do something useful? The plan was for me to get a token brokerage job, marry a rich, dull girl, sire the requisite dull child or two, retire early to a life of calculated indolence. The physics thing
“Scholarship as rebellion,” I said.
“I could’ve been a dangerous felon or a drug-addled loser or joined the Green Party, but developing a work ethic seemed more subversive…so what else do I remember about Patty Bigelow…attentive to Grandfather, moved fast- as in ambulation. That
“Father-son issues?”
“Oh, boy,” he said. “Compared to them, Dad and I are drinking buds. As to why, no one clued me in on all the dirty little family secrets. Grandfather
His toe nudged the KFC box. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Maybe it’s what you guys call a demand characteristic-you want me to talk, so I do.”
“That’s a pretty esoteric term.”
“I took some psych as an undergrad. Found it interesting but I needed something less nebulous. Anyway, that’s all I remember about Ms. Bigelow.”
“How’d she come to work here.”
“I was a kid. Why would I know?”
“Sounds as if you were a pretty attentive kid.”
“Not really,” he said. “Actually, I was mostly in my own world. Just like Patty’s daughter, sitting in the bushes. I really need to get back to my calculations. World oil consumption depends on it. If you leave me your number, next time I talk to Dad I’ll tell him to call you.”
“Thanks.” I placed Blanche on the floor and stood.
She trotted straight to him. He chuckled and rubbed her neck. She smiled up at him.
“Cool dog. She can definitely stay here.”
“People keep making that offer.”
“Charisma,” he said. “From what I know of Grandfather he had it in spades.”
“Self-made man.”
“It’s a nice ideal,” he said. “I’ll settle for accomplishing anything.”
CHAPTER 13
Isaac Gomez had sent me an e-mail.
I forwarded the text to Milo, busied myself with paperwork for a couple of hours, got no callback.
Maybe he’d really gotten into a vacation mode.
Maybe I should, too. No more work over the weekend.
But Sunday morning I was up early, scanning cyberspace for the killings Isaac had found. Wilfred Hong’s unsolved murder was noted on a diamond dealer’s Web site. Gory details and warnings for his colleagues, but no new facts. None of the Hollywood cases were listed but the dual murder of Cesar Cruz and Thomas Beltran received notice in the
I clicked away until noon, trying different approaches to the remaining cases, starting with those in the Cherokee Avenue zone. Nothing on three of them, but I unearthed notice of Christopher Blanding Stimple’s death in a newspaper morgue at
The family sanitizing the details of a shotgun homicide? No reason to do that in a case of murder, but suicide could inspire shame. Maybe the coroner had closed the case as self-inflicted but that conclusion hadn’t found its way into LAPD records. In any event, I couldn’t see Patty Bigelow blasting a twenty-year-old man with two barrels and crossed off Stimple.
At four p.m., I took a punishing run, showered, made coffee, straightened the house. At six thirty, Robin’s truck pulled up in front of the house.
She jumped out and hugged me hard. “Why do we ever stay apart?”
Moist cheek. Tears weren’t often part of Robin’s repertoire. I tried to draw her face away for a kiss. She hugged me tighter.
I’d made dinner reservations at the Hotel Bel-Air. She said, “I love that place but would you be disappointed if we just stayed in?”
“Shattered and ground to dust.” I canceled and called out for Chinese from a place in Westwood Village.
As she unpacked, she said, “Where’s Blondie?”
“Sleeping.”
“Smart girl.”
She bathed, towel-dried her hair, put on some makeup, and emerged wearing a white sleeveless shift and nothing else. We were kissing in the kitchen when the food arrived. I overpaid the delivery boy, let the food go cold.
By nine, we were sitting near the pond, tossing random bits of egg roll and noodles to the koi.
“They’re Japanese,” she said. “But they sure go for Mandarin.”
