At the far end of the hall, a man pushed an industrial shampooer in lazy circles.
Two doors of the Charitable Planning suite were propped open the same way. Mechanical groan from inside. I had a look.
Another man, short, stocky, Hispanic, wearing rumpled gray work clothes, guided an identical machine over the thin, blue indoor-outdoor felt that covered Charitable’s floor. His back was to me, and the din overrode my footsteps.
To the right was a small office. A swivel chair had been lifted and placed atop a scarred steel desk. Off in the corner was a rollaway typing table that hosted an IBM Selectric. On the desktop, next to the chair, were five rubber-banded bundles of mail.
I checked out return addresses. United Way, Campaign for Literacy, the Thanksgiving Fund, the Firefighters Ball. I flipped through all the bundles.
Everyone wanted Sonny Koppel’s money.
The rest of the suite was one enormous room with high, horizontal windows covered by cheap nylon drapes. Empty save for a couple of dozen folding chairs stacked against the wall. The Hispanic man flicked off the machine, straightened slowly, as if in pain, ran his hand through his hair, reached into his pocket for a cigarette, and lit up. Still with his back to me.
He smoked, was careful to drop the ash in his cupped hands.
I said, “Hi.”
He turned. Surprise, but no con wariness. He looked at his cigarette. Blinked. Shrugged.
“Doesn’t bother me,” I said.
Resigned smile. No hardness around his eyes, no sloppy tattoos.
“No,” I said. “Not today.”
“Hokay.” He laughed and smoked. “Mebbe tomorrow.”
“I’m thinking of renting the space.”
Blank stare.
I pointed to the wet carpet. “Nice job-
I left wondering what he’d cleaned up.
Sonny Koppel had been truthful about Charitable Planning, but what did that mean? Perhaps parceling out partial truths was a strategic defense.
All that B.H. square footage left vacant in case Mary Lou needed it.
If Milo was right about Gavin hanging around, spying, writing down license numbers, what had the boy seen?
Empty room. Two dozen folding chairs.
What more did you need for group therapy?
Had the sessions already begun?
What had gone
I drove a block away, pulled to the curb, and thought more about Gavin Quick.
Brain-damaged, but he’d managed to hold on to his secrets.
Or maybe he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d confided in his father, and that’s why Jerry Quick had cleaned out his room.
Now Quick was traveling, after stashing his wife at her sister’s. Business as usual, or was he on the run because he
Eileen Paxton said Quick hired sluts as secretaries. The secretary I’d met had a dope bust and nails too long for typing.
House in Beverly Hills, but a shadow life?
Gavin had been murdered alongside a blond girl whom no one cared enough about to call in missing. All along, I’d wondered if she was a pro. Jerry and Gavin were both sexually aggressive.
Had the blonde been a gift from father to son? Another referral by Sonny Koppel?
Angie Paul claimed not to know her. Milo had noticed her blinking. I’d explained it away as a reaction to death.
Gavin’s type. Two miles north, in the high-priced spread, lived a blond girl who knew Gavin before his accident. A girl we still hadn’t spoken to.
The last time I’d followed Kayla Bartell she’d driven to a midday hair appointment. That meant she wasn’t holding down a nine-to-five job.
Rich girl with plenty of leisure time? Maybe she’d spare me some.
The Bartell mansion was lifeless as a mortuary behind its white iron security blanket. A white Bentley Mulsanne with rear plates that read MEW ZIK was parked in the circular drive, but no sign of Kayla’s red Cherokee.
I continued to Sunset. Cars whizzed by both sides of the median strip, and I waited for a lull to hook right and retrace to the turnaround. It took a while. Just as I swung onto the boulevard, I caught a glimpse of red in my side mirror.
Probably nothing. I got back on Camden anyway.
The Jeep was parked in front of the house.
I drove six houses down and parked, figuring I’d give it half an hour.
Eighteen minutes later, Kayla, dressed in white but carrying a big black bag, exited the house, got in the red SUV, waited until the gates slid open, and sped past me.
Exact same path she’d taken the last time. Santa Monica west to Canon Drive. More pampering at Umberto?
But this time, she passed the salon and continued two blocks down to a Rite Aid pharmacy.
First hair, now makeup? Wouldn’t a girl like that buy her cosmetics at a boutique?
Watching her for five minutes gave me my answer, but it wasn’t what I expected.
She went straight for the nail polish. I stood on the end of the aisle as she studied a rack of small bottles. The white outfit was a midriff T-shirt that advertised her tan tummy, over white ostrich-skin lowriders and open white sandals with orange plastic heels. Her long hair was tucked into a white denim cap that she wore at a jaunty tilt. Big white plastic earrings. She bounced on her heels a couple of times, seemed to settle down as she peered at the polish.
Big decision; her pretty face creased. Finally, she chose a vermillion bottle and dropped it in her shopping
