60
CARLOS WAS AWAKENED by his ringing telephone. He glanced at his watch as he picked it up: just after ten; he had needed the sleep. “Hello?”
“It’s Regan, downtown.” The LAPD captain. “How are you feeling, Carlos?”
“Much better, sir. I had a very good night.”
“If you’re not up to this, tell me.”
“What’s up, sir?”
“We had a mass shooting in an East L.A. club last night, at least four dead and several wounded. Everybody in Homicide has pitched in, so nobody from the squad is available.”
“How can I help?”
“Dax Baxter is dead. A housekeeper found him a few minutes ago, single gunshot to the head, very likely a suicide. I need a homicide detective there to confirm the details and manage the crime-scene people. Do you feel up to doing that?”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
Regan gave him the address. “You’ll be on your own. I’ll send a crime-scene team as soon as they can shake somebody loose from the other scene.”
“I’m on my way, sir.”
“Don’t break your neck. Baxter isn’t going anywhere, and the housekeeper has been told to stay out of the bedroom.”
“Got it, sir.” He hung up and found Chita staring at him. “Are you really going out?”
“I have to, there’s a big shooting in East L.A. and everybody else is working that.”
“I’ll fix you some breakfast.”
“Just a muffin and coffee while I shower. And, Chita?”
“Yes?”
“You might want to call your office. Dax Baxter apparently killed himself last night.”
“Well,” she said, “he said last night that he was depressed.”
• • •
CHITA CALLED HER OFFICE and broke the news to Gloria. “You tell the others. There’s a new script ready on Dax’s computer. His last instructions to me were to print and distribute it to the whole list of people, and he’s already given the writer his check. I’ll be there in an hour or two.” She hung up and went to get Carlos’s breakfast.
• • •
CARLOS DRANK A SECOND CUP of coffee en route; he made good time to Mulholland Drive. He parked, got out of the car, and rang the doorbell. A uniformed maid opened it, looking distraught. He showed her his badge. “Take me to his bedroom, please.”
He was astonished at the size of the place. He saw a skateboard in a corner and figured that was how Baxter got around it. The maid pointed at the bedroom door. “There.”
“You go back to the kitchen and make yourself some coffee. Make a big pot—there are other cops on the way.”
She walked away and left him standing at the bedroom door. He opened it and walked to the foot of the bed. He could see a hole in Baxter’s temple, and when he walked around the bed he saw an even bigger hole. Crime scene would have to find the bullet. He walked back around the bed and could see nothing that didn’t point to suicide. The gun was where it should be, and there were blood spatters, blowback, on it.
The doorbell rang, and a moment later a young Asian man was standing at the foot of the bed.
“Anybody else?” Carlos asked.
“I’m all they’ve got. There was a big shooting last night.”
“I heard,” Carlos said. “Do a quick walk-around and see if you see anything that contradicts a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
The tech set down a large bag and did so. “Looks pretty straightforward to me,” he said.
“Okay, you get started. I’ll go interview the maid.”
• • •
THE TWO OF THEM sat at a kitchen table, drinking coffee.
“Name?” Carlos asked.
“Anita Escobar.”
“Nationality?”
“Born in Mexico, a U.S. citizen for the last seven years.”
“Tell me what happened this morning.”
“I came to work. I thought Mr. Baxter was at work, so I went into the bedroom to get the sheets and towels. I found him like that, and I called nine-one-one.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, nothing else.”
“What time was that?”
“Eight forty-five, maybe. I thought you’d get here faster.”
“It’s a very busy morning for the LAPD.” He wrote down her address and phone number. “We’ll want you to come downtown and dictate a statement to a stenographer, then sign it.”
“That’s all I have to do?”
“It’s possible somebody from the coroner’s office will want to ask you some questions, but everything seems pretty straightforward.”
“He offed himself?”
Carlos nodded. “He offed himself. Any idea why he might have done that?”
She shrugged. “He was an unhappy man. I worked here three years, and he was unhappy all that time.”
Carlos made a note of that. He went into the living room, sat down, and called Chita.
“Hello, there. Everything okay?”
“As much as a suicide can be okay.”
“How did he do it?”
“Gunshot to the temple. A bedside drawer was open, so that’s probably where he kept the gun. What’s happening there?”
“Everybody’s shocked, but not exactly surprised. When I spoke to him yesterday he said he was depressed, that he was always depressed when he finished a script. He worked with a writer yesterday. You might want to speak to him.” She gave him the name and number. “Will you be there all day?”
“I’m about done, but I’ll have to go back to the office and write my report. I should be home in time for dinner.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said. “I found a key under a flower pot.”
“Just keep it,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
He hung up and found the tech standing there. “I’m done,” he said. “A wagon is on the way. They’ll pronounce him and get him to the morgue. I didn’t find anything to change my opinion of the circumstances.”
“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Carlos said. Suddenly, he was tired, but he still had to go downtown, and he had another stop to make.