For now, though, he ran one of the biggest P.I. agencies in Los Angeles. The original Knighthorse Investigations. My agency, to be clear, was called Jim Knighthorse Investigations. A subtle, yet, important difference.
My father sat behind his desk, staring at me. Even when blinking, he still appeared to be staring. My father never seemed to master the social protocol of not looking too hard or too long at his subjects.
“What can I do for you, Jim?”
“I’m here for our weekly, father/son get-together.”
“We don’t have a weekly father/son get-together.”
“You think?”
“You’re being facetious.”
“I’m being something.”
“What can I do for you, Jim?” he asked again.
“I’m here about Mom’s murder.”
He nodded. No expression. Nothing. I could have said that I was here to sell him a subscription to Psychopath Today. I fought to control myself. I knew this about my dad. His lack of empathy was nothing new. One percent of the world’s population are certified psychopaths. I was looking at one of them.
“I think I know who killed her,” I said.
Still no reaction, although he did cock his head slightly to one side. For my father, that was the equivalent of a “Holy shit!”.
“And who do you think it is?” he asked.
I told him about the age-progression photo experiment I had done, and about how the man in the photograph greatly resembled the lead homicide investigator’s son.
“Did you run a background check on him?”
“Two sexual assaults that were dropped.”
“Dropped why?”
“No clue.”
“I’ll look into for you,” he said. “I’ve got friends at the DA’s office.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“What are the dates of the assaults?”
“Bookended around Mom’s murder.”
“A pattern of violence.”
You should know, I thought.
Instead, I said, “My thoughts, too.”
“Could have been a coincidence that the father got the case.”
“Or not,” I said.
“The father somehow knew about the crime?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Hard to know at this point.”
“So what’s your next step?”
“I figure it’s time to talk to him.”
Chapter Forty
I was back at Leisure World.
Sanchez had the night off from private investigating to work his real job as an LAPD detective. Slacker.
Admittedly, I hadn’t been in the mood to come tonight. After seeing my soulless father, I had been in the mood to drink the night away, with occasional respites for puking up my guts.
Except I wasn’t expecting to get a call from Tony Hill, head of park security at Leisure World. There had been another flashing. I’d asked if anyone had been blinded, and he told me to not be a smart ass and to swing by tonight.
So I swung by, and now we were in my crime fighting van. There’s nothing I like more than sitting in a confined space with a hard-ass rent-a-cop with control issues.
So I offered him a beer.
“I can’t drink when I’m on duty. And I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be drinking in this van.”
“So arrest me,” I said. I reached inside the mini-fridge and pulled out a Miller Lite.
Tony Hill looked at it long and hard, then looked around as if anyone could see us, then said, “Fine. I’ll take one. But just one.”
I grinned and handed him an ice-cold can. We sat back in the built-in swivel chairs. Like with Sanchez, we each covered one side of the van.
“Tell me about the flashing,” I said.
“Do I have to?” he said. He stared at the can of beer as he spoke.
“I’m afraid so.”
He sighed and sat back, although his eyes did go back to scanning the big tinted window. As he spoke, he drank often. So often that he soon finished the beer. “Happened two nights ago. In fact, it happened the last time you were here with your friend. Maybe ten, twenty minutes after you left.”
“Could he have known I was here?”
“Don’t know, but I doubt it. Your van looks like any number of maintenance vehicles. Did you see anything strange that night?”
“Nothing strange enough for me to think a flasher was on the prowl.”
Tony Hill held up the empty can. “Got another?”
“Got lots.”
I opened, reached, grabbed, shut, and handed him another cold one. He said, “I could get fired for drinking on the job, except I kind of make the rules for our department.”
“Maybe you should make the rule that on nights of flasher surveillance, you can knock back a minimum of two.”
“Four.”
“Or four.”
We both drank to that, and I think I might have just helped to add a new bylaw to Leisure World’s security.
“So who did he expose himself to this time?”
“Three women.”
“Where?”
“They were leaving their singing group.”
“Any other groups going on tonight?”
“More singing lessons, which is why I wanted you to come tonight.”
“Sounds like our boy knows the park schedule.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Who heads the singing group.”
“Mr. Micliwski.”
“Mr. McWho?”
“Micliwski. He’s Polish. Lives right there, in fact.”
Joe Hill leaned over and pointed to the same small apartment I had watched the old man exit from with the young man. A house not very far from Poppie’s. A house in the hub of the flashing hits.
“Oh really?” I said.
“Sometimes his son helps out.”
“I see,” I said. “Can the ladies describe the flasher?”
“The usual. Kind of tall, thin, long dark hair. Wore a bathrobe.”
I studied the small apartment. There were a lot of lights on. Every now and then, a shadow stepped in front of the window. I looked at my cell phone. It was getting on about the time I had seen the old man escort his son out.
We drank and watched, and I kept my suspicions to myself.
Sure enough, at about the same time the door opened and the same old man walked out. The same medium-sized and stooped old man. Another man followed. His son, I presumed. The same young man we had seen the other night.
The same tall young man.
Tony Hill was leaning in my direction, watching the scene from the house. “Yeah, that’s his son. A singer, too, like his old man. We get to know everyone who comes and goes from this park.”