“Cops are allowed to lie.”
“There’s a direct answer for you.”
I said, “No sense alarming her, what’s the choice. Have you convinced yourself Jordan’s death was related to Patty?”
“No, but the more I think about it, the more I lean that way. We get a match on that gun, it’s gonna be harder to fib to the kid. Though I guess she doesn’t need to know unless we turn up some sort of threat to her.”
“Try keeping it from her,” I said. “And what we don’t tell her, Kyle might.”
“Feeds the homeless-think that was a line?”
“Don’t know.”
“Tanya’s got a crush on him, right? Go figure.”
“You don’t approve?”
“He’s a slob, kind of nerdy, no? She’s a good-looking girl.”
I drove.
Two blocks later: “Ol’ Kyle better be as righteous as he claims.”
I said, “When are you planning to ease up on her curfew and let her wear makeup?”
He glared at me. “You can really be that hands-off?”
“One part of me wants to take her home and have Robin mother her.”
“And the other?”
“The other reminds me of the value of boundaries.”
“Must be nice to have those.” He folded his arms across his gut. “That duplex is nice, but it’s kind of eerie, she’s like a kid playing house. At her age, I was living in a dorm. Total mess, psychologically, but at least there wasn’t all that silence pounding my head. You’re saying she can really be okay doing a solo act?”
“I’m keeping an eye out.”
“I’m gonna talk to Kyle again. Just to let him know.”
“Know what?”
“That I’m an interested party.”
Robin was in the living room, curled on a couch, thumbing through Gruhn and Carter’s Acoustic Guitars.
I sat down and kissed her. “Getting new ideas?”
She put the book down. “Appreciating why the old ones work so well. My day was good, how was yours?”
I gave her the basics.
She said, “Blazer Pain. Are you sure you don’t mean Blaise De Paine?” Spelling it.
“You know him?”
“I’ve heard that name at recording sessions and not in a friendly context. He’s a sampler-snips digital segments of other people’s songs, patches together club mixes. First musicians had to deal with synthesizers, now this.”
“Your basic techno-thievery.”
“But tough to pin down. Samplers use tiny bits that can’t be identified easily. Even if the sample can be documented, who says anyone can claim ownership over a combination of tones? And how would you arrive at a royalty fee? Guys like De Paine are everywhere but no one goes after them because they’re a minor annoyance compared to the serious bootleggers.”
“Maybe he sells other products,” I said. “Ever hear of any dope connection?”
“No, but it wouldn’t shock me. The whole club scene’s all about X, oxycodone, the thrill of the week.”
“Maybe a retro thrill. Lester Jordan was an old-fashioned junkie.”
“I wouldn’t call heroin retro. It never goes out of style completely.”
“Blaise De Paine,” I said. “No way that’s on his birth certificate.”
“I’d bet not, my dear. Want me to ask around?”
“That would be good.”
She got up.
I said, “I didn’t mean right now.”
“No time like the present.” She fluffed her hair, held up a fist. “Look at me, girl detective.”
Blaise De Paine pulled up twenty-eight cyber-hits, twenty-five of them rants on a chat line called BitterMusician.com. The remaining three consisted of De Paine’s name embedded in lists of partygoers.
Two club openings and the premiere of an indy film I’d never heard of.
The griping musicians grouped De Paine with “the usual cabal of digital scumbag thieves” but didn’t single him out.
An image search produced four blurry photos of a slight young man with spiky, blond-tipped black hair and oversized teeth that drew your eyes away from a forgettable face. In each shot, Blaise De Paine favored long fitted coats over a bare chest and gold jewelry. He might’ve been wearing mascara. The group shots featured pretty young faces.
No sign of a scowling Robert Fisk or any black men. Combining Robert Fisk and Rosie with De Paine’s name brought up nothing.
The images were still on screen when Robin came into the office. “That’s him? Looks young, but that makes sense, it’s a kid’s business. I made more calls and from what I can gather De Paine’s mixes are a small-time hustle, probably not his main source of income because he hasn’t been seen lately around the clubs and someone thought he’d heard that De Paine had a high-priced house in the hills, above the Strip. Dope could be his other line of business.”
“He dresses flamboyantly, so he loves attention. Wonder why he doesn’t have a Web site.”
“That is weird. Everyone has a Web site.”
“You don’t.”
“I like my privacy and my clients know how to find me.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Ah,” she said. “This unearthing stuff gets interesting, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER 20
The next morning I introduced Blanche to a lightweight leash.
Twenty minutes of exercise was enough for her: When I carried her back to the house, she tucked her head under my chin.
The phone rang as I set out her water bowl.
Milo said, “The bad news is no sign yet of Robert Fisk, the other bad news is no one in any of the divisions has heard of Blazer Pain or Rosie.”
“That’s ’cause it’s Blaise De Paine.” I gave him the details.
“Music cheat, I’ll pass it along to Petra. The final bad news is the evidence room is still having trouble locating the bullets used on Leland Armbruster. In the theoretically positive category, Iona Bedard-Kyle’s mom-is in town to talk to Petra about Brother Lester. She’s staying at the Beverly Hilton, we’re invited to co-attend at ten a.m. If you’re interested, meet me in front at five to. Dress nice. Class consciousness, and all that.”
The lobby of the Beverly Hilton was a bright, vast amalgam of original fifties construction and postmodern, earth-toned upgrades.
Tourists waited to check in. Sharp-eyed executives and frightened minions wearing Hi I’m… badges hurried to meetings. Milo sat off to the side on a chocolate-brown sofa designed for someone thin, drinking coffee and watching people with the suspiciousness that never leaves him.
“Dressing nice” was a broad-shouldered suit one shade lighter than the couch. Some miracle fabric with a coarse weave that resembled shredded wheat. His shirt was barley yellow, his tie peacock blue. No desert boots; glossy brown oxfords I’d never seen before.
I said, “Nice spit shine.”
“These are older than Tanya. Can’t wear ’ em anymore. Bunions.”
He rubbed the offending bulge.
I said, “Nevertheless…”
“Protect and serve and suffer. Once a Catholic…”
A voice said, “Hey, guys.”
Petra Connor strode toward us wearing a brown pantsuit one shade darker than the couch and carrying a big beige purse.
“Oh, boy,” she said, eyeing Milo. “The Mud City twins.”
“Except for Dr. Nonconformist,” said Milo.
She touched the sleeve of my gray flannel jacket. “Thanks for rescuing us from gag-me, Alex. Thanks also for the Blaise De Paine info but if he owns a house in the hills, we can’t find it, and there’s no auto reg under that name. I’m not sure if I want to put too much time into him, the key is Robert Fisk. Lester Jordan’s autopsy is scheduled in three days but the initial screen came through. Massive amounts of opiates plus three cocktails’ worth of alcohol, no big surprise there, we found a nearly empty gin bottle in Jordan’s fridge. And that’s the longest speech I’ve delivered in a long time.”