Hispanic. The Nebes had probably moved in years ago, decided to stay put.

Dark windows on the ground floor, whiskey-colored glow behind a shade on the second story.

A convoy filled the driveway: light-colored Ford Focus nearest to the gate, darker Toyota in the middle, a third compact nudging the garage door, too remote to identify.

I positioned myself as I had when visiting Virgo Virgo, several car lengths oblique from dead center. Distant enough to avoid being obvious, near enough to track movement.

No movement for an hour. I filled the time iPhoning for more info on either the Nebes or Kiara Fallows and added nothing to my pile of ignorance.

Seventy-two minutes in, the light on the second story went out and I was about to leave when the front door opened and a figure left the house.

Hank Nebe, dressed in sweats, unlocked his front gate and slid it open. Slipping into the light-colored Focus, he backed onto the street, pointed the car west, drove past me.

I watched him come to a complete stop, despite the absence of any other vehicles. What a law-abiding guy. The Focus turned left.

I started my engine.

Nebe drove to an all-night convenience store on Victory and Sepulveda. I parked at the far end of the lot and watched. His in-and-out, exposed by plate-glass windows and bleached by fluorescence, took eight minutes.

First stop, the beer case. Two six-packs of Miller Lite. Next stop, the cereal aisle. A yellow box suggested Cheerios. Economy size.

Nebe headed for the register. Okay, nothing ventured.

But before he reached the cashier, he veered to another part of the store.

Something ventured.

I followed him back home. For a law enforcement pro he was an easy tail, exhibiting curiously little vigilance, even when passing a street corner teeming with underaged teens hooting and dancing and drinking out of paper bags.

Sailing right past the group without a glance. The confidence of a man used to wielding authority? Or maybe for Nebe off-the-job meant just that.

As he turned onto Haynes, I hung back and switched off my headlights, waited several minutes before cruising into my former parking spot. The Focus was back in place, the gate was locked, Nebe was nowhere in sight.

I stuck around for another hour. The windows remained dark. Late-night grocery run but any snacking had to be taking place at the back of the house.

Another hour of zero and I was gone.

Before going to bed, I tried to reach Milo, got only voice mail. At eight the following morning I tried him again. He answered his desk phone.

“Sturgis.”

“Morning.”

“Got your messages, was just about to call. If it’s progress you’re after, you picked the wrong detective.”

“I’ve got some new info.”

“About Ree?”

“Maybe.”

“This point I’ll take anything. Go.”

I told him.

I heard a drawer opening. Slamming shut. “Hold on.” The
click click
of typing. “Nothing on this Fallows kid, she may have acted out seven years ago but she’s been clean ever since.”

“She still has a penchant for lying,” I said. “Heard about the Sykes case from her uncle but tried to steer me away from him.”

“Maybe she regretted opening her mouth to that other bailiff, didn’t want Unkie to find out and hassle her about it.”

“The case was public record, Nebe’s free to say what he wants.”

“Still,” he said, “there’s the law and there’s the unwritten rule: Keep your mouth shut.”

“Maybe, but what gets me is Fallows keeps exhibiting the same type of clumsy deviousness as when she set up her teacher. Manipulative scheming mixed with stupidity. Like claiming Wattlesburg passed my message to her when I could easily verify that.”

“Sure, but no reason for her to think you’d check up on her.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But when we did connect she really had nothing to offer and it was clear she’d fibbed originally about a job search. I checked her out because she twanged my antenna, Milo. All she had to do was keep her mouth shut. Not doing so is classic mediocre psychopath.”

“Mediocre?” he said. “What do the good ones do?”

“Run for office.”

He laughed. “Okay, you convinced me, little Miss Kiara has personality issues. Now how do I connect that to the murder of two people we have no evidence she ever laid eyes on?”

“She may never have met Connie and Ree but I’ll bet she heard plenty about them from Hank Nebe. He’s a cranky sort, I can imagine him coming home from court, jaded and disgusted. Maybe she got the same from Aunt Willa, who’s worked family court for years. For both Nebes, observing parents at their worst would’ve made it easy to conclude that people like that were unfit to rear kids. For some reason it
came to a head with
Sykes Versus Sykes
and the family decided they could do a better job.”

“They stole the kid? Aw, c’mon.”

“Hank Nebe did a late-night run for diapers, last night.”

Silence.

He said, “Disapproval leads to multiple murder and kidnapping? Jesus, Alex. And why Melandrano and Chamberlain?”

“The scenario fits
perfectly
with Melandrano and Chamberlain being targeted. Your motive’s been correct all along: clearing the deck of competitors. And both of them were named in court as potential fathers. Hank Nebe would know that. He might also be aware of the threat Connie posed to his boss. Because Medea Wright didn’t speak to Maestro directly, she left a message. And unlike some judges, Nancy’s not big on answering her phone. Every time I’ve tried to reach her, Nebe’s on the other end.”

“Bailiff going the extra mile for the boss … it’s crazy, Alex. And how does Kiara figure in?”

“She’s part of the family unit. They’re pooling pathology. And maybe that’s why she quit her job: Willa and Hank work full-time. They’d need someone to care for a sixteen-month-old. But they couldn’t exactly advertise for an au pair.”

“Reforming the system,” he said, “one dead person at a time. This is totally out of left field—farther, out on the street a mile from the centerfield bleachers.”

“I know it sounds wild, but Nebe’s pushing sixty, Willa’s way past childbearing age, and he bought diapers last night. Maybe I’m dead wrong and they’ve got a daughter or son with a baby but nothing like that showed up on their vacation photos. Just the two of them and Kiara.”

“Kiara could have her own baby.”

“She could and maybe the nastiest thing you’ll find in their house is the diaper pail. Only one way to know.”

“Ph.D. surveillance ace,” he said. “You went out on your own, huh? Don’t be insulted but are you sure Nebe didn’t spot you?”