Compulsion

Confusion in the black eyes.

Milo said, “Is money really important to her?”

“Not to you?” said Rianna.

“I mean especially important. More than most people. Like, would she be impressed by a man with money?”

Rianna’s smiled spread slowly. “She should be impressed with losers?”

“Did she ever date anyone rich?”

“All the time I know her she never date anyone.”

“How long is that?”

“Two, three months.”

“How come no social life?”

“She says she never meet the right guys.”

“What about cars?”

“What about?”

“Did she have a special interest in cars?”

“Special… no. In the beginning she like her Mustang. Paid for by the rich stepdaddy.”

“She have something to say about him?”

Head shake. “Rich.”

“Why’d she stop liking the Mustang?”

Shrug. “Maybe she tired of it.”

“Katrina bores easily?”

“She move around – from thing to thing. Like a butterfly. ADD, you know? She say she have ADD in school. Lots of ADD in America, no? Lady customers talk to me about kids jumping like kangaroos. Everyone seeing psychiatrist.”

“Does Kat have a psychiatrist?”

“Don’t know – you ask these questions because her mother hire you to find her?”

“We work for the city, Rianna.”

“The city wants to find Kat?”

“If she’s been hurt.”

“I think not.”

“Why not?”

“ADD. Always like this.” Black irises zipped from side to side, bobbed up and down. “Jumping.”

“Restless,” said Milo.

“Not happy,” said Rianna Ijanovic. “Sometimes when she drinks, she talks about moving somewhere.”

“She drink a lot?”

“She like to drink.”

“Where does she talk about moving?”

“She never say, just somewhere. Not a happy girl. I don’t like being with her all the time. She… sometimes you can catch unhappy – like a cold, yes? She is Beth’s friend, I hang out.”

“Could we have Beth’s cell phone number, please?”

Rianna recited the digits. “Can I go back to work? I need this job.”

“Sure,” said Milo. “Thanks for your time. Here’s my card. If you hear from Kat, please let me know.”

“Yes. But I will not hear.”

“Why not?”

“If she call anyone, she call Beth.”

We walked her back to the front of the store. Before we reached the door, Milo said, “Did Kat ever talk about someone who owned really expensive cars – like a Ferrari, a Rolls-Royce – a Bentley.”

“She talk about a Bentley, but not a rich guy.”

“Who?”

“Some guy she used to date. Big loser, dirty hands.”

“A mechanic.”

“Greased-monkey she call him.” Rianna Ijanovic laughed.

“What’s funny?” said Milo.

“Greasy little monkey.” Her hands climbed the air in front of her. “It sound funny.”

“What’s this grease-monkey’s name?”

“Maybe… Clyde? I don’t know for sure.”

“Clyde what?”

“Clyde Greased-monkey.” Laughing louder, she swung the door open and hurried back to the world of cover- up.

I drove out of the Barneys lot and Milo worked the phone. “Clyde the Bentley boy, shouldn’t be a feat of detection.”

He started with the main dealership on the Westside. O’Malley Premium Motors was on the east end of Beverly Hills but the service facility was on Pico, in Santa Monica.

Minutes from the Light My Fire.

Milo called, asked for Clyde, said, “Yeah, that’s him – is he in? Thanks. No, not necessary.”

Click.

“Not Clyde, Clive. Probably a chips and ale and darts kinda guy. And tinkering with high-priced British metal as we speak.”

CHAPTER 10

O’Malley Premium Motors Service and Maintenance was a gray wedge of front office glued onto a taller brick garage. A few nondescript cars were parked in the employee lot, soaking up sun and pollution. Off to the left in a covered Customers Only! area sat a few million bucks’ worth of status symbol.

Milo said, “Pull in next to that blue Rolls.”

“Don’t I need to be preapproved?”

He slapped the Seville’s vinyl dash. “How many miles on this masterpiece?”

“Sixty thou on the second engine.”

“Endurance beats flash anytime, son. You are officially a classic.”

The waiting area was a sliver of space facing an empty coffeemaker. No chairs, no reading material, no one waiting. Behind a glass partition, a black woman wearing reading glasses moved columns of numbers around a computer screen.

Milo rapped on the glass. The partition slid open. “How can I help you?”

He introduced himself and asked for Clive.

“Clive Hatfield? Why?”

“We’d just like to talk to him.”

She pushed a button on an intercom. “Clive to front desk. Front desk for Clive.”

Milo said, “Not too many customers today.”

“We call them clients,” she said. “They rarely come here.”

“Pickup and delivery?”

“Those people expect it. We used to do it free. Now we charge a hundred dollars a trip and no one complains.”

“The age of lowered expectations.”

“Pardon?”

“The cost of gas, huh?”