Compulsion

I said, “So you never saw his face.”

“Nope. It was crazy. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, hoping someone will come out, but no one did.” He looked up the block. “Ghost town. Pure L.A.”

“What did you scream at him?”

“Who remembers… probably something like ‘Stop, you asshole!’” Moskow plinked the hem of his sweatshirt with a thumbnail. “Mrs. Mancusi’s lying there, covered in blood, and this bastard is sauntering away like nothing happened. I started after him, which in retrospect was idiotic. But you don’t think. Then I saw the knife and stopped in my tracks.”

Moisture collected at the bottom of his eyes.

“How’d you see the knife?”

“He wiped it on the front of his pants. Above the knee. Casually, like it was a natural thing to do.”

“Then what?” I said.

“Then he pocketed it and got into his car and drove off. The whole thing took seconds.”

“The car was idling.”

“I don’t remember him starting it up, so probably. Don’t remember any engine noise at all but maybe I was blocking it out. That particular model’s pretty quiet.”

“Which way did he drive?”

He pointed south. “Right past my house.”

I knew the neighborhood from my grad student days at the U., had roamed these same streets searching for shortcuts home to my dismal little single on Overland. “It’s a bit of a maze. All those dead ends.”

Moskow stiffened. “You’re thinking he’s from around here?”

“No, but he may have pla

“Well, I’ve never seen him in the neighborhood. Same for the car. This isn’t exactly S600 territory.”

“Not a lot of Benzes?”

“Plenty of Benzes, but not 600s.”

“You’re into cars.”

“I’ve owned a few junkers that I fixed up.” He managed a half smile. “Owned a DeLorean. That was an experience. So what are we talking about, some old Mafioso?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Big black car, execution-style killing, guy that age. What came to mind is maybe he’s an old goombah hit man who didn’t burn out.”

He pulled the thread loose, rubbed it between forefinger and thumb. “That stupid cap.”

“Would there be any reason for Mrs. Mancusi to be involved with an old Mafioso?”

“Wouldn’t have thought so. Then again, who’d imagine this?”

“How well did you know her?”

“Not well at all. She was quiet, seemed nice enough. We’d say hi, good-bye, that’s about it.”

“Any social life?”

“Just that guy I told the lieutenant about.”

“How often was he here?”

“Maybe every month, that why I assumed he was her son. Could’ve been more often, it’s not like I kept my eyes fixed on her house.”

“Anything more you can say about him?”

“Forties, blond, sloppy-looking. Now that I think about it, I never actually saw them together. He’d knock on the door and she’d let him in. When he left, she never walked him out.”

“Was walking hard for her?”

“On the contrary, hale and healthy.”

“Anything else you can tell me about the blond guy?”

“Kind of thickset, when I say sloppy I mean he didn’t seem to care about his appearance.”

“Any idea what his name is?”

“Never heard her call him anything. Like I said, never saw them actually together. He never looked happy to be here, so maybe there was tension between them. And the last time he visited, a month or so ago, he stayed outside, talking to Mrs. Mancusi through the open door. I assume it was her, because no one else lives there. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from the looks of it they could’ve been arguing. Then he did this.”

Slapping a hand on one hip, he bent one leg and grimaced.

“It was a little… theatrical, know what I mean? It seemed fu

“You think they could’ve been arguing.”

“Look, I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble,” said Moskow, “and it’s nothing I’d swear to. Just my impression.”

“Because of his body language.”

“The way he positioned himself – he looked a little…”

“Aggressive?”

“More like defensive,” said Moskow. “Like Mrs. Mancusi told him something he didn’t want to hear.”

CHAPTER 5

“Mafia hit because her name was Mancusi?” said Milo.

We were in Café Moghul, around the corner from the station. The restaurant’s owners view him as a human rottweiler and are all too happy to create personal buffets. I watched him make his way through plates of lamb curry, tandoori lobster, spicy okra, lentils and rice. A pitcher of iced clove tea sat at his elbow.

After all that blood in Ella Mancusi’s driveway, the mental pictures I’d drawn of the murder, it was all I could do to pour myself a glass.

I said, “Moskow didn’t say so but that was probably part of it. But maybe he’s on to something. The setup – knowing when she came out to get her paper, leaving the car idling, pla

“Grampa bad guy,” he said. “Doing her in broad daylight and giving himself less than three hours to get the car cleaned up and back in place is professional? Not to mention driving it back to Beverly Hills in full view?”

“Where’s the rent-a-car lot?”

“Alden Drive near Foothill.”

“B.H. industrial zone,” I said. “Pretty quiet on Sunday morning.”

“It’s also five minutes from the B.H. Police Department.”

“But a black Mercedes wouldn’t attract anyone’s attention. Neither would a car entering the lot. Any blood in the Benz?”

“At first glance, no. Let’s see what the lab turns up.”

“He wiped the knife on the front of his pants, careful not to make a mess. Two and a half hours was enough time to clean the car before he returned it. Maybe he’s got a safe place, somewhere between the crime scene and the drop-off.”

“That’s half the Westside,” he said. “Think I’m go

“Maybe in his mind a daytime hit was safer because a night-prowl would’ve meant breaking into her house. Did she have an alarm system?”

“Dinky. Front and back doors, no windows.”

“For an old guy, climbing through windows could be a problem,” I said. “He figured that early on Sunday, most people are sleeping. We’re also talking a victim unlikely to put up serious resistance, and a silent weapon. He blitzed her so fast she never had time to scream. If Moskow hadn’t forgotten to take his Ambien last night, the whole thing might’ve gone u

He covered his ears with his hands, repeated the gesture with his eyes and mouth.

“Moskow come up clean?”

“Spotless.” He pushed his plate away. “Wiping the blade on his pants. What’s that all about?”

“Could be an expression of contempt,” I said.

“Those arterial wounds, no way he’d avoid leaving some trace in the car.”

“He cleans up the obvious, the Benz gets steamed by the company, he’s home free.”

“I’m definitely buying contempt,” he said. “Lotta rage, here. The question is what did a seventy-three-year-old retired schoolteacher do to incite that.”

“People have secrets.”

“Well, none of hers have turned up, so far. The house was neat, clean, real grandmotherly.”

He drew his plate closer, began bolting his food.

I said, “Hot rage but cool pla

“What do you mean?”

“The stain in the Bentley.”

“No body associated with the Bentley, Alex. I’m not ready to co