I called Edward Frostokovich first, but got no answer, not even a message machine.
Grady Frostokovich was my second call. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding young and polite. I identified myself, and asked if he knew of or had been related to a Sondra Frostokovich.
He said, “The one who was murdered?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry to disturb you like this.”
“Hey, no worries, I barely knew her. They found the guy. All this time later, they got him. How cool is that?”
“I’m looking into the original investigation back at the time of her murder. Think you could help with that?”
“Well, I would if I could, but she was my cousin, you know? Our family isn’t the closest family in the world.”
“Was Sondra from here in L.A.?”
“Oh, yeah. They lived in Reseda.”
“Are her parents or sibs still here?”
“That’s my Aunt Ida. Uncle Ronnie died, but her mom was Aunt Ida. You should talk to Aunt Ida.”
There was an I. L. Frostokovich on my list.
“Is that I. L. Frostokovich?”
“Yeah, that’s her. She’s really nice. My mom hates her, but she’s really nice.”
Grady was right. Ida was nice. I explained I was working with the family of the seventh and final victim, Debra Repko, and asked if she would be willing to tell me about her daughter. Five minutes later I was heading for Reseda.
28
IDA FROSTOKOVICH lived in a small tract home in the center of the San Fernando Valley, north of the Los Angeles River and fifteen degrees hotter than the basin side of the city. When Ida was a child, orange groves covered the valley floor as far as she could see with Zen perfection—identical rows of identical trees, each tree identically distant from its neighbors; row after row of low green clouds heavy with orange balls that smelled of sunshine. She remembered those times, and thought often of the trees, but during the boom years after the Second World War, the groves were bulldozed and the trees replaced by row after row of small, low-cost houses. Most of the houses were much the same in size and shape as the thousands of other houses there on the valley floor, but none of them smelled like sunshine.
Ida had probably let the house go after losing both her daughter and her husband. The small stucco house with its composite roof, faded paint, and ragged yard seemed weary. A single orange tree from the original grove stood in the front yard like a lonely reminder of better times. Two more trees were in her backyard, the crowns of the trees visible past the roof. I circled the block twice before I stopped, checking to see if someone was watching her house, but found no one. The paranoia.
I was walking up the drive when she opened the door. Ida had been waiting for me to arrive.
“Mr. Cole?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come in where it’s cool.”
Ida Frostokovich was a sturdy woman with big bones, a fleshy face, and nervous hands. Like the Repkos, she had created a shrine to her daughter, which I saw as soon as I entered. A poster-size portrait of Sondra hung on the wall over the television, with smaller pictures around it and still more pictures on a nearby credenza. The pictures preserved Sondra’s life from birth to death, and dominated the room. I had seen similar shrines when I returned from the war and sought out the parents of friends who had died. A husband or wife could be lost and you would never know they were gone, but losing a child left an emptiness so large it screamed to be filled with memories.
“You say the Repkos want to know about the original investigation?”
“They’re trying to understand why it took so long to catch this man.”
She settled into a Barcalounger and cupped one hand with the other, but the hands never quite rested.
“Oh, I understand, believe me, and I don’t blame them. If the police would have caught this lunatic sooner, their daughter would still be alive.”
“Something like that. Were you satisfied with the way Sondra’s investigation was handled?”
“Ha. Seven years, and they still wouldn’t have him if he hadn’t blown his own brains out. I guess that should tell you something about my satisfaction level.”
“Who notified you of the discovery in Laurel Canyon?”
“A Detective Bastilla. She told me the newspeople might come around, but they didn’t. No one came. I guess it was too long ago, what with so many others.”
“I’ll get back to the police in a minute, but first let me ask you this—do you know of a firm called Leverage Associates?”
“I don’t believe I do. What is it?”
“They’re a political management firm downtown. Debra Repko worked for them.”
“Ah. Uh-huh.”
She nodded without comprehension, probably wondering what this had to do with anything.
“Sondra and Debra had a lot in common. More with each other than with the other five women. They both had college educations. They both worked downtown in fields involved with the government. Was Sondra interested in politics?”
“Not my Sondra. She was an account administrator with the planning commission. She called herself a bean counter.”
“She ever attend political events, like a fund-raiser or dinner?”
“Oh, my, no. She hated that kind of thing. Is that what the Repko girl did?”
“She was at a political dinner on the night she died.”
“Sondie was off having fun with her friends. At least she was enjoying herself.”
“Do you remember how the police handled the original investigation?”
“Every word. I lie in bed at night, remembering. I can still see them sitting here, right where you’re sitting now.”
“The detective conducting the investigation was Chief Marx?”
“At the beginning, but he left. Then it was, oh, I think it was Detective Petievich. A Serbian, that’s why I remember. Ronnie was so glad when a Serb took over. Frostokovich is a Serbian name.”
“How long was Marx involved?”
“Four or five weeks, was all, then he disappeared. Got a promotion, they said.”
“After four or five weeks.”
“Ronnie was just furious, but he calmed down. Marx and that other one hadn’t caught anyone, so we thought the new people might get results.”
“Who worked on the case with Marx?”
“Let me think—”
She stared at the ceiling, trying to remember.
“That was Detective Munson. He never said much. Ronnie called him The Zombie. Ronnie was always making up names like that.”
I tried not to show a reaction.
“Did Munson stay on the case with Petievich?”
“For a while, but then he moved on, too. They all moved on, sooner or later.”
“But Marx and Munson were the first investigators?”
“The day they found her body. They sat right where you’re sitting.”
“Did they have a suspect?”
“Oh, no. That first day they asked if we knew who did it. I will always remember that, them asking if we knew. Ronnie went straight up right through the roof. He told them if he thought anyone was going to kill Sondie, he would have killed them before they had the chance.”
“Was there anyone you suspected?”
“Well, no. Why would we suspect anyone?”
“Maybe something Sondra had said.”
The nervous hands held each other. It was a sad move, as if her hands were keeping each other company.
“No, nothing like that. We were shocked. It was like being swept away by a wave. We thought they must have made a mistake.”
“Did they ask many questions?”
“They were here for hours. They wanted to know if Sondra was seeing anyone or had complained about anyone, that kind of thing. Sondie had gone out with her friends from work that night, so the police wanted to talk to them. We had to look up their names and numbers. It just went on and on like that.”
She suddenly s
miled, and her face was bright with living energy.
“Would you like to see?”
“See what?”
“Her friends. Here, they took a picture together—”
She pushed up from the well of the Barcalounger and waved me with her to the credenza.
“Carrie gave this to us. Ronnie called it The Last Supper. He would cry like a baby when he looked at it, but then he would call it The Last Supper, and laugh.”
She grabbed a framed snapshot from the forest of pictures on the credenza and put it in my hands.
“They took this at work that day. That’s Sondie, second from the right, that’s Carrie, that’s Lisa and Ellen. They used to cut up and have so much fun. They went out together that night after work.”
I stared at the picture.
“Her friends at work.”
“Well, the girls, not the gentlemen.”
The four young women were standing shoulder to shoulder and smiling in a professional, businesslike manner. They were in what appeared to be a city office, but they were not in the picture alone. A middle-aged African-American man stood at the left end of their line, and Councilman Nobel Wilts stood to their right. Wilts was next to Sondra, and appeared to be touching her back.
Ida tapped the African-American man.
“Mr. Owen here was Sondie’s boss, and this was Councilman Wilts. He was so kind to her. He told her she had a bright future.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the picture. I stared at it as if I was falling into it.
“I thought her job wasn’t political.”
“Well, it wasn’t, but they worked in the budgetary office, you know. The councilman stopped by for one of the bigwigs, but took time to tell them what a great job they were doing. Wasn’t that nice of him?”
I nodded.
“He was very impressed with them, Sondie in particular. He even remembered her name that night.”
I let go of the picture and watched her put it back on the credenza. She placed it perfectly onto a line in the dust.
“Did she see him again that night?”
“At dinner.”
“Sondie and Wilts had dinner.”
“Sondie and her friends had dinner. They bumped into the councilman at the restaurant, and he was just so nice again. He told them how much he enjoyed meeting them, and he even remembered Sondie’s name. I have voted for that man ever since.”
“When did Carrie give you the picture?”
“Must have been a year or so after what happened. She found it one day and thought we’d like it.”
“Did Marx and Munson see it?”
“They were long gone by then.”
I studied the picture in the little forest of pictures on the credenza, and knew by the smudged dust lines it had been moved more than once.
“Did Detective Bastilla see it when she was here?”
Her smile grew even brighter.
“She thought it was so pretty of Sondie. She asked if she could have it, but I told her no.”
I took Ida’s hand and gave her an encouraging squeeze.
“I’m glad you told her no, Ida. It’s a good picture. Let’s keep it safe.”
29
THE DAY shift ended at three. Uniformed officers punched on and off duty pretty much with the clock, but homicide detectives required more flexible hours. Interviews were arranged when citizens could make the time to be interviewed; file or evidence transfers often meant sitting in traffic for hours; and reports, records, and case notes still had to be typed and logged by the end of the day.
I arranged to meet Starkey a block from Hollywood Station when her shift ended and phoned Alan Levy while I waited. I wanted to see if he had learned anything about Marx from his inside sources, and I also wanted to know how Bastilla had handled Ivy Casik.
Levy’s assistant answered.
He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cole. Alan’s out of the office today.”
“I know. We saw each other this morning. Do you know if he’s spoken with Ivy Casik?”
“No, sir, I don’t. Would you like to leave a message? I expect he’ll call in later.”
“Yeah. Ask him to call me. Tell him I’ve learned some things about the task force.”
I gave him my cell number, then put away my phone.
Starkey left Hollywood Station at ten minutes after four and walked south, looking for my car. She was wearing a navy pantsuit, tortoise-shell sunglasses, and twining ribbons of cigarette smoke. A black bag hung on her right shoulder. When she saw me, I raised a hand. She flicked her cigarette to the street, then opened the door and dropped into the car.
“Is this a date?”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
I pulled a U-turn away from the curb, driving away from the station.
“I’m going to call it a date so I’ll feel better about myself. Here you are, picking me up, and now we’re going someplace nice. You see?”
I didn’t say anything. I was trying to work up how to ask what I needed to ask. It would put her in a bad place, but I didn’t know what else to do.
Starkey sighed dramatically at the silence.
“Not the most charming date conversation I’ve had, but I guess it will have to do.”
“Lindo told me the task force still has a locked evidence room down on Spring Street. You know that layout pretty well.”
“So?”
“You know which room he’s talking about?”
She looked at me with something like a scowl.
“They cleared out the offices they were using. They probably already shipped their files to storage.”
“They haven’t. Bastilla and Munson are still using the room. Lindo told me he’s seen them.”
She studied me some more, and now she looked uncomfortable and suspicious.
“What exactly are you asking me, Cole?”
“I’m asking if you know where they’re keeping their files.”
“Every task force they house down there uses the same room—and it’s not a room, Cole, it’s a fucking closet. Of course I know where it is. I spent three years down there.”
“Will you tell me how to find it?”
“The closet?”
“Yeah. I want to look at their files.”
“Are you stupid?”
“I need to see what they’re hiding.”
She held up her hands.
“You’re serious? You’re telling me you want to illegally enter an LAPD facility and break into official police files? You are actually asking me to help you do that?”
“I don’t know who else to ask.”
“That’s a police building, you moron. It’s filled with police officers.”
“I still have to do it.”
“You’re beyond stupid, Cole. They don’t have a word for what you are. Forget it. I am so pissed off right now—”
I drove another block, then pulled into a parking lot where a group of teenagers crowded a falafel stand. I parked behind the stand, but left the engine running. The smells of cumin and hot oil were strong.
“I know what I’m asking, but I have to keep Lou out of this for now and I don’t want Lindo to know. I believe Marx, Bastilla, and Munson aren’t trying to find the person who killed those seven women. I believe they know who that person is, or suspect they know, and they’re trying to protect him.”
Starkey’s face softened. The hard vertical line between her eyebrows relaxed as the weight of what I was saying settled, but then she shook her head.
“Marx might be an asshole, Elvis, but he’s a deputy chief of police. Munson and Bastilla—they’re top cops.”
“They appear to be protecting Nobel Wilts.”
The tip of her tongue flicked over her lips.
“The city councilman. Councilman Nobel Wilts.”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me you believe a city councilman killed these women. That’s what you’re saying. Am I confused?”
?
??I don’t know. I’m not telling you Wilts is the killer because I don’t know. I’ve been digging into Marx, not Wilts, but you can’t rule out Wilts just because he looks normal. A lot of these guys look normal.”
“Thank you, Cole, I know that. I studied fucked-up people when I worked on the bombs. High-functioning people are just as fucked up as everyone else—they just hide it better. What do you have?”
I described Marx’s history as a fixer for Wilts, and how at least two of the fixes were for assaults against women. I went through everything Ida Frostokovich told me about Wilts meeting her daughter on the day Sondra was murdered, and described how Marx and Munson had been the original investigators. I told her how Marx had run interference for Leverage Associates when Darcy and Maddux were investigating Debra Repko’s murder, and that Wilts was a Leverage client and had arranged for Leverage to manage Marx’s run for the council. Starkey grew pale as the overlaps added up, and made only a single comment when I finished.
“Jeez.”
“Yeah. That’s what I said, too.”
Starkey rubbed hard at the sides of her face, then studied the kids around the falafel stand as if she thought she might have to pull them out of a lineup.
“I guess it’s possible. You don’t have any proof?”
“Nothing.”
“You think Marx and these guys are hiding the proof.”
“They’re lying. Things that might be proof are disappearing. People who should be involved are being cut out. You tell me.”
“If they’re protecting Wilts, you’re not going to find anything in their files. They would destroy incriminating evidence or doctor it.”
“Maybe I’m hoping something incriminating will be there. If Marx showed Wilts as a person of interest in the Frostokovich murder, maybe I’m wrong about the cover-up. Maybe it’s something else.”
Starkey laughed, but it was sickly and weak.
“Right. And you want to be wrong.”
“Like you said, the man’s a deputy chief of police. It’s okay if he’s a political asshole, but it’s not okay if he’s protecting a murderer. The only way I can know what they’re doing is to see what they’re doing with the information.”