“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 funny, a grown man who wasn’t particularly gay looking, vamping like that. It struck me as an odd thing to do. Especially when you’re talking to your mother. If she is his mother.”

“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

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, planning the escape route — smells of pro. So does the killer’s demeanor: brutally methodical, no hurried escape.”

“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.”