Milo said, “Entire place looks dead. Maybe not enough talent to go around.”
He drove to Hill Street, headed south to Sixth, then west. Traffic had congealed, tempers were fraying, horns farting. He switched on the police band and used it for background. The inflectionless, nonstop dialogue between dispatchers and patrol officers often lulls me drowsy. When I woke up, we were passing the county art museum on Wilshire just east of Fairfax.
He said, “Rise and shine. Let’s get some coffee.”
“Drop me at home and I’ll make a pot.”
“Not decaf, dude.”
“No prob.”
“Kenyan?”
“I think we’ve got that.”
“Think? I was hoping for a guarantee.”
“Life’s rough,” I said. “On the other hand, we definitely have biscotti. Robin baked some with candied citron.”
“Robin bakes?”
“Robin does anything she puts her mind to. One of the good things she got from her mother was a book of home recipes.”
“Biscotti,” he said. “Lovely language, Italian. Okay, fine, doesn’t have to be Kenyan. See? I’m doing what you tell me, being psychologically flexible.”
Sitting at my kitchen table, he downed three large mugs of Jamaican coffee and half a dozen biscotti before yawning.
Robin had come in two minutes ago and sat down with us. She smiled. “Want to take a nap, Big Guy?”
“Appreciate the offer but I’m calling it a day.” Leaning over, he pecked her cheek then bent and ruffled the folds of Blanche’s neck before pushing himself up.
I walked him out of the house and down to the Impala. “What’s next, Big Guy?”
“I do grunt work and you enjoy life. Something comes up, I’ll let you know.”
He walked to the driver’s side. Stopped, backtracked, squeezed my hand with both of his. Like being swaddled by oven mitts. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Chapter 9
Monday at two p.m., he called and said, “Three able detectives canvassing thoroughly, zero information.”
Tuesday at four p.m., he texted: Don’t know if it’s too short notice but Andrea Bauer’s coming by in an hour.
I’d just completed two custody reports and Robin would be working late, finishing a “dire emergency” repair on the neck of a celebrity rocker’s red-sparkle Telecaster. Koko Moe didn’t play a note and used the instrument the way a drum majorette employs a baton. But she needed to look “hot and hyper and hot,” and a limp, decapitated instrument wouldn’t cut it.
I went to Robin’s studio, kissed her, and looked at her workbench. “Artistic fulfillment.”
“We take it where we find it, darling.”
At two forty-seven, I arrived at Milo’s windowless, closet-sized office on the second floor of the West L.A. station. Other detectives work in a big room downstairs, saturated with human noise and clanging locker doors.
Years ago, my friend had been shoehorned into the apparently unworkable cell by a corrupt, soon-to-retire police chief who promoted Milo to lieutenant in return for silence about “errors of judgment” that would’ve jeopardized a huge city pension.
The chief felt smug, certain he’d gotten the better end of the deal. Unaware he’d earmarked the perfect den for this particular grizzly.
Lieutenants typically operate desks but Milo had leveraged the ability to keep working cases. When administrative tasks came up, he ignored them. Ditto memos, meetings, and paperwork outside the pages of blue-bound murder books.
Two subsequent chiefs had bristled, as organization men always do when iron rules rust. But their initial resolve to change things had fizzled: The department needed every bit of good P.R. it could cadge, and Milo’s success was too blatant to mess with.
The cramped space barely accommodates his desk and chair plus one additional hard-backed seat. The visitor’s throne might as well have my name engraved on a brass escutcheon as I’m the only person who occupies it. Witnesses and persons of interests are taken to interview rooms and when the young D.’s show up, they stand in the hall and report.
For the meeting with Dr. Andrea Bauer, Milo had selected the nearest of the rooms. But as we approached the Reserved sign dangling from the doorknob, he kept going.
I said, “Change your mind?”
“She’s from Montecito,” he said. “We’re offering valet service.”
We headed down the stairs, left the station, and stood near the curb. Butler Avenue was a steady stream of unmarkeds and official vehicles entering and exiting the staff lot across the street.
I said, “Why’s she coming here?”
“She called and offered. I don’t argue with someone with the net worth of a midsized Caribbean country.”
“You researched her finances.”
“After she called, I took a superficial look at the numbers. She’s coming down for a board meeting at The Music Center, figured it would be efficient to stop by. Still haven’t been able to reach her employee, McGann. I’m hoping Bauer can direct me.”
He glanced at his Timex.
I said, “Nothing from the crypt?”
“The decomp case still rules, all four of my bodies are in the fridge closet, can’t even get a commitment for autopsy schedules. Adding to the joy, I got into Solomon Roget’s apartment yesterday and turned up nothing but a pile of those tear-off ads he posted who-knows-where. An appointment book woulda been nice, guy had to have some way to organize his schedule.”
“Whoever killed him took it.”
“That would be my guess. Along with his cellphone. He uses some small-time carrier, I subpoenaed his account, heard nothing, will keep on it. I also drove around near his apartment checking out supermarkets and convenience stores. If Roget posted at any of them, his ads have been taken down.”
“What about cameras?”
“The places I found, none are directed at the boards, the concern is pilferage, not free advertising. I also talked to the agency that rented the house for parties. Place has been vacant for a year, some sort of nasty divorce. Still unlocked by the way, I just got back, rechecked every one of twenty-plus rooms. Nothing bloody. The murders didn’t go down there.”
I said, “Nasty divorces kick up all sorts of passions so maybe the dump spot wasn’t chosen randomly. Who are the feuding parties?”
“Ansar versus Ansar. Mom split with the kids, is hiding out somewhere in the Middle East.”
“Maybe I can get you specifics. There are judges I can call.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s your other job, isn’t it? Great, thanks, terrific — okay, here’s our philanthropist.”
A maroon Porsche Panamera had turned onto Butler from Santa Monica and continued to glide toward us. Milo waved, the car stopped, he pointed to the staff lot, hustled across the street, and used his key card to raise the barrier. I waited and a few minutes later he emerged from the lot with a woman wearing a black hoodie, black tights, and red ballet shoes.
Same face and coif as her pictures but Andrea Bauer had let her hair go white. Artful white, shiny as chrome, every strand in place. She moved quickly but with the slightly off-kilter gait you see in women who’ve sacrificed stability for extreme thinness.
Milo doing all the talking, Bauer staring straight ahead. By the time the two of them reached me, her hand was out. She allowed me a brief shake of her fingers. Stiff and cool, nails cut short and buffed. Her nose and chin were sharp enough to cut paper, her eyes nearly black.
“Nice to meet you, Doctor. Good to hear the police value behavioral science.” Deep, slightly abrasive voice; Lauren Bacall with a cold.