“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Ms…”
“Angie.”
“Gavin come in here?”
“Once in a while.”
“How often, Angie?”
“Not often.”
Milo unbuttoned his jacket and edged closer to her desk. “How long have you been working here?”
“Three and a half months.”
“In three and half months, how many times did you see Gavin Quick?”
“Hmm… maybe three times. Could be four, but probably three.”
“What did Gavin do when he was here?”
“Went in to see Jerry- Mr. Quick. Sometimes they’d go out.”
“For lunch?”
“I guess.”
“Was it lunchtime?”
“I think it was.”
“What’d you think of Gavin, Angie?”
“He seemed like an okay guy.”
“No problems?”
She licked her lips. “No.”
“No problems at all? He was always a gentleman.”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“We’ve heard,” said Milo, “that Gavin could get pretty enthusiastic. Overly enthusiastic.”
No reply.
“Overly enthusiastic with women, Angie.”
She placed a hand on the copy of Buzz. As if preparing to take an oath. I swear on all that is hip…
“I never saw that. He was polite.”
“Polite,” said Milo. “And by the way, what is your last name?”
“Paul.”
“Angie Paul.”
“Yup.”
“So Mr. Quick travels a lot.”
“All the time.”
“Must get boring, just sitting around.”
“It’s okay.” She flexed her shoulders again.
Milo sidled closer to the desk. The top bit into his thigh. “Angie, did Gavin ever hit on you?”
“Why would he do that?”
“You’re an attractive woman.”
“Thanks,” she said, without inflection. “He was always polite.”
“Where’s the boss off to?”
“Somewhere in San Diego. He didn’t say.”
“He doesn’t tell you where to find him?”
“He calls in.”
“Leaving you all by yourself,” said Milo.
“I like it,” she said. “Nice and quiet.”
Before we left, Milo took down her North Hollywood address and phone number and driver’s license registration. Driving back to the station, he ran her through the data banks. Three years ago, Angela May Paul had been arrested for marijuana possession.
“Paxton said Quick hired sluts for secretaries,” he said. “I don’t know if ol’ Angie would qualify for that, but he’s sure not tapping the executive roster. That office of his, pretty downscale, huh?”
“Keeping the overhead low,” I said. “Eileen said he’s no tycoon.”
“She said he was hustling… think Angie was telling the truth about not knowing the blonde? I thought she reacted a bit to the photo, though with that stone face it was hard to tell.”
“She blinked hard when you showed it to her,” I said, “but it is a death shot.”
“The blonde,” he said. “Jimmy Choo and Armani perfume. Maybe ol’ Jerry provided well for Junior.”
He checked his phone for messages, grunted, hung up.
“Drs. Larsen and Gull returned my call. They’d prefer to meet me away from the office, suggested Roxbury Park, tomorrow, 1 P.M. The picnic area on the west side, they go there for lunch from time to time. You up for some grass and trees and chewing the fat with a couple of colleagues? Should I bring a picnic basket?”
“Grass and trees sounds okay but forget the niceties.”
CHAPTER 21
“Alex, I’m glad I caught you.”
It’d been months since I’d heard Robin’s voice, and it threw me. No rapid heartbeat; I was pleased about that.
I said. “Hi, how’ve you been?”
“Well. You?”
“Great.”
So civil.
“Alex, I’m calling for a favor, but if you can’t do it, please just say so.”
“What is it?”
“Tim was just asked to fly to Aspen to work with Udo Pisano- the tenor. There’s a concert tomorrow, and the guy’s voice is freezing up. They want Tim there yesterday, are flying him on a chartered jet. I’ve never been to Aspen and would like to go along. We’re talking one, maybe two nights. Would you be able to babysit Spike? You know how he is with kenneling.”
“Sure,” I said, “if Spike can handle being here.”
A few years back, on a sweltering summer day, a little French bulldog had made his way across the murderous traffic of Sunset Boulevard and up into the Glen. He wandered onto my property, gasping, stumbling, dangerously dehydrated. I watered and fed him, searched for his owner. She turned out to be an old woman dying in a Holmby Hills manor. Her sole heir, a daughter, was allergic to dogs.
He’d been saddled with an unwieldy pedigree moniker; I renamed him Spike and learned about kibble. He reacted to his new surroundings with élan, promptly fell in love with Robin, and began viewing me as competition.
When Robin and I broke up, custody wasn’t an issue. She got him, his leash, his food bowls, the short hairs he shed all over the furniture, his snoring, snuffling, arrogant table manners. I was awarded an echoing house.
I considered finding a dog of my own, had never gotten around to it. I didn’t see Spike much because I didn’t see Robin much. He’d taken ownership of the small house in Venice that she shared with Tim Plachette, and his regard for Tim seemed no higher than for me.
Robin said, “Thanks so much, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Down deep he loves you.”
“Must be extremely deep. When do you want to bring him over?”
“The plane leaves from Santa Monica as soon as we’re ready, so I was thinking soon.”
“Come on over.”
This is not your typical dog.
His flat face implies as much frog DNA as canine heritage, his ears are oversized, upright, batlike, and they flex and pivot and fold in response to a wide range of emotions. He doesn’t take up much more space than a Pomeranian but manages to pack twenty-six pounds into that cubic area, most of it lead-bone and rippling muscle, clothed in a black brindle coat. His neck is twenty-one and three-quarter inches around, and his knobby head is three handbreadths wide. His huge brown eyes shine with confidence and he allows himself the barest, patronizing interest in the lives of others. His worldview is simple: Life is a cabaret, and it’s all about him.
When I used to take him out alone, women flocked. “Oh, that’s the most beautiful ugly dog I’ve ever seen!” was the operative phrase.
This afternoon, he had as much interest in leaving Robin’s side as in snarfing a bowl of lint.
I held out a chew stick. He shot Robin a mournful gaze. She sighed and stooped. “It’ll be fine, handsome.”
The Saran-wrapped nugget of hamburger I’d concealed in my shirt pocket perked his radar and brought him over, but once he gobbled it, he raced back and hid behind Robin’s legs. Great legs.
She said, “Look at this, he’s guilt-tripping me.”
“The joys of parenthood.”
Spike nuzzled her jeans. Tight jeans above suede boots. She wore a black silk T-shirt under a tapestry vest. Her auburn curls were loose, her face was scrubbed and fresh. Those big, liquid brown eyes. The clean sweep of jaw and thin, straight nose.
Those lips; the oversized incisors.
I said, “Let me take him, and you go. He’ll fuss, then he’ll be fine.”
“You’re right,” she said. She took Spike’s face in both her hands. “Listen, you rascal. Daddy will take good care of you, you know that.”
What did she call Tim? Stepdaddy?
Spike’s trapdoor mouth dropped open, teeth flashed, a purplish tongue flapped.
Beseeching the heavens, he bayed.
I swooped him into my arms, held his taut little body tight against my chest as he sniveled and writhed and hyperventilated. It was like restraining a bowling ball with legs.