He continued examining the yard. The coroner, ambulance, and crime-scene van showed up within seconds of one another, and the area was engulfed in frantic activity. I retreated to the porte-cochere and waited as Milo gave orders, asked questions, pointed, and scribbled.
When he finally walked away from the action, I stepped out.
He looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there.
“Getting plainclothes out to both their offices, make sure this isn’t related to some kind of Watergate situation. I’ve gotta talk to Ms. Nuveen. Why don’t you go home? I’ll catch a ride to your place.”
I said, “The press will be showing up soon. Don’t you think I’d be less obtrusive if I stayed with you?”
“If you leave right now you’ll be real unobtrusive.”
I said, “Promise to behave good, Mr. Policeman.”
He hesitated. “All right, come with me. And as long as you’re there, keep your eyes open and make yourself useful.”
The living room had maroon-lacquered walls and cream-colored marbleized molding, a dark-beamed vaulted ceiling, and a thermostat set at eighty. The decor was African safari transposed upon someone’s idea of a Paris salon: zebra and tiger skins layered over high-gloss herringbone hardwood, elephant-leg occasional table, lots of cut crystal, porcelain, and cloisonné, overstuffed chairs upholstered in a black-and-maroon floral chintz, a pair of carved ivory tusks sharing space on the quasi-quatorze coffee table with a stack of art books, art nouveau lamps with beaded shades, heavy brocade drapes with gold hems tied back from black wooden shutters, a green marble mantel bearing a collection of millefleurs and linenfold paperweights, and everywhere the smell of musk.
She sat in one of the chairs, looking younger than indicated by her driver’s license birthdate- late twenties would have been my guess. Her skin was the color of mocha ice cream, her eye shadow iridescent peacock-blue. The eyes below them were wide-set and active. She had long slim brown legs, narrow feet ending in pearly-pink toenails, full lips glossed a soft pink, a tight jaw, and straightened hair the color of red clay that hung past her shoulder blades. Her kimono was royal-purple Thai silk patterned with jade-green dragons, buttonless and very short, held together with a green sash. No matter how many times she tightened the sash, the robe kept coming loose and revealing a healthy mocha chest. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a lot, smoked an ultra-king-size Sherman tinted to match the robe, and fought to keep from trembling.
“Okay, Cheri,” said Milo, handing her a faux malachite phone. “Go ahead, call your lawyer. Tell him to meet you downtown, at Central Booking.”
She bit her lip, smoked, looked at the floor.
“Downtown.” Her voice was soft, slightly nasal. “Haven’t seen that place in a long time.”
“Bet you haven’t, Cheri. Come a long way since Imperial Highway. Or was it Sunset and Western?”
She didn’t answer.
He said, “Got to hand it to you- this is some place. Self-made woman.” He put the phone down and picked up a Lladro figurine. Victorian lady with a parasol.
He spun the parasol and said, “Spain, right?”
For the first time she looked at him. With fear. Wondering how long something that delicate could survive between those thick fingers.
He put down the figurine. “Who’s your decorator?”
“Me. I did it myself.” Defiance and pride made her sit up a bit straighter.
“Creative, Cheri.”
She pointed to the art books. “I read lots of stuff. Architectural Digest.”
He lifted the phone again and held it out to her. She made no effort to take it.
“Call him, Cheri. Then we’ll take you down. Hey, your hands are shaking, babe. Tell you what, give me the number and I’ll dial it for you. How’s that for personal service?”
She took a deep drag on the purple cigarette. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why’re you leaning on me, talking about downtown?”
“It’s not just talk, Cheri. It’s real.”
“Real.” She dragged again, coughed, touched her bosom, tugged the sash. “Real. This is what I get for doing my civic duty. Moment I saw it I called.”
He said, “I appreciate that, except now instead of acting civic you’re clamming up and demanding your lawyer, which is more like perp behavior. So now I’m wondering what you have to hide, and now I have to take you downtown to be extra careful to cover my butt.”
She hugged herself, rocked, smoked, crossed her legs. “They treated me like a perp right off, read me Miranda.”
“That’s for your sake, Cheri.”
“Yeah, everyone’s out to do me a favor.” She waved the cigarette, created sinuous smoke streams.
Milo cut through the smoke with his finger. “Sherms. Usually when we see those they’re in evidence bags. Spiked with Dust.”
“Not my thing,” she said. “I live healthy.”
“’Course you do,” he said. “But let me ask you, what’s the chance once we start going over this place- and we are going to go over it- that we don’t find something? Roach under the bed, little speck of hash, maybe some ’ludes or poppers to make a party go smoother. Something one of your guests accidentally dropped and the cleaning woman just happened to miss- you do have a cleaning woman.”
“Twice a week,” she said.
“Twice a week, huh? Things do have a way of accumulating between cleanings.”
“Listen,” she said, “all there is, is pills. Valium. Legal. Prescription- fact, I could use one right now.”
“Not now, Cheri. We need you lucid- clear.”
“I know what lucid means. Don’t think I’m no woodhead.”
“Perish the thought. Woodheads don’t usually end up owning the building.” He jiggled the phone. The clapper hit the bell and gave off a dull ring.
She said, “You find anything funny in there, I don’t know a single thing about it.”
“It’s your responsibility, Cheri. You own the whole building.”
She muttered something.
Milo said, “What’s that?”
No answer.
“Go on, make the call, or give me the number so I can call.”
She was silent.
“Anyway,” he said, “the dope we’re gonna find might keep you in lockup for a while, but it’s the least of your problems. Let’s not forget those two gentlemen out back.”
She shook her head. “Nuh-uh. I don’t know a thing about them- about what happened.”
“You knew them.”
“Professionally, that’s all.”
“Professionally,” said Milo. He lifted a satinized purple business card from a cloisonné holder. “Cheryl Jane Nuveen. Recreational Counselor. Recreation, huh? Sounds like shuffleboard on deck.”
The cigarette dangled from her fingers, dripping ashes onto the zebra skin.
Milo said, “Enough small talk. What’s the lawyer’s number? Got to be a five-five exchange, right? Beverly Hills. Or Century City. Two hundred, two-fifty an hour. I figure the initial tab’s gonna run you three, maybe four thousand, minimum. And that’s only filing the papers. Once we book you, the meter really starts running-”
“Book me on what? Calling nine-one-one?”
“- and those guys like retainers, don’t they? Got payments on the Mercedes, keep the account going at Morton’s. Meanwhile you’ve got no recreation to counsel and your own payments keep coming. What’s the mortgage on this building you own, couple of thou a month? Meanwhile, you’re in storage with girls from the old neighborhood- they’re gonna be real happy to see someone made good, owns the whole building. They’re gonna relate very friendly to that.”
She raised her voice: “Book me on what?”
“My turn to ask questions. Your turn to shut up or answer.”
She stabbed a crystal ashtray with her cigarette. Kept stabbing after the glow had died. “Nothing to answer about.”