Mystery

As I aimed for the freeway, he called Public Affairs, hung up squeezing the phone so hard it squeaked.

“As far as they’re concerned I’ve still got insufficient cause but even if I did have enough, the chance of getting more media time would be slim to none. ’Cause that would violate the one-time rule.”

I said, “You get one shot per case?”

“Unofficially, no, but apparently hell yeah. Unless it’s a big-time serial killer task force or something the department views as especially media-worthy.”

“Celebrities in trouble?” I said.

“That would work.”

“You’d think O.J. would’ve been a lesson.”

“Yeah, right. Every idiot wants to be a star or at least fuck one.”

“How about some cheap rationalization? Going public on Muhrmann too early could drive him underground.”

“There’s always that risk,” he said. “But Muhrmann’s not some sixteen-year-old gangbanger who’s never been on a plane. For all I know, he’s already out of sight. Also, the two-killer scenario might mean he’s got a partner willing to finance an escape.”

“Homicidal Sugar Daddy.”

“Or Mommy, if it’s elusive Connie or someone like her. Did SukRose mention anything about that?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Either way, there’s a name in the Agajanians’ database that would bust this thing wide open but I can’t access it because Big Brother Brian’s a damn attorney.”

He looked up Brian Agajanian’s office number. Huge firm in Century City. Mr. Agajanian was out, his secretary had no idea when he’d be back. When Milo identified himself, her voice closed up and her promise to pass along the message took on the sincerity of a diplomat’s dinner banter.

A DMV search produced Agajanian’s home address in Glendale, off the Brand Boulevard exit.

Right on our way as we sped west on the 210.

“Talk about karma,” said Milo. “Let’s yank this guy’s leash, see how good a guard dog he really is.”

The house was a two-story Spanish perched atop a hillside covered with verbena. Evening was settling in. As the contours of the mountains receded, freckles of city light asserted themselves.

It took a steep hike to get to the paved mesa that served as Brian Agajanian’s parking area. Two vehicles rested up there, leaving no spare space. We left the Seville down below and climbed.

Milo started to huff at the halfway point. “There better be gain with pain.”

By the time we reached the top, he was breathing hard and, in between exhalations, muttering a low mantra of rage.

Agajanian’s wheels were a steel-gray Lexus RX SUV with a Baby On Board sticker. Two kiddie seats took up the back. Video screens were built into the headrests. Behind that, an immaculate white Porsche Boxster sported BRY ATT personalized plates.

“Proud of himself,” said Milo, catching his breath. “Having the capacity for shame is probably too much to ask of him.”

He jabbed a bell circled by a small, lacquered wreath of pinecones and maple leaves. A pretty, buxom redheaded woman in a red top and black leggings came to the door holding a sleeping infant wearing a pale blue hybrid of swaddle blanket and p.j.’s that evoked Swee’Pea.

“Oh, I thought you were …?” An anticipatory smile gave way to anxiety.

“Ms. Agajanian? Los Angeles Police Department. We need to talk to Mr. Brian Agajanian.”

“I thought you were my mother,” she said. “She’ll be here soon. There’s nothing wrong, right?”

Milo said, “Nothing at all. We just need to talk to your husband. Is he here?”

Stepping back into a spotless travertine entry hall, she hugged the baby to her breast. “Bri-an!”

A tall, thin, black-haired man with an arched nose and a barbered goatee trotted in. He wore a white T-shirt, blue sweatpants with a white stripe running down the leg, yellow-and-black running shoes. “Everything okay, Mel?”

She pointed.

Black eyes swung to us. “Can I help you?”

“They’re the police, Bri.”

“What?” Addressing the question to us, not his wife.

She said, “They’re the—”

“Go back inside, Mel.”

“Is everything okay?” Rocking the still-dozing baby.

“Of course. Go back inside.” His glare dared us to contradict him.

Milo said, “Everything’s peachy.” The baby stirred. Mel Agajanian cooed, “Sh-sh, sh, sh,” and rocked the child.

Brian Agajanian’s eyes slitted. “Put him to bed. I’ll take it from here.”

Once she complied, he stepped out of his house, strode to the outer edge of the flattened parking area, stopped an inch from the drop. One misstep and he’d be plummeting through a slalom of verbena. Folding his arms across his chest, he studied each of us, pretended to care about the darkening sky, then the lights below. Young man but the black hair was thinning and deep furrows scored his cheeks before confronting beard hairs. “This can’t be about what I think it is.”

Milo said, “That’s a pretty complex sentence, Mr. Agajanian.”

“Okay, here’s a simple one: What’s. This. About?”

“A name in your sisters’ data bank.”

Brian Agajanian punched a palm. “Unbelievable. For that you disrupt my privacy and scare my wife?”

“Think of it as a friendly visit.”

Agajanian’s arms crossed his chest. His pinched expression said he was wearing the tightest sports bra in the universe. “I know you have a job to do but this is really outrageous.”

Milo snapped open his attache case and brandished a photo. Close-up of the bloody swamp that had once been the face of the girl called Mystery.

“Yech.” Brian Agajanian swayed, canting dangerously toward the hillside. Milo braced his left arm.

Agajanian shrugged him off, careful to keep his movement slow and easy.

Milo said, “You looked like you were losing your balance.”

“I’m fine,” said Agajanian, averting his eye from the image. “That’s disgusting, there was no need for that. Why didn’t you just call my office?”

“We did. Your secretary promised to call you right away but we never heard back.”

“I was working outside the office, haven’t checked messages.”

“Outside, as in your sisters’ office?”

“Outside is all you need to know. Now, you really should go. This is totally inappropriate.”

Milo said, “If we had reached you on the phone would you have given me that poor girl’s real name?”

“What makes you think this will be effective?”

“I always go for the personal touch.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Sturgis, West L.A. Division.”

“And you’re a lieutenant.”

Milo smiled. “And you’re an attorney.”

Agajanian said, “Lieutenant Sturgis,” as if caching a weapon.

Milo said, “If you’d like to enter it into your PDA, I’d be happy to wait.”

“That’s okay, I have a good memory.”

“Does that include this poor girl’s real name?”

Agajanian didn’t answer.

Milo said, “I also need the name of anyone your sisters hooked her up with—”

“My sisters don’t hook anyone up, they’ve created a social networking site.”

“Where people pay them for the privilege of hooking up.”