same result.
“Hey,” he said, eyeing the traffic. “Let’s hear it for quality of life.” His skin was gray around the edges, and his eyes seemed to be fighting to stay open.
I offered the envelope containing the Black Suit snaps. He stuffed them in his jacket pocket. Another bell jab. Nothing. “Let’s try the neighbors.”
At the mansion a black-uniformed, fair-haired maid with a lumpy face answered, and Milo asked her about Justin LeMoyne.
“Oh, heem,” she said in a Slavic accent. The look of disdain was unmistakable.
“Problem neighbor, ma’am?”
“He ees, you know…” She proffered a limp wrist. “Flit-flit.”
“Gay.”
“Yah, homo.”
“Does that create problems, Ms…”
“Ovensky, Irina. You here, so dere must be problems.” Big smile, gold incisor. “Vat did he do, awfficer? Something wit a keed?”
“Does he bring kids here?”
“Naw, but you knaw dem.”
“Did Mr. LeMoyne create any specific problems for you, Ms. Ovensky?”
“Yah, wit de dogs. Missus Ellis has dogs – de Pekes – and dey bark a leetle, vy not, dere dogs, no? But
Irina Ovensky drew a finger along her throat.
“He wants you to debark the dogs.”
“Yah. Crrooo-el, no?”
“Not an animal lover,” said Milo.
“A
“He brings boys here?”
“Jus wan.”
“How old?”
Irina Ovensky shrugged. “Twenny, twenny-two.”
“A young man.”
“Yah, but leetle, like a boy. Skeeny, wit de yellow hair up here” – patting her head – “and de tattoo, here.” Her hand lowered to her shoulder.
“What does the tattoo say?” said Milo.
“I don’ know, I don’ get dat close.” Ovensky stuck out her tongue.
“When’s the last time you saw Mr. LeMoyne and this person?” said Milo.
“Las’ night. Dey get in de car and go.” Flick of the hand.
“Mr. LeMoyne’s car.”
“Mertzedes. Red.”
“What time was this, ma’am?”
The sight of Milo’s notepad set off sparks in Ovensky’s brown eyes.
“Eleven, eleven-tirty,” she said. “I hear dem tawkin’, so I look tru de vindow.”
“Eleven, eleven-thirty,” echoed Milo.
“Yah. Is important?”
“Could be, ma’am. Any idea where they went?”
“Who know? Wherever dey types go.”
“Were they carrying luggage – suitcases?”
“Yah, two big suitcases. Maybe dey stay away and we don’ get no dee-bark dem, dee-bark dem. De dogs have a right to sing, no?”
“Two suitcases,” said Milo, back at the unmarked. “Not a yearlong cruise, but enough for a while.”
He glanced back at the mansion. Irina Ovensky remained in the door, and she smiled and waved.
“A saint,” I said.
“The type you take home to Mom.” He waved back, smiling. His jawline knotted as he opened the car door, got in, took out the envelope. “Okay, let’s have a look at these.” Flipping through the photos quickly, he paused at a close-up of the stocky man’s face. “He does have that mechanic look… Still, what I said holds. If he was doing wet work for the Dukes, why would they keep him close? If I have time, I’ll run this by the Organized Crime Task Force.”
“Didn’t know there was one,” I said.
“Since the fifties. Not much mafia in L.A., so for years the task force guys enjoyed long lunches. Now they’re tied up with Asian and Latin drug gangs, but who knows – maybe this mug’ll show up in their files. The Morris office is closed, but I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning, see if I can learn anything about Justin LeMoyne’s travel habits before they kick my butt out to South Rodeo – Think I should wear a designer suit?”
“You own one?”
“Yeah, fashion by Sir Kay of the Mart. I put a call in to a guy at the D.A.’s office who worked on Gretchen’s case – let’s see if Kent Irving’s name shows up, for what that’s worth. I also placed my third call to Leo Riley, still no answer.”
“So much for professional courtesy,” I said.
“More likely he’s got nothing to tell me. We law-enforcement types don’t like to dwell on our failures. Meanwhile, I’m packing it in for the evening. Rick has informed me that we’re going to eat at a genuine restaurant tonight, where we will pretend to be persons deserving of fine cuisine and impeccable service. And then, maybe a movie. He says if I bring the phone, he will dismantle it with surgical precision.”
“Frustrated.”
“I tend to do that to people.”
CHAPTER 31
I CRACKED THE bedroom door. Robin was curled on her side, the top sheet pulled down to her bare belly, mouth parted, breathing slowly. As I approached the bed and shut off the alarm clock, her eyes opened.
“A minute to six,” I whispered. “Good morning.”
She yawned and stretched. “I got tired… didn’t see you much today – what’d you do?”
“Took a little drive up the coast.”
“Oh… I was thinking maybe we’d have dinner somewhere at the beach. Guess not, now that you’ve already-”
“The beach is one thing,” I said. “The beach with you is another.”
Kissing her chin. What a sweet guy. But all the time thinking: Malibu’s a small place. Running into someone I knew would not be pretty.
By the time we left the house it was eight P.M., and we reached the coast highway twenty minutes later. I bypassed all the trendoid-infested spots-of-the-week and tried a place we’d never been before – a gray-wood cafe resembling an oversized bait shack perched on a mound of dirt above PCH. On the land side, just past Big Rock, where massive mudslides are the rule and thirty-foot-wide beach properties level off at a million and a half bucks. The decor was rickety picnic tables, sawdust floors, daily printed menus with all the polish of a high school bulletin, char broilers on overdrive, beery dialogue. The room was high enough to catch a clean vista of black ocean, and if the grandmotherly old waitress who greeted us with “Hello, dearies” had ever harbored showbiz illusions, they predated Technicolor.
Several miles before Paradise Cove.
We huddled at a tiny table in the corner, gorged on the mixed seafood grill, fresh corn, creamed spinach,
