“No, it was irregular. Sometimes she’d work every day of the week, then she’d have days off. But I really wasn’t paying attention to her schedule. Half the time she was up and around, I was sleeping.”
“What else did she tell you about the job?”
“Just that she enjoyed it.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nope.”
“Did she mention who she worked for? What the project was?”
“No, just that she enjoyed it. I’m sure you can find out at the U.”
“That’s the problem, Andy,” said Milo. “We can’t seem to find any trace of her working at the U.”
Salander’s mouth dropped open. “How can that be? I’m sure it’s some mistake – she definitely told me it was on campus. That I do remember.”
“Well,” said Milo.
“Why would she make up something like that?”
“Good question, Andy.”
“My… You think
“I’m not saying anything, Andy. But when people don’t tell the truth…”
“Oh, Lauren,” said Salander. He put his back to the wall of the building, cupped his hand over his eyes. “Oh, my.”
“What is it?” said Milo.
“I’m all alone now.”
During the drive to Hauser and Sixth, Milo ran Salander’s name through the files. One traffic ticket last year, no wants or warrants, no criminal record. Milo closed his eyes, and I realized how numb I felt – deadened and tired and marginal. We cruised the rest of the way in silence, gliding through city streets stripped of light and humanity.
Two squad cars and a crime-scene van were parked outside Lauren’s building. A uniform guarded the entrance. Another was stationed upstairs. Someone had opened the door to apartment 4. Inside the living room a young black woman kneeled and dusted and scraped.
“Loretta,” said Milo.
“Morning, Milo.”
“Yeah, guess it is. Anything?”
“Lots of prints, as usual. So far, no blood, and the only semen’s on the roommate’s sheets. Nothing looks disturbed.”
“The roommate,” said Milo.
“Did both bedrooms,” said the tech. “Was that okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Nothing’s perfect,” said Loretta. “Not even me.”
We entered Salander’s room first. Midnight blue velvet walls and shabby-looking tapestry drapes turned the stingy space gloomy. A black iron queen-sized bed canopied by billows of what looked like cheesecloth took up most of the floor. A fake Persian rug left only a foot-wide border of scuffed board. Lining the ceiling were more of the gilded moldings I’d seen in the living room. A small TV and VCR perched atop a pale blue bureau decoupaged with pink cabbage roses. Replicas of Russian icons and filigreed crucifixes hung on the wall along with a white-framed photo of Salander and a stolid-looking couple in their fifties. At the bottom of the frame, someone had written in black marker: “Mom and Dad, Bloomington, Ind. ‘The Olde Country.’”
In the top drawer of the bureau, Milo found neatly folded clothing, tissues and eyedrops, a box of disposable contact lenses, six packets of condoms, and a passbook from Washington Mutual Bank.
“Four hundred bucks,” he said, flipping pages. “Little Andy’s highest balance for the year is fifteen hundred.” He ran through the book several times. “Every two weeks he deposits nine hundred – gotta be his take-home. On the fifteenth, he withdraws six hundred – the rent – spends around eight or so. Leaving a hundred or so in savings, but it looks like he eventually spends that too.”
“Tight budget,” I said. “He will have trouble making the rent by himself.”
He frowned and replaced the bankbook. “Giving him a legit reason to cut out.”
“You’re worried about him? I noticed you did ask him about time and place.”
“No specific reason to worry,” he said. “But no reason not to either. He’s the last person to see her alive, and that’s always interesting.”
Opening the closet door, he ran his hands over pressed jeans and khakis, two pairs of black slacks, several blue button-down shirts like the one Salander wore at the bar, a black leather jacket. Black oxfords, brown loafers, Nikes, and one pair of tan demiboots on the floor. Nothing on the top shelf. Plenty of empty space.
“Okay,” said Milo. “On to the main event.”
Lauren’s room was larger than Salander’s by half. Bare oak floors, walls painted the palest of yellows, and a low, narrow single bed with no headboard increased the feeling of space. Her dresser was a white, three-drawer affair. Flanking it on each side were low teak bookcases with the slightly askew stance of self-assembly. Hardback books filled every shelf.
Next to the bed was a matching teak desk with a built-in file drawer. Milo began there, and it didn’t take long to find what he was looking for.
“Smith Barney brokerage account. Out of town – Seattle.”
“Wanting things private?” I said. Thinking: Lauren had thrived on secrets. Kept everything segmented.
He turned pages, ran his finger down columns. “She kept some loose cash in a money market, the rest is in high-yield mutual funds… Well, well, well, look at this: quite a different league from little Andy. She’s put away three hundred forty thousand dollars and some change in… a little over four years… First deposit is a hundred grand, four years ago, December… Then fifty a year for the next three – last one was three weeks ago. Nice and steady – wonder where it came from.”
He opened another drawer. “Let’s see if she keeps her tax returns here. Be interesting to know how she categorized her employment.”
He found a paper-clipped stack of Visa Gold receipts that he examined as I looked over his shoulder.
Six months’ worth of records. Lauren had charged only a handful of purchases each month: supermarkets and gas stations, the campus bookstore at the U. And bills from Neiman-Marcus and several designer boutiques that amounted to 90 percent of her expenditures.
Dressing for the job…
No motel or hotel charges. That made sense if she’d paid cash to avoid leaving a trail. Or if someone else had paid for her time and lodgings.
The bottom dresser drawer yielded another stapled sheaf. “Here we go,” he said, “tucked in with the cashmere sweaters. Four years of short forms… Looks like she prepared them herself. Nothing before that – everything started when she was twenty-one.”
He scanned the IRS paper. “She called herself a ‘self-employed photographic model and student,’ took deductions for car expenses, books, and clothing… That’s about it… No student loans, no medical writeoffs… no mention of any research gig either… Every year for the past four, she reported fifty thousand gross, deducted it down to thirty-four net.”
“Fifty thousand a year coming in,” I said, “and she manages to invest every penny?”
“Yeah – cute, isn’t it.” He moved to the closet, opened a door on a tightly stacked assortment of silk dresses and blouses, pantsuits in a wide array of colors, leather and suede jackets. Two fur coats, one short and silver, the other full-length and black. Thirty or so pairs of shoes.
“Versace,” he said, squinting at a label. “Vestimenta, Dries Van Noten, Moschino – ‘arctic silver fox’ from Neiman… and this black thing is…” He peeled back the long coat’s lapel. “Real mink. From Mouton on Beverly Drive – hand me back those Visa receipts… The average is a grand or so a month on threads – that’s less than one of these suits, so she had to be spending more, had cash she didn’t declare.”
