Burning Man by Alan Russell Page B

Beverly Hills has had more than its share of notorious murders: Bugsy Siegel was gunned down in an alleged mob hit; Johnny Stompanato was stabbed to death by Lana Turner’s daughter when he was allegedly assaulting the actress. Ron Levin was shot in his Beverly Hills apartment, an apparent victim of the Billionaire Boys Club, and Jose and Kitty Menendez were victims of their own two sons, who used a twelve-gauge shotgun on their parents in an attempt to get an early $35 million inheritance. The thick hedges and high fences that surrounded the pricey Beverly Hills homes hadn’t managed to keep away trouble.
    I pulled up the drive of the Kleins’ house and extended an index finger to the call box. An accented voice spoke from the intercom: “Yes?”
    “I am Detective Gideon, here to speak with Mrs. Klein.”
    The wrought-iron gate opened, and I drove up a flagstone driveway. I parked in front of a house that had been built in the style of mission revival, even though I imagined it was bigger than any of the original California missions. There were long corridors with arches; white paint had been applied over the stucco finish. The front yard had a parklike feel, with tiered fountains and well-tended gardens.
    After opening the car windows for Sirius and telling him to be good, I walked up the path. The door opened before I reached it. A small Hispanic woman started at the sight of my scarred face, but she recovered quickly and said in the same voice I’d heard over the intercom, “I take you to Miss Klein.”
    I followed her down a long hallway. We passed by a showcase living room that was about the size of my house, and an equally imposing dining room. The domestic stopped at a door and lightly knocked.
    “The policeman is here, Miss Klein,” she said.
    A muffled voice answered, and the maid opened the door and gestured for me to pass. Once I was inside the study, the door closed behind me. It took me a moment to get used to the dim lighting. Michelle Klein was holed up in the darkness. There was just enough light for me to see her red eyes and blotchy face. She was seated behind a desk. It seemed it was all she could do to raise her chin up from her chest to look at me.
    “Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. I am terribly sorry about the death of your son.”
    She didn’t respond with words or body language. I extended my business card her way, but she didn’t take it, so I put it down on her desk.
    “I am Detective Gideon. Is it all right if I sit, Mrs. Klein? I am afraid there are questions I need to ask.”
    She tilted her head slightly, and as I was taking a seat in a chair she asked in a raspy voice, “How did he die? They never told me how Paul died.”
    “He was shot.”
    She sighed, swallowed hard, and her head dropped back down to her chest.
    “But I am afraid there was more to it than that,” I added. “The circumstances of his death were very peculiar. After Paul was shot, he was nailed to a tree.”
    It took a few moments for my words to penetrate her grief. She stared at me in disbelief. “What?”
    “His limbs were nailed to a tree.”
    My words shocked her when few other things could. “He was crucified?”
    I nodded.
    “What sick fuck would do that?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “What kind of crazy fucking asshole would desecrate my baby?”
    She slapped the sides of her face with both hands, and the sound of the impact was loud in the small space we were sharing. Her dark eyes searched mine, looking for answers.
    “We have every resource available committed to finding your son’s murderer.”
    My rote words brought her no comfort. “Where did he die?” she asked.
    “From the evidence we’ve uncovered, it looks as if he was shot in Runyon Park. He was wearing running clothes. Was that a place where he frequently went running?”
    “He ran there two or three days a week,” she said, clearly distracted by the news of the defilement