held up a sheaf of paper money. Elise Freeman snaked an arm around his waist and flashed a victory sign.
On the bottom frame panel, cursive in red marker read: Sal strikes it big in Reno! Adorning the boast were hand-drawn pink hearts and green daisies.
Milo said, "Nice to be lucky once in a while," and continued to have his way with drawers and shelves.
The final stop was the bathroom. Modular fiberglass prefab unit; another aftermarket.
The medicine cabinet had been emptied by the crime scene techs. The tub was grubby but unhelpful.
Milo kept staring at it. If he was feeling vibrations, he wasn't showing it.
Finally, he turned away. "Boyfriend's a guy not surprisingly named Sal, last name Fidella. He let himself in with his own key. Her car was here, no sign of forced entry or disarray. He found her in the tub immersed in dry ice, naked and blue. Accounting for sublimation, someone bought bags of the stuff, maybe twenty, thirty pounds. Because of no blood, the initial assumption was an O.D. Even though she hadn't vomited and Fidella claims she didn't use drugs and there were no pill bottles nearby. Fidella called 911. The tape's in the file and I've listened to it three times. He sounds totally freaked. But I haven't met him and I know nothing about him except what North Hollywood wrote. Which is no more than his driver's license says, so I'm reserving judgment."
"Where does he live?"
"Not far from here, Sherman Oaks."
"A couple but they live apart."
"Sometimes that works better."
"Sometimes it means domestic drama."
"You'll have a chance to meet the guy. Any other insights?"
"On the DVD she doesn't come across theatrical. Just the opposite: When she had good reason to dramatize, she played herself down."
"Depressed. You're thinking suicide?"
"Was she on top of the ice or submerged?"
"Partially submerged."
"That would've meant severe cold-pressor pain within seconds. Skin burns, as well."
"She was burned, all right."
"Most suicides avoid pain," I said. "And displaying yourself that way is flamboyant and exhibitionistic, nothing like the woman on that disc."
"Maybe she was trying to draw attention to those three teachers."
"In that case, she would've left a note and made sure the DVD was out in the open, not in the middle of a stack. Better yet, she'd have mailed it. There's also the matter of no empty ice bags."
"Those could be out in the trash, soon as we're out of here, I'll check." He took another look at the bathtub. Sagged. "Yeah, it's murder. You know it, I know it, His Grace knows it."
"But he'd love it if you could say otherwise."
"No signature on the note that came with the disc, but I know his handwriting. Even when he prints."
"Thought he had integrity."
"Everything's relative."
I said, "Who sells frozen CO 2 around here?"
"Let's find out."
CHAPTER
3
Two plastic garbage cans at the rear of the house were empty. Milo phoned the sanitation department, found out pickup wasn't for three days. Ten minutes of bureaucratic-maze-running got him talking to a lab supervisor downtown. Yes, all trash and other items from the crime scene had been taken for analysis; not a clue on when that would start, the case had been marked non-emergency.
When Milo asked if empty dry ice bags and Elise Freeman's computer were part of the haul, he got put on hold. The answer, several minutes later, raised lumps on his jaw.
He clicked off, strode toward the unmarked. "No access to that information at this time."
We got in just as Captain Stan Creighton returned, necktie loose, jacket flapping, talking on a cell phone.
As we drove away, he was still on the phone. Talking faster.
A trio of ice-rental outfits were situated within five miles of the murder scene. At the closest two, no one had purchased any frozen CO 2 for weeks. Both clerks said, "We do that mostly in the summer."
At Gary's Ice House and Party Rentals on Fulton and Saticoy, in Van Nuys, a muscular, puffy-faced kid with three eyebrow rings and
On the bottom frame panel, cursive in red marker read: Sal strikes it big in Reno! Adorning the boast were hand-drawn pink hearts and green daisies.
Milo said, "Nice to be lucky once in a while," and continued to have his way with drawers and shelves.
The final stop was the bathroom. Modular fiberglass prefab unit; another aftermarket.
The medicine cabinet had been emptied by the crime scene techs. The tub was grubby but unhelpful.
Milo kept staring at it. If he was feeling vibrations, he wasn't showing it.
Finally, he turned away. "Boyfriend's a guy not surprisingly named Sal, last name Fidella. He let himself in with his own key. Her car was here, no sign of forced entry or disarray. He found her in the tub immersed in dry ice, naked and blue. Accounting for sublimation, someone bought bags of the stuff, maybe twenty, thirty pounds. Because of no blood, the initial assumption was an O.D. Even though she hadn't vomited and Fidella claims she didn't use drugs and there were no pill bottles nearby. Fidella called 911. The tape's in the file and I've listened to it three times. He sounds totally freaked. But I haven't met him and I know nothing about him except what North Hollywood wrote. Which is no more than his driver's license says, so I'm reserving judgment."
"Where does he live?"
"Not far from here, Sherman Oaks."
"A couple but they live apart."
"Sometimes that works better."
"Sometimes it means domestic drama."
"You'll have a chance to meet the guy. Any other insights?"
"On the DVD she doesn't come across theatrical. Just the opposite: When she had good reason to dramatize, she played herself down."
"Depressed. You're thinking suicide?"
"Was she on top of the ice or submerged?"
"Partially submerged."
"That would've meant severe cold-pressor pain within seconds. Skin burns, as well."
"She was burned, all right."
"Most suicides avoid pain," I said. "And displaying yourself that way is flamboyant and exhibitionistic, nothing like the woman on that disc."
"Maybe she was trying to draw attention to those three teachers."
"In that case, she would've left a note and made sure the DVD was out in the open, not in the middle of a stack. Better yet, she'd have mailed it. There's also the matter of no empty ice bags."
"Those could be out in the trash, soon as we're out of here, I'll check." He took another look at the bathtub. Sagged. "Yeah, it's murder. You know it, I know it, His Grace knows it."
"But he'd love it if you could say otherwise."
"No signature on the note that came with the disc, but I know his handwriting. Even when he prints."
"Thought he had integrity."
"Everything's relative."
I said, "Who sells frozen CO 2 around here?"
"Let's find out."
CHAPTER
3
Two plastic garbage cans at the rear of the house were empty. Milo phoned the sanitation department, found out pickup wasn't for three days. Ten minutes of bureaucratic-maze-running got him talking to a lab supervisor downtown. Yes, all trash and other items from the crime scene had been taken for analysis; not a clue on when that would start, the case had been marked non-emergency.
When Milo asked if empty dry ice bags and Elise Freeman's computer were part of the haul, he got put on hold. The answer, several minutes later, raised lumps on his jaw.
He clicked off, strode toward the unmarked. "No access to that information at this time."
We got in just as Captain Stan Creighton returned, necktie loose, jacket flapping, talking on a cell phone.
As we drove away, he was still on the phone. Talking faster.
A trio of ice-rental outfits were situated within five miles of the murder scene. At the closest two, no one had purchased any frozen CO 2 for weeks. Both clerks said, "We do that mostly in the summer."
At Gary's Ice House and Party Rentals on Fulton and Saticoy, in Van Nuys, a muscular, puffy-faced kid with three eyebrow rings and
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