The Murder Book

"Oh, dear," said Glenda Stephenson. "Well, how have you been with that?"

"It has its moments."

"I'll just bet it does."

"How's the soul-saving business, Reverend?"

Glenda gri

"I'll bet."

"Sit down," said Glenda Stephenson. "Cup of coffee?"

Milo saw no urn or pot. Just an alms box on the desk, next to a neat stack of what looked to be government forms. Impulsively, he reached into his pocket, found a bill, dropped it in.

"Oh, that's not necessary," said Glenda.

"I'm Catholic," said Milo. "Put me in a religious environment, and I have an urge to donate."

Glenda giggled. Little girl's giggle. For some reason it wasn't as foolish coming out of that di

"In a way," said Milo. "Work and personal- what I mean is it needs to be kept confidential."

Glenda sat forward, and her bosoms brushed the desk top. "Of course. What's the matter, dear?"

"It's not about me," said Milo. "Not directly. But I am involved in a case that's… ticklish. A name came up, and I traced a co

Glenda sat back. Her chair creaked. "The son or the father?"

"The son."

"What has he done?"

"You don't sound surprised."

In repose, Glenda's customary face was unlined- nothing filled wrinkles as well as fat. But now worry lines appeared at the periphery- etching the corners of her mouth, her eyes, her brow.

"Oh, dear," she said. "Could this reflect in any way on the mission?"

"Not that I can see. I certainly wouldn't do anything to put you in a bad position, Reverend."

"Oh, I know that, Milo. You were always the kindest. Taking time from your patrol to deliver sad souls. The way you held their arm, the way you… ministered to them."

"I was trying to clean up the streets, and you were there. I'm afraid there's nothing pastoral in my makeup."

"Oh, I think you're wrong," said Glenda. "I think you would've made a wonderful priest."

Milo's face went hot. Blushing, for God's sake.

Glenda Stephenson said, "Coury, the son… when Fred and I accepted the building, we had our reservations. Because you know we're grizzled old veterans of this neighborhood, knew darn well what his father had been like- everyone on Skid Row knew about his father."

"Slumlord."

"Slumlord and a mean man- never gave us a dime, and Milo, we asked. That's why we were shocked when a few months after he died we received a letter from the son's lawyer letting us know he was donating the hotel to the mission. I'm afraid our immediate response was to harbor uncharitable thoughts."

"As in, what's the catch," said Milo.

"Exactly. The father… no, I won't speak ill of the dead, but suffice it to say that charity didn't appear to be his strong point. And then there were the people he employed. They'd always made the lives of our men difficult. And the son had kept them on."

"What people?"

"Angry young men from East L.A.," said Glenda.

"Which gang?" said Milo.

She shook her head. "You hear talk. Eighteenth Street, the Mexican Mafia, Nuestra Familia. I really don't know. But whoever they were, when they showed up on the street, they intimidated our men. Swaggering by, driving by. Sometimes they'd get out and demand money, become threatening."

"Physically?"

"Once in a while someone got punched or pushed. Mostly it was psychological intimidation- looks, threats, verbal bullying. I suppose they felt entitled- territorial. Mr. Coury- the father- had used them as rent collectors. When the son offered us the building, the first request we made on him was that he ask his crew to stay away from the men. Because we thought he was going to hold on to the other hotels, and we didn't want to be geographically close to that kind of environment. His lawyer said there'd be no problem, Coury was going to tear the buildings down and pave them for parking lots. It ended up being a very smooth transition. Our lawyer talked to his lawyer, papers were signed, and that was it. Fred and I kept waiting for some ulterior motive but the way our lawyer explained it, the son was in an inheritance tax bind and the Grand Royale could be appraised in a ma

"Inflated appraisal?"

"No," said Glenda. "Fred and I wouldn't be party to that. In fact, we demanded to look at the most recent county assessments, and everything was in line. The Grand Royale was worth approximately twice what the other hotels were, so apparently it fit the son's tax needs. It wasn't the only thing he sold. Mr. Coury, the father, had owned many properties. But the three hotels had been acquired as a package through some sort of government housing deal, so by donating the Royale, everything worked out."

"Coury aiding the Lord's work," said Milo.

"Fu

"Happy ending, Reverend. Doesn't happen very often."

"Oh, it does, Milo. You just have to know where to look."

He talked to her a bit longer, stuffed more money in the alms box over her protests, and left.

Vance Coury had made good on his promise to keep the gang-bangers away from the Mission and now that the two other hotels had been torn down for parking lots, his need for rent collectors had disappeared.

But the gang thing intrigued Milo and when he drove by the lots and took a look at the attendants, he saw shaved heads and skulking posture. Tattoos conspicuous enough to be visible from the curb.

CHAPTER 31

What I'd seen of Vance Coury's demeanor synched with the profile of a domination rapist: surly, hypermacho, eager not to please. The supercharged ambience in which he operated fit, too: big engines, flashy paint, the photos of submissive fellatrices tacked to the walls of the garage. The mutilated Porsche.

A corrupt father completed the picture: Coury had been raised to take what he wanted. Throw in some like-minded buddies, and Janie Ingalls had been a rabbit in a dog pit.

Junior hadn't been interested in my patronage. Did he really regard the Seville as a hunk of junk? Or did those parking lots pay the bills and the auto-customizing business was recreational? Or a front… all those gang boys.

I headed for the city and thought about the bisected Porsche. Evisceration on display. The joy of destruction. Maybe I was interpreting too much, but the few minutes I'd spent with Coury had left me wary and creeped-out, and I kept checking the rearview mirror well past Mulholland.

Back at home, I imagined the party scene twenty years ago: Janie's encounter with Coury, amid the noise and the dope, the flash of recognition- pleasure for Coury, horror for Janie.

He moves in and takes over. The King's Men join in.

Including a King's Man who seemed different than the others?

The images Nicholas Hansen's gallery had posted on its website were still-lifes. Lush, luminously tinted assemblages of fruit and flowers, rendered meticulously. Hansen's work seemed galaxies away from the ruined sculpture assembled on the Beaudry on-ramp- from any brutality. But art was no immunization against evil. Caravaggio had slain a man over a te

Still, Nick Hansen seemed to have taken a different path than the others, and deviance has always fascinated me.

It was nearly three, maybe past the New York gallery's closing time, but I phoned anyway, and got a young, female voice on the other end. The first time I'd contacted the gallery, I'd talked to an older woman and hadn't left my name, so here was a chance for some new dissembling.