old ones that had survived the Northridge quake.
The white boards were freshly painted, and a crisp picket fence boxed off the church’s yard. Sandboxes and swings and slides and monkey bars. Three dozen munchkins, mostly brown-skinned and dark-haired, scooted and jumped and shouted and squatted in the sand. Three young women wearing braided hair and long, pale dresses watched from the sidelines. A rainbow-lettered banner across the fence announced FAITH PRESCHOOL, SPRING REGISTRATION STILL OPEN.
Dr. Benjamin Dugger parked at the curb, walked through the picket gate, and entered the church. If he was burdened with sin, the bounce in his stride didn’t say so. He remained inside for fifteen minutes, emerged minus the bag from the drugstore.
Back to Wilshire. His next stop was a fish-and-chips place near Fourteenth Street, where he came out with another bag, smaller and grease-spotted. Lunch was enjoyed on a bench at Christine Reed Park, behind the tennis courts, where I watched from the Seville as he shoved french fries and something breaded into his mouth, drank from a can of Coke, and shared leftovers with the pigeons. A quarter of an hour later he was back on Wilshire, heading east this time, staying in one lane, sticking to the speed limit.
He entered Westwood Village, parked in a pay lot on Gayley, and entered a multiplex theater. Two comedies, a spy thriller, a historical romance. Showtimes said he’d chosen either one of the comedies or the romance.
What a sinister fellow.
I drove home.
At three, deciding I should stick to what I knew, I phoned the Abbot house. The robot voice answered and, feeling grateful when neither Jane’s nor Mel’s broke in, I hung up.
At 4:43, Milo called. “The pay phone’s in a gas station. Nearby are a gym, an insurance agency, and a cafe. No one remembers Lauren. The owner of the station doesn’t recall any frequent callers. It’s a busy place, lots of traffic, for him to notice someone they would’ve had to set up office in the booth. I also dropped in on a bunch of motels and showed Lauren’s picture around. Zero. I’m back at my desk, figured I’d check out snippy Professor de Maartens. Who, as it turns out, lives in Venice. Want to tag along?”
I debated whether to tell him I’d followed Benjamin Dugger. By now, the tail seemed ludicrous. No reason to share.
“Sure,” I said. “The charm of my company?”
“Just the opposite. You pissed him off once – maybe that can be harnessed.”
CHAPTER 13
SIMON DE MAARTENS lived on Third Street, north of Rose. The beach was a short walk west. Crossing Rose brought you into gang territory.
The block was filled with tiny houses, some divided. Intermittent bright spots – fresh paint, brand-new skylights, flower beds, staked saplings – said gentrification had arrived. De Maartens’s abode was a brown-stucco, side-by-side duplex with a gray lawn, curling tar-paper roof, and flaking woodwork. The blue VW van in its driveway was patched and primered. Its rear bumper sagged, and so did the independent wealth hypothesis.
“Doesn’t look as if he’s been seduced by externals,” said Milo. “Life of the mind and all that?”
“Could be.” I realized the same could be said of Benjamin Dugger: Newport and Brentwood offices but a frayed lapel.
Not exactly the high rollers I’d conjured when imagining Lauren spirited away to some Casbah.
He switched off the engine. “How about I do the talking, and work you in as needed?”
“Sounds good to me.”
We were halfway to de Maartens’s front door when loud barking came from the brown house and a big, yellow face parted the curtains of the front window. Some kind of retriever. Steady barking but no enmity – announcing our presence without passing judgment. The door began opening before we got there, and a young, red-haired woman smiled out at us.
She was tall and solidly built, wore a black T-shirt and green drawstring pants, held a paintbrush in one hand. Wet, blue bristles. Her hair was the color of fresh rust, cut in a pageboy that hung to midneck, the bangs perfectly straight above inquisitive hazel eyes. The pants were baggy but the shirt was tight, accentuating a soft, friendly bosom and generous shoulders. Nice coating of flesh everywhere except for her hands, which were slim and white, with tendril fingers. The smell of turpentine blew through the doorway, along with classical music – something with woodwinds. No sign of the yellow dog. The woman had stopped smiling.
“Police, ma’am,” said Milo, flashing the badge. “Are you Mrs. de Maartens?”
“Anika.” Pronouncing her name as if it were required for border crossing. “I thought you were UPS.” “Thought” came out “taut.” Her accent was thicker than her husband’s, harder around the edges. Or maybe that was anxiety. Who likes the police on a sunny afternoon?
“Expecting a delivery?”
“I – I’m supposed to get art supplies. From back home. Was there a crime somewhere on the block?”
“No, everything’s fine. Where’s back home?”
“Holland… Why are you here?”
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am, we just wanted to talk to Professor de Maartens. Is he in?”
“You want to talk to Simon? About what?”
“A student of his.”
“A student?”
“It’s better if we talk to the professor directly, Mrs. de Maartens. Is he in?”
“Yes, yes, I go get him, hold on.”
She left the door open and headed toward the music. A big butter-colored form materialized. Heavy jowls, small bright eyes, short coat, droopy ears. Retriever mix, a splash of mastiff somewhere in the bloodline.
The dog regarded us for a second, then followed Anika de Maartens. Returned moments later with a man in tow. Man and beast walking in synchrony, the master’s hand resting lightly on the animal’s neck.
“I’m Simon. What is it?”
De Maartens was six feet tall and heavyset, with a whiskey-colored crew cut and a ruddy, bulb-nosed, thick- lipped face, as close to spherical as I’d seen on a human. Despite his clothing – gray sweatshirt, blue cutoffs, rubber beach sandals – he looked like a Rembrandt burgher, and I half-expected him to whip out a clay pipe.
“Detective Sturgis,” said Milo, extending a hand.
De Maartens looked past it, kept coming toward us. “Yes?” The sound of his voice made the dog’s ears perk.
Milo began repeating his name.
“I heard you,” said de Maartens. “I’m not deaf.” Smiling, as he and the dog stopped at the threshold. His head turned from side to side, and he stared blankly, settling on the space between Milo and me. That’s when I saw his eyes: black crescents set in bluish sockets so deep they appeared to have been scooped out of his flesh. Immobile crescents, the merest sliver of black showing through dull black, no gleam of pupil.
A blind man.
The psychophysics of vision in primates. The Braille Institute Award.
He said, “This is about the girl – Lauren.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Some of my students I do know,” said de Maartens. “The ones who ask questions, visit during office hours. Voices that recur.” He touched his ear. The dog looked up at him adoringly. “Lauren Teague was not one of them. She got an A in the class – a very high A, so perhaps she did not need to ask questions. I can produce her exams when I return to my office next week. But right now, I am on vacation and I do not see why I need to be bothered. What can you hope to learn from two exams?”
“So there’s nothing you can tell us about Ms. Teague?”
De Maartens’s thick shoulders rose and fell. He canted his face toward me. Smiled. “Is that you, Dr. Delaware? Nice aftershave. After your second call when I grew cross, I called the department to see what records they have
