a drinking problem myself, but I watch myself, went through the whole therapy thing after my mother killed herself. When I saw Claire with that ginger ale I wondered if maybe she had some history with alcohol, maybe we had something in common. I ended up telling her about my colorful background.' The smile acquired teeth. 'Turned out, she just liked ginger ale.'
'Not a mention of her family in two years of marriage,' I said. 'Amazing.'
'Like I said, it wasn't your typical marriage. Every time I tried to get personal, she changed the subject.' He rubbed his scalp and the corners of his mouth curled up-outward trappings of another smile, but his mood was hard to read. 'And she had an interesting way of changing the subject.'
'What's that?' I said.
'She took me to bed.'
Chapter 9
Stargill was eager to leave but Milo convinced him to tour the rest of the house. The bathroom provoked no comment. In the office he said, 'Now, this looks exactly the same. This was Claire's place, she spent all her time here.'
'Where was your office?' said Milo.
'I didn't like bringing work home, used a small desk in the bedroom.'
That room widened his eyes. 'No memories left here. We had a king-size bed, brass headboard, down comforter, antique nightstands. Claire must have realty wanted a change.'
His expression said he still took that personally. He looked into the empty closet. 'Where are all her clothes?'
'At the crime lab,' said Milo.
'Oh, man… I've got to get out of here.' Grabbing his beard for support, he left the room.
Outside, he got the carton of documents from his BMW, handed them over, revved noisily, and barreled down the hill.
'What's your take on the guy?' said Milo.
'He's got his share of problems, but no bells are ringing. And unless Claire wasn't as financially benevolent as he made out-or he's not as rich-where is the motive?'
'Three hundred even after taxes is still serious bread. And guys with big net worth can still get into trouble. I'm going to take a crash course on his finances. What do you mean, problems?'
'Bleeding in public-telling us his life history. Maybe that's what attracted Claire to him. Someone so self- absorbed he wouldn't try to get into her head. Their marriage sounds like a passion-with-a-stranger fantasy gone stale. That shows an impulsive side to Claire, sexually and otherwise. Stargill says they avoided each other for most of the marriage, meaning both of them could've had multiple affairs. Maybe Claire's been dating strangers for years, and finally met the wrong one.'
'The neighbors never saw anyone.'
'Neighbors don't notice everything. Pick someone up in a bar, bring them back in your car late at night, who's to know? Or she had liaisons away from home. That would fit with no prints except hers in the house.
'Stargill described her the same way everyone else has: nice but detached,' I went on. 'But there's one thing he did add: a touch of dominance. She moves into his house, takes over the office; he gets a desk in the bedroom. He shares his past, but she refuses to reciprocate. When she tires of him, she decides they're going to divorce. And what the settlement is going to be. The fact that Stargill didn't press her on anything tells us something about him.'
'A submissive lawyer? That's a novel concept.'
'Some people keep work and play separate. Think of the specifics of the settlement: Claire ends up with the house, gets him to carry the mortgage and the taxes, and he feels grateful because she didn't take more. Even their first meeting has that same lopsided feel: she's sober, he isn't. She's in control, he isn't. He spills his guts about his drunken father and brother, alcoholic tendencies of his own that he keeps in check. The guy's her polar opposite: turns every conversation into therapy. Some women might be put off. Claire goes upstairs with him and gives him the time of his life. Later on, whenever she wants to shut him up, she uses sex. She was clearly drawn to people with serious problems. Maybe she left County because she needed a bigger dose of pathology.'
'So,' he said, 'Maybe she found a nutcase who'd gotten out of the hospital, tried to dominate him, pushed the wrong button. I've got to see if anyone was released from Starkweather during the last six months. But if nothing turns up, then what?'
He looked worn out. I said, 'You ask me to theorize, I theorize. It could still turn out to be a carjacking gone really bad.'
We walked to the Seville.
'Something else,' he said. 'The big taboo she had on talking about her family. To me that says rotten background. Only, unlike Stargill, she kept the bandage on.'
'When are her parents coming out?'
'Couple of days. Why don't you meet them with me?'
'Sure.' I got in the car.
He said, 'She starts out as your basic nice lady, and now we're thinking of her as some kind of dominatrix… So all I have to do is find some highly disturbed joker with sadistic tendencies who held on to her credit card. Speaking of which, better call Visa.'
He looked back at the house. 'Maybe she did have visitors no one saw. Or just one sicko loverboy… Her living room woulda been a great playpen, wouldn't it? Plenty of space to roll around in-those floors are baby smooth. No body fluid traces on the wood, but who knows?'
'What's easier to clean than lacquered hardwood?' I said.
'True,' he said. 'Carpet would have yielded something.'
'Stargill said she took the carpeting out.'
He rubbed his face. 'Ex-patient or ex-con, some bad boy she thinks she can control.'
'Both would fit with the fact that she was found in her own car. Someone without his own wheels.'
'Putting her in the driver's seat, again.' Faint smile. 'A late-night pickup-we know from Stargill that she wasn't opposed to being picked up. They go somewhere, things go bad. No semen in her, so it never got to hanky-panky… Bad Boy cuts her, puts her in the trash bag, stashes her in the trunk and drives her over to West L.A. Doesn't steal the car, because that's a sure way to get busted. Smart. Meticulous. Not a Starkweather fellow.' He grimaced. 'Meaning I'm wasting my time over there. Back to square one.'
His cell phone chirped. Snapping it off his belt, he said, 'Sturgis-… Oh, hi… Yes, thank you- Oh? How so? Why don't you just tell- Okay, sure, that would be fine, give me directions.'
Cradling the phone under his chin, he produced his pad, wrote something down, clicked off.
'That,' he said, 'was young Miss Ott. She does the night shift today at Starkweather, wants to talk before work.'
'Talk about what?'
'She wouldn't say, but I know scared when I hear it.'
She'd asked to meet at Plummer Park in West Hollywood. I followed Milo, connecting to Laurel, turning east on Mel-rose. On the way, I passed a billboard advertising a kick-boxing gym: terrific-looking woman in a sports bra drawing back a glove for a roundhouse. The ad line was 'You can rest when you're dead.' Theology everywhere.
The park was scrubby, crowded, more Russian spoken than English. Most of the inhabitants were old people on benches, heavily garbed despite the heat. A sprinkle of kids on bicycles circled a dry oval of grass in the center, sleepy-looking dog walkers were led by the leash, a few scruffy types in designer T-shirts and cheap shoes hung out near the pay phones trying to radiate Moscow Mafia.
Heidi Ott stood by herself under a sad-looking carrotwood tree, arms crossing her chest, checking out the terrain in all directions. When she spotted us, she gave a small wave and headed for the only vacant bench in sight. A pile of fresh dog turd nearby explained the vacancy. Wrinkling her nose, she moved on and we followed her to a
