“There’s something there,” I said.
“She didn’t imply anything nasty.”
“No,” I admitted. “She was lighthearted. Like it was some kind of in-joke.”
“So maybe the guy’s a Catholic priest or something.”
“That wasn’t in his bio.”
He grunted over the phone. It was nearly noon. He’d taken two hours to return my call. Andrew Salander had verified that Lauren had owned a Toshiba laptop. After that Milo’d been tied up at the morgue, watching Lauren’s autopsy. The coroner had found no evidence of sexual assault – of any recent intercourse. No illness, surgery, scarring, or drug use. The preliminary finding was that the first bullet fired into Lauren’s brain stem – a 9 mm – had shut off her life functions nearly instantly. Until that second, a healthy girl.
“So she probably didn’t suffer,” he said. “I called her mom and told her she definitely didn’t. Woman sounds as if she’s been hollowed out and left to dry… So de Maartens is an uppity putz and Dugger doesn’t like to talk about sex.”
“Dugger may also have money.” I gave him the logic on that.
“If I had to choose, I’d say press the Dutch guy ’cause he got hostile. If you’re up to that, fine.”
“If I show up at his door, he’ll slam it. I told him the police would probably be stopping by.”
“Promises, promises. I’ll try to get to it eventually. So far, no record of any cab or limo making a pickup in the vicinity of Lauren’s apartment. Her broker in Seattle knows her only as a voice over the phone. She cold-called him a few years ago, said she had money to invest. Which is a switch, usually it’s the salesmen who call, so needless to say he didn’t argue. He said Lauren did her homework about the market, knew what she wanted but was willing to listen to advice. Overall impression: smart. He was surprised to learn she was only twenty-five, figured her for a good ten years older.”
“What did he say she wanted?”
“Blue-chip funds, and she was patient enough to hold. He figured her for a high-income lawyer or some other executive type. I put two uniforms on the door-to-door, a couple of people think they remember her vaguely from the neighborhood – jogging, driving around in her convertible – but no one saw her getting picked up. Not the day she disappeared or any other time. I got hold of six months’ worth of phone records. She actually used the horn very little. Talked to her mom every couple of weeks – the last call was two days before she disappeared. Nothing to Lyle – no surprise. The only things that did look interesting were five calls over the last two months to the same number in Malibu. Turns out to be a pay phone in Point Dume.”
“Lauren told Salander she went to Malibu for rest and recreation. Is the phone near a motel?”
“No. Shopping center at Kanan-Dume Road.”
“Have you found any cell phone account for her, or an answering service?”
“Not so far.”
“Don’t you find that surprising, if she was making dates?”
Pause. “A bit.”
“Unless,” I said, “she didn’t need a service because she wasn’t casting her net. Had one client who paid all the bills. Maybe someone who lives in Malibu, doesn’t want wifey-poo to hear Lauren’s call, so he uses the pay phone.”
“Fifty grand plus from one john? One helluva habit.”
“Lots of passion,” I said. “When those kinds of things go bad, they go very bad.”
“I’ll drive there today, see what kinds of shops are nearby – maybe someone noticed something. Maybe I’ll drop in on de Maartens on the way back. Where’s he live?”
“Don’t know, but his number’s a 310.”
“I’ll get it. Thanks for all the work, Alex.”
“However useless.”
“Hey,” he said, “you can never tell what’ll pan out.”
Lying through his teeth. What else are friends for?
Just after one P.M. I got in the Seville and drove to Motivational Associates’ Brentwood office.
The building was one of a group of towers that had sprouted on Wilshire during one of the booms. Four stories for parking, eight for offices, zebra-striped walls of white aluminum and black glass. The packing carton a serious building came in.
I walked past an empty guard desk to the directory. No pattern to the tenant mix: computer consultants, insurance agents, lawyers, an occupational therapy brokerage, a few psychotherapists. Motivational Associates was Suite 717, a third of the way down a gray-walled, plum-carpeted hallway. Black doors with tiny chrome signage. Dugger’s was set between E-WISDOM and THE LAW OFFICES OF NORMAN AND REBBIRQUE.
No mail at or under the door, and when I peeked through the slot I saw an unlit waiting room, still no pile of letters. Either someone had collected or the post went to another location. I didn’t knock – the last thing I wanted was to have to explain myself.
I’d returned to the elevator, was waiting for it to ascend from the lobby when the door to 717 swung open and a man came out carrying a scuffed brown leather briefcase. Locking the dead bolt, he made his way in my direction, swinging his keys.
Thirty-five to forty, five-ten, one sixty. Dark hair trimmed close to the sides, thinning on top, freckled bald spot at the crown. He wore a shapeless oatmeal herringbone sport coat with brown-leather elbow patches, an open- necked white button-down shirt with blue stripes, faded beige cords that would’ve suited Milo had they been five waist sizes larger, and brown loafers with toes worn to gray gristle. A wadded selection from the morning’s
He arrived at the lift just as the door opened, waited for me to step in, then followed and stood near the door. Placing the briefcase on the floor, he punched in P3 and said, “How about you?” in a pleasant voice. Straight nose, straight mouth, smallish ears, firm chin. Nothing out of proportion, but something – a blurring of contours – kept it just shy of handsome. The lapel of his sport coat was fuzzed where it met his shirt. Two white threads had come loose from his shirt collar.
I said, “Same, thanks.”
He turned, offering a view of his bald spot. I noticed a worn gold monogram above the clasp of the case. BJD. As we descended he began whistling, and his hands grew active – fingers drumming, tapping, stretching, curling. A shaving nick bottomed his right earlobe. Another cut flecked his jawline. He gave off the smell of soap and water.
He stopped whistling. Said, “Sorry.”
“No problem.”
“They used to play Muzak. Someone must’ve complained.”
“People tend to do that.”
“They do, indeed.”
No further exchange until we reached P3 and I hung back as he stepped out into the parking area. As he headed briskly toward a nearby aisle, I was watching from behind a concrete pillar.
His car was a white Volvo sedan, plain-wrap model, several years old. No alarm click, and he’d left the door unlocked. Tossing the briefcase across the seat, he slid in, started up, backed out blowing chalky smoke. I ran up the three flights to the lobby, was heading for the Seville when I saw him pull onto Wilshire, going west.
Toward the beach? Malibu?
He was ten blocks ahead of me, and it took several traffic violations for me to catch up. I stayed two car lengths behind in the neighboring lane and tried to watch him. He kept both hands on the wheel; his lips were moving and his head was bobbing. Either a hands-off cell phone or singing to himself. My guess was the latter: he looked utterly at peace.
He drove to Long’s Drugstore in Santa Monica, stayed inside for ten minutes, emerged with a big bag of something, got back on Wilshire and drove to Broadway and Seventh, where he pulled up in front of a narrow, white-clapboard Victorian, once a three-story house, now THE PACIFIC FAITH APOSTOLIC CHURCH. One of the few
