isn’t letting on. The Duke angle’s nice and juicy, but what if this all traces back in some way to Lauren’s family – Jane, that asshole dad, whatever. I did some checking on ol’ Lyle. Couple of DUI’s, but that’s it. Still, you know better than anyone, this was not one happy family. Is there anything I should be looking at?”
I thought about that as Sunset sloped upward and the 405 on-ramp appeared. Milo pushed down harder on the accelerator, and the unmarked kicked, shuddered, and jammed into high gear.
“Maybe Jane hasn’t called back because she’s gone into seclusion,” I said.
“With Mel? Where? They both check into some rest home? So that’s my answer, huh? Don’t waste my time in the Valley.”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Fair enough.” His hands were white around the wheel as he sped onto the freeway, narrowly passing a Jaguar sedan and eliciting angry honks. “Fuck you too,” he told the rearview mirror. “Alex, let’s say there is no big family issue. But what if Lauren got hold of juicy info on Dugger or Duke or whoever and passed it along to Jane? Maybe Jane reacted strongly – told her to keep her mouth shut, whatever, and that was the control thing Lauren talked about to Salander.”
“Lauren had been out of the house for years,” I said. “Had just reconnected with Jane. Their relationship was still thawing. That doesn’t mesh with her confiding something explosive, but maybe. When times get rough sometimes the chicks return to roost.”
“So maybe Jane hasn’t been in touch with me because she’s scared. Has an idea what led to Lauren’s death and is worried it could be dangerous for her too. That would be enough to get her to hold back on a lead to Lauren’s murder – I know, I know, now it’s me who’s hypothesizing. But when I’m finished with Dugger, I definitely want another try at her.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
He grinned fiercely. “Makes no sense evidence-wise, but thanks for the emotional validation. I’m flopping around like a fish on the pier – I know you like Dugger, but he just doesn’t bother
“Psychopaths don’t get anxious, but they do get depressed. Let’s take a closer look at him today.”
Milo frowned, rubbed his face. “Sure. What the hell, at least we’ll get another trip to the beach.”
Just before LAX the freeway clogged. We rolled slowly toward El Segundo, and when the clog gave way Milo said, “What do you think Tony Duke’s worth – couple of hundred million?”
“The magazine’s not what it used to be,” I said, “but sure, that wouldn’t surprise me. Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking. Big stakes if something Dugger
A few miles later: “Think about it, Alex: John Wayne Airport… The guy spent World War II on the Warner’s lot and he’s a combat hero… Welcome to the land of illusion.”
“Maybe that’s why Dugger likes it here.”
Newport Beach sits forty miles south of L.A. Milo violated as many traffic laws as he could think of, but the LAX slowdown turned the trip into a full hour. Exiting at the 55 south, he stayed on the highway as it became Newport Boulevard, sped past miles of basic SoCal strip mall and some spanking new shopping centers with all the charm of theme parks on Prozac. The first evidence of maritime influence – boat brokers – appeared as we switched to Balboa, and soon I was seeing lots of anchor motifs, restaurants claiming FRESH FISH! and HAPPY HOUR! and people dressed for the beach. A silvery winter sky said the sand would be gray and cool, but there was no shortage of bare skin. I opened the window. Ten degrees warmer than L.A. Salt smell, clean and fresh. Between this and Santa Monica, Ben Dugger’s lungs would have to be pink and pretty.
A few blocks later Balboa turned narrow and residential: beautifully landscaped two-story homes lining both sides of the boulevard, beach view to the west, marina vista across the street. A turn onto Balboa East took us past more sparkling windows, bougainvillea flowing from railings, Porsches and Lexuses and Range Rovers lolling in cobbled driveways. Then a two-block, low-profile commercial stretch appeared, and Milo said, “Should be right around here.”
The shop fronts were shaded by multicolored awnings. More shade from street trees, immaculate sidewalks, easy parking, bird chirps, the merest drumbeat of the tide rolling in lazily. Cafes, chiropractors, wine merchants, beachwear boutiques, a dry cleaner. The address Dugger had given for Motivational Associates matched a one- story, seafoam green stucco structure near the corner of Balboa East and A Street. No signage, just a teak door and two draped windows. The immediate neighbors were a dress shop with a window full of chiffon and a storefront eatery labeled simply CHINESE RESTAURANT! Behind the glass front of the cafe, an Asian man played the deep fryers at warp speed as the woman next to him chopped with a cleaver. The aroma of egg rolls mingled with Pacific brine.
We parked, got out, and Milo knocked on the teak door. The wood was highly varnished, like a boat’s deck; with so many coats laid on the thump barely resonated. Ben Dugger opened and said, “You made good time.”
He wore a white shirt under a gray crewneck, wide-wale green cords, brown moccasins with rawhide laces. The sweater showcased dandruff flecks. He’d shaved recently, but not precisely, and dark hairs hyphenated a raw- looking neck. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes were bloodshot and resigned, and when they met mine the pupils expanded.
I smiled. He turned away.
Milo said, “Easy ride. Scenic.”
Dugger said, “Come on in,” and admitted us into an off-white anteroom set up with cream canvas chairs and tables piled with magazines and hung with photos of the ocean in various color phases. An unmarked door at the back took us into a larger space, empty and silent and lined with a white door on each wall. The entrance to the left had been left open, revealing a very small, baby blue room furnished with a single bed draped by an Amish quilt and a plain pine nightstand. Stacks of books on the stand, along with a cup and saucer and a pair of glasses. Dugger continued toward a door to the right, but Milo paused to look into the blue room.
Dugger stopped and raised an eyebrow.
Milo pointed at the blue room. “You’ve got a bed in there. Sleep research?”
Dugger smiled. “Nothing that exotic. It’s a genuine bedroom. Mine. I sleep here when it’s too late to drive back to L.A. Actually, this was my home until I moved.”
“The whole building?”
“Just this room.”
“Kinda cozy.”
“You mean small?” said Dugger, still smiling. “I don’t need much. It sufficed.” He crossed to a closed door and took out a key ring. Double dead bolts, a sign marked PRIVATE. He’d unlatched the first bolt when Milo said, “So how long ago did you move to L.A.?”
The keys lowered. Dugger took a deep breath. “All these questions about me. I thought this was about Lauren’s employment.”
“Just making conversation, Doctor. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.”
Dugger’s lips curled upward, and his long, grave face managed a low, inaudible laugh. “No, it’s fine. I moved a couple of years ago.”
“Newport too quiet?”
Dugger glanced at me. Again I smiled, and again his eyes whipped away. “Not at all. I like Newport very much. But things came up, and I needed to be in L.A. more, so I opened the Brentwood office. It’s not really in full gear yet. When it is, I may have to close this place down.”
“Why’s that?”
