Alex Delaware: Evidence Part 45

Kaplan laughed. "And here I was, being careful."

"You wanted to help but didn't want to get overly involved."

"He's a frightening person, Monte. I lived ninety-three years, would like a few more."

"There's no need for him to know, Mr. Kaplan."

"You arrest him based on my word, how's he not going to know?"

"You'll be listed in my notes as an 'anonymous source.'"

"Until some lawyer pokes around and you feel the pressure."

"I don't respond well to pressure," said Milo. "And I never break my word. I promise your name will never appear in any case file."

Kaplan kept his eyes down. "Sure you don't want a cracker?"

"It's not food I need right now, sir."

"You think Monte killed that girl."

"I think I need to hear what bothers you about him."

"Huh," said the old man. "George S. Kaplan does his civic duty like his mother taught him and look where it gets him."

"If Monte's dangerous, sir, all the more reason to get him off the street."

"I've never seen him do anything dangerous."

"But he's a scary guy."

"I've lived long enough to know a frightening person when I see one. No respect for his elders."

"He was discourteous to you?"

Kaplan's head shifted from side to side. When it stopped moving, he said, "That girl on the TV, the pretty one who was killed in that big house near Bel Air. She lived with him. Him and his other girlfriend, the three of them going in and out of that house. Normally, you'd think they were up for hanky-panky but all the times I saw them, they didn't look like they were having recreation."

"Serious?"

"More than serious, I'd called it purposeful. Sneaky eyes, like they were up to something. I walk around the neighborhood a lot, good for the joints and the muscles, I notice things other people don't. There's a woman right down the block, been cheating on her husband with the gardener for near on six years, kisses her husband when he comes home like she's madly in love with the poor fool, when he's gone she's with the gardener. People do crazy things, I could tell you all sorts of stories."

"Tell us about Monte and the girl on TV."

"The last time I saw her with him was maybe a week before she got killed. Monte's other girlfriend wasn't there, just that girl and Monte, and they were going into that house and I started thinking maybe Monte's cheating on one girlfriend with the other girlfriend, she's certainly a better looker. But they didn't look up for fooling around-grim, that's the word. Real grim. After Monte let the girl in, he turned around, gave me the dirtiest look you've ever seen. Said, 'Got a problem, old man?' I just kept on going, could feel him watching me, made the small hairs stand up. Never walked near there again. A week or so later, I'm watching the fifty-inch downstairs and the news comes on, there she is. A drawing, but it's her. So I do my civic duty. What I didn't figure on was having to do more."

"Any idea what Monte's last name is?"

"I just heard his girlfriends calling him Monte."

"Where's the house?"

"Two blocks east, one block north. He drives a black pickup truck. She drives a Honda. Gray, the other girlfriend. Never saw the pretty one with a motor vehicle, always riding with one of the other two."

"You wouldn't have the address by any chance, would you?"

"You swear on a stack my name won't appear anywhere?"

"Scout's honor, sir."

"You were a scout?"

"Actually, I was."

"I would've liked to be a scout," said George S. Kaplan. "No colored scouts in Baton Rouge back then. I learned to be prepared, anyway." Denture grin. He reached for a bureau drawer. "Let me find that address and copy it for you. Do it in block lettering so no one can trace my handwriting."

CHAPTER.

37.

The house was a flat-face stucco bungalow the color of curdled oatmeal, narrow and tar-roofed and shuttered tight. Cement square instead of lawn, no vehicles parked there, no mail pileup.

Milo and I did a quick drive-by, parked half a mile up. He celled Moe Reed, asked for an a.s.sessor's check.

Owned and managed by a Covina real estate firm, rented to a tenant named M. Carlo Scoppio.

"Looked him up, Loo. Male white, thirty-two years old, no wants or warrants, no NCIC. Owners can't evict him but they'd like to."

"What's the problem?"

"He always pays his rent but does it chronically late," said Reed. "Like he's trying to irritate them by squeezing out every bit of delay. They say getting rid of a tenant is a ha.s.sle even when you're faced with a total deadbeat and Scoppio makes sure not to give them grounds. Top of that, he's a lawyer, they don't want the aggravation."

"What are his physical stats?"

"Five nine, one seventy-eight, brown and green. The picture makes him a guy you'd never notice. You anywhere near a fax?"

"Nope, but the stats are consistent with Hood-boy. Where does Scoppio practice law?"

"Haven't checked yet, but I will."

"Don't bother, I can do it. Thanks, Moses, you can climb back up Olympus, now."

I said, "Monte Carlo?"

Milo said, "Smells right but ol' George really is ol' George. More like ancient. Scoppio gives him att.i.tude, Kaplan builds up resentment, a few days later he sees a drawing on TV, convinces himself he just got dissed by a murderer."

"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 a.s.sociation.

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 scanned. "Hablo Espaol... and five other languages. Could be one of those slip-and-fall deals, poor stooges get the whiplash, lawyers get the dough. Maybe paralegal means Scoppio ropes them in."

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 pa.s.senger 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.senger 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.