Evidence

“Ol’ George seemed pretty lucid to me. More important, you’ve got nothing else and who knows if that rib joint is still in business.”

“Desperation time… always been a favorite season of mine.”

A search for the working address of M. Carlo Scoppio, attorney at law, pulled up nothing. Same for an inquiry at the bar association.

Milo said, “He lied, excellent start.”

I said, “Lawyers can work in other capacities.”

“Hush your mouth, whippersnapper. Let’s go back to the office, return close to five. If the timing’s right, I’ll have a little chat with this charmer.”

Googling m. carlo scoppio pulled up the website of Baird, Garroway and Habib, an East L.A. law firm specializing in personal injury civil suits. Scoppio’s name appeared near the bottom of the staff roster. Paralegal.

“He didn’t just lie, he puffed himself up,” said Milo. “We’re a little closer to sociopath.” He sca

Probing for articles on the law firm produced several news pieces about an investigation by the city attorney. All three partners were suspected of setting up phony traffic accidents, working in concert with corrupt physicians, physical therapists, and chiropractors. No indictments had been brought.

No mention of Carlo Scoppio.

Milo tried a contact at the city attorney’s office. The woman had no personal knowledge of the case but looked up the current status. “Appears to be pending, Lieutenant.”

“Meaning?”

“My guess would be insufficient evidence to file. Looks like they used illegals as their stooges, try finding witnesses willing to testify.”

“Does the name M. Carlo Scoppio appear anywhere?”

“Scoppio… no, doesn’t look like-oh, here it is, he’s a para… suspected of being a recruiter. He killed someone? We might be able to use that.”

By four forty-eight we were back on Scoppio’s block, cruising past the bungalow.

Still no sign of the black pickup George Kaplan had described but a gray Honda sat on the concrete pad.

Milo said, “Girlfriend’s here, maybe boyfriend will show up soon.”

Too few cars on the street made getting close risky. I parked four houses up, switched off the engine. Milo positioned a pair of binoculars in his lap, chewed a panatela, paused from time to time to spit shreds of tobacco out the passenger window.

“We could be here for a while, you want to put on music, it’s fine with me.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Anything that doesn’t make my ears bleed-well, looky here.”

A black Ford half-ton approached from the south and pulled up next to the Honda.

Milo snatched up the binocs, was focused on the driver’s door as a man exited the truck.

“That’s him-guess what he’s wearing? Gray hoodie.”

Carlo Scoppio walked around to the truck’s passenger side, retrieved something.

Plastic bags. Five of them. Scoppio laid them on the concrete.

Milo said, “Albertsons, ol’ Monte C. does the shopping, how touchingly domestic.”

Scoppio returned to the driver’s side, reached in, honked the horn.

The bungalow’s front door opened and a woman stepped out. Tallish, dressed in a white top and jeans.

Scoppio pointed to the bags. The woman walked toward them.

Milo’s shoulders tightened. “You are not going to believe this. Here, take a look.”

“At what?”

“Her.”

CHAPTER 38

Dual lenses highlighted a pleasant face framed by long rust-brown hair. Late twenties to early thirties, rosy-cheeked, clear blue eyes.

Milo said, “Our rookie C.I., Lara whatshername.”

I said, “Helpful Ms. Rieffen.”

Carlo Scoppio lifted three bags, left Lara Rieffen to carry two. No pleasantries exchanged between the two. No talk, at all.

They entered the house. The door closed.

Milo said, “This changes everything.”

During the drive back to the station, he reached Dave McClellan, the head coroner’s investigator, asked if Lara Rieffen’s assignment to the turret murders had been scheduled routine.

McClellan said, “She screwed up?”

“No, I just need to know, Dave.”

“Don’t have the schedule in front of me, I’m at City Hall trying to impress city council members. Why do you need to know?”

“Who do I talk to about the schedule, Dave?”

“Now you’re scaring me-tell me the truth, did Rieffen screw up in some major way?”

“Is she a screwup?”

“She’s new, tends to be a little lazy.”

“She gave the opposite impression at Borodi, Dave. Made herself out to be Eager A

“Maybe she likes you.”

“The burden of charm, story of my life. Where can I get hold of the schedule?”

“You’re not going to tell me why? All of a sudden, my gut’s churning.”

“It could be nothing, Dave.”

“Now my bowels are loosening,” said McClellan. “Call Irma, my administrative aide. She knows everything. Wish I did, too.”

Irma Melendez took thirty seconds to come up with the answer: A C.I. named Daniel Paillard had been next up for the Borodi call.

“He didn’t take it, Lieutenant Sturgis? My record says he did.”

“Lara Rieffen did.”

“Her?” said Melendez. “How come?”

“I thought you might know.”

“I have no idea, Lieutenant. The two of them must’ve worked something out-maybe Dan had an emergency. She doesn’t volunteer for anything.”

“Not a workaholic?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Where can I find Paillard?”

“He’s off today.”

“Give me his cell and his home landline, please.”

“Dan did something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“Good,” said Melendez. “Him, I like.”

Daniel Paillard was at Universal Studios with his girlfriend.

“This is a big deal?”

“Probably not,” said Milo, “but tell me about it.”

“Nothing to tell,” said Paillard. “She came to me the day before, said she needed time off next week, was I willing to swap. I said sure, why not.”

“What day did she need time off?”

“She never said.”

“She never collected on the trade?”

Silence.

“Dan?”

“I guess she didn’t,” said Paillard. “I guess I forgot-looking a gift horse, you know? Am I in trouble? I mean it was between the two of us.”

“You’re not in trouble.”

“I mean, I’d been working my ass off for weeks, all those gang shootings,” said Paillard. “When she came to me, I didn’t see any problem long as the job got done-did she screw up?”

“Is she a screwup?”

“She’s green,” said Paillard.

“Do me a favor, Dan. Don’t tell her about this conversation.”

“She’s in some other kind of trouble?”

“Not yet,” said Milo. “Be discreet, Dan, and I will be, too.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” said Paillard. “She’s green, maybe a little lazy, that’s really all I can say about her.”

Milo swung his desk chair around, faced me. “Lazy rookie but she makes herself out as gung-ho. A faker like Scoppio. She processed the bodies, made comments about Doreen’s clothes being cheap. That takes on a whole new flavor now.”

I said, “Rieffen trading shifts the day before the murder says she knew Backer and Doreen would be up in that turret. Doreen lived with her and Scoppio, so that’s no mystery. If Scoppio’s our Port Angeles hoodie, we’ve got fifty grand of motive. But the scene’s always reeked of personal to me, so it could’ve gone beyond the money. Kaplan said the three of them looked grim when they were together. Maybe the gloss was off the relationship.”

“Threesome gone bad.”

“Possibly because threesome had turned to twosome.”

“Doreen threw her roommies over for Backer,” he said. “Old flame reignited. So to speak.”