anything our police artist would come up with.”
Barnes suppressed a surprised smile. “Haven’t drawn in a while. Shifted to ceramics a few years ago, but, sure, why not? I’ll do it and call you.”
“Appreciate it, ma’am.”
“Civic duty and art,” said Barnes. “All in one swoop.”
As I drove back to Cafe Moghul, I said, “How seriously do you take it?”
“You don’t?”
“CoCo Barnes has cataracts, so who knows what she really saw. I still think the murder smacks of planning and intelligence. Someone well composed mentally. But that’s just a guess, not science.”
He frowned. “Tracking this redhead down means getting hold of the patrol officers where the homeless hang out, dealing with the social service agencies and the treatment centers. And if Barnes is right about the redhead not being local, I can’t limit myself to the Westside.”
“One thing in your favor,” I said, “a six-foot woman with curly red hair isn’t inconspicuous.”
“Assuming I find her, then what? What I’ve got is a probable psychotic who Dumpster-dove in the alley five hours before Julie got strangled.” He shook his head. “How seriously am I taking it? Not very.”
A block later: “On the other hand…”
“What?”
“If I don’t turn up anything else, soon, I can’t afford
I pulled up alongside the loading zone in front of the restaurant. A parking ticket was folded under the windshield wiper of his unmarked. He said, “Want to meet Everett Kipper?”
“Sure.”
He eyed the citation. “You drive- long as I’m renting, I might as well occupy.”
“Will the city reimburse me?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll FedEx you a box of infinite gratitude.”
Everett Kipper worked at a firm called MuniScope, on the twenty-first floor of a steel-and-concrete high-rise on Avenue of the Stars just south of little Santa Monica. Parking fees were stiff, but Milo’s badge impressed the attendant, and I stashed the Seville for free.
The building’s lobby was arena-sized, serviced by a dozen elevators. We rode up in hermetic silence. MuniScope’s reception room was ovoid, paneled in bleached bird’s-eye maple, softly lit and carpeted, and ringed by saffron leather modules. Milo’s badge elicited alarm from the hard-faced, hard-bodied receptionist. Then she recovered and compensated with toothy graciousness.
“I’ll ring him right away, gentlemen. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, Sprite, Diet Coke?”
We demurred and sank down in yellow-orange leather. Down-filled cushions. No corners in the egg-shaped space. I felt like a privileged unborn chick nestled in high-rent surroundings.
Milo muttered, “Cushy.”
I said, “Put the client at ease. It works. I’m ready to peck through the shell and buy something.”
A man in a black suit appeared from around a convex wall. “Detectives? Ev Kipper.”
Julie Kipper’s ex was a thin man with a big voice, a blond-gray crew cut and the smooth round face of an aging frat boy. Forty or so, five-eight, one-fifty. His bouncy stride suggested gymnastics or ballet training. The suit was a four-button model, tailored snug, set off by a sapphire blue shirt, gold tie, gold cuff links, gold wristwatch. His hands were manicured and smooth and outsized, and when we shook, I felt barely suppressed strength in his grip. Dry palms. Clear, brown eyes that made eye contact. A subtle bronze veneer to his complexion said outdoor sports or the tanning bed.
“Let’s go in and talk,” he said. Confident baritone, not a trace of anxiety. If he’d murdered his former spouse, he was one hell of a psychopath.
He took us to an empty boardroom with a view all the way to Vegas. Oyster-colored carpeting and walls, and a black granite conference table more than large enough for the thirty Biedermeier-revival chairs that surrounded it. The three of us huddled at one end.
“Sorry it took so long to get together,” said Kipper. “What can I help you with?”
Milo said, “Is there anything about your ex-wife we should know? Anything that would help us figure out who strangled her?”
Putting emphasis on
Kipper said, “God, no. Julie was a wonderful person.”
“You’ve maintained contact, despite the divorce ten years ago.”
“Life took us in other directions. We’ve remained friends.”
“Other directions professionally?”
“Yes,” said Kipper.
Milo sat back. “Are you remarried?”
Kipper smiled. “No, still looking for Ms. Right.”
“Your ex-wife wasn’t her.”
“Julie’s world was art. Mine is slogging through bond prospectuses. We started off in the same place but ended up too far apart.”
“Did you study painting in Rhode Island?”
“Sculpting.” Kipper touched the face of his watch. The timepiece was thin as a nickel with an exposed skeleton movement. Four diamonds placed equidistant around the rim, crocodile band. I tried to estimate how many paintings Julie Kipper would have had to sell to afford it.
“Sounds like you’ve been researching me, Detective.”
“Your marriage came up while talking to people who knew her, sir. People seem to know about your artistic origins.”
“The Light and Space bunch?” said Kipper. “Sad crowd.”
“How so, sir?”
“Maximally self-labeling, minimally talented.”
“Self-labeling?”
“They
The brown eyes shifted down to his oversized hands. Square fingers, glossy nails. A well-tended hand. Hard to imagine it working a chisel, and the look in Kipper’s eyes said he knew it. “That was my story.”
“You were pretending?” said Milo.
“For a while. Then I gave it up.” Kipper smiled. “I sucked.”
“You were good enough to get into the Rhode Island School of Design.”
“Well, what do you think of that?” said Kipper. Another layer of silk had been peeled from his voice. “Like I said, there are no criteria. What Julie and I had in common was we both won awards in high school and college. The only difference was, she deserved hers. I always felt like an impostor. I’m not saying I’m a total boob. I can do things with wood and stone and bronze the average person can’t. But that’s a far cry from art. I was smart enough to realize that, and got into something that fits me.”
