years ago.”
“Don’t spell that, I’ve already got a migraine.”
“Taking a sick day?”
“Poland,” said Sleepy. “Brace yourself: This is going to be heading in another direction. Soon.”
“What do you need?”
“Don’t talk about need, your account is far from paid up.”
“So you say. What?”
“M-13 psychos, we’ll be needing addresses. Your brain-dead state legislature says you can’t cooperate with us on illegals.”
“You want me to apologize?” said Milo.
“A little genuflection wouldn’t hurt. I’ll let you know when I find out about Poland but get ready to cough up.”
“I learn something, it’s yours. Long as you’re being saintly, run the same check for a Dennis Rapfogel. Here’s his DOB.”
“Twofer?” said Sleepy.
“We talking only one M-13er?”
Click.
Moments after we arrived at his office, an email came in from Dr. Basia Lopatinski. Her personal account, not the crypt.
She hadn’t found any California coverage of the Skiwski case but asked us to check out the attachment.
Fuzzy photocopy of a Polish newspaper article. Incomprehensible Slavic prose, small photo in the center of the story. Lopatinski had drawn an arrow in red marker and written, This is him.
The arrow tip ended at the shaved head of a gaunt, hollow-cheeked, stubble-faced man, sitting cross-legged on cobblestones, hunched over a cheap round-hole guitar. The spidery fingers of his left hand pretended to form chords. The right dangled uselessly. At that point, six strings on the instrument.
An open cardboard case sat in front of Ignacy Skiwski. A group of young people sat and stood around him. Males, females, jeans and long hair.
Students or pretending to be.
None of them were Garrett Burdette.
Milo said, “A bargain-basement Manson?”
“The power of song.”
“You recognize any of them?”
“No.”
“Me, neither. On that cheerful note, it is time for you to be normal. Have a nice rest of the day.”
* * *
—
Nothing from him on Saturday. A full week had passed since the wedding murder.
A lot of noise has been made about a crucial, near-mystical forty-eight-hour period for closing homicides. Miss that deadline and the chances of a solve plummet.
The truth is, there’s nothing magical about two days. Most murders lack mystery because they’re committed by stupid, impulsive people who make no attempt to conceal: domestics, bar fights, walk-ups and drive-bys in front of crowds of witnesses.
Toss in stupid impulsive bragging leading to anonymous tips and the detective’s job is to observe, make notes, obtain warrants, arrest and interview obvious perpetrators, all the while trying not to do anything that screws up the evidence chain.
But when a murder is preceded by thought and misdirection, actual detection is called for. Those are the ones that baffle, stretch past forty-eight and beyond, and often freeze up.
They’re the killings Milo loves, though he’d never admit it. Complaining all the way, he usually manages to slog through and attain clarity.
That and my basic makeup generally lead me to be optimistic. But this one, an entire week with possibilities widening rather than narrowing, a victim still defying identification…
By ten a.m., continued radio silence and Sunday was shaping up the same way as Saturday.
Robin and I are both designed for work so stepping away from obligation takes a conscious effort and a conversation.
Sunday, eleven a.m., she initiated both and I agreed and we set out for a drive up the coast highway, the glorious Pacific to the west, the fire-ravaged foothills of Santa Barbara County to the east.
The Thomas blaze of a few months ago, followed by mudslides churned by a worst-time rain, had been hellish for thousands of people, lives, livestock, the material accumulation of lifetimes demolished in vicious flashes. Months later, Nature had decided to reverse her curse, kissing the gently rising slopes and drawing forth greening and blooming. Still, it felt like a party hat at a funeral.
We drove half an hour beyond the Santa Barbara city limits and pulled over in Solvang, craving Danish pancakes at a touristy place that was always bustling. Hipster snobbery aside, there really is no difference between tourists and travelers and sometimes foot traffic is the ultimate vote.
The wait for a table was extended by holding out for a spot on the patio where Blanche was welcome. She’d enjoyed the drive from the cushy, leather perspective of the Seville’s backseat, serene and observant as ever.
While we feasted, she contented herself with a chlorophyll-laced treat that supposedly helps with dog breath. Plus the occasional “accidentally” fallen shred of hotcake.
The restaurant was situated in a too-cute shopping center that could’ve been designed by Hans Christian Andersen stoned on aquavit. Plenty of cellular interruption but Robin and I