lobes. But used up close, a .410 could’ve taken her entire head off. And there’s no way I can see, short of standing on a ladder, that the shotgunner could’ve hit her straight-on once she was down.”
“Precision murder team,” said Milo. “Maybe at the next Olympics.”
“It’s creepy, right? Almost a ritualistic quality to it.”
“Like she was being punished.”
“I suppose,” said Jernigan. “You know what it’s usually like with sick stuff. We get up-close strangulation, a knife ballet. This is harder to characterize. There’s that calculated execution thing going on but possibly also something darker—something Delaware might be able to help you with.”
“Funny you should mention him.”
I said, “Alex here.”
“Oh, hi,” she said. “So what do you think?”
“It fits perfectly with our current best guess for motive: money as well as revenge.”
“Great minds,” she said. “When you learn more, keep me in the loop because this one’s got me curious.”
Milo said, “Love your optimism, Doc.”
Clarice Jernigan said, “Without optimism there isn’t much point, is there? Bye, guys, time for me to meet a few more wonderfully compliant patients.”
We walked up to Leona Suss’s gate.
Milo said, “Firing squad. Now that she’s planted that in my head it’s gonna stay there.”
We were trying to figure out a next step when a black-and-white SUV pulled up behind the Seville, gunned its engine, went quiet.
Beverly Hills PD Suburban. A young uniformed female officer got out, studied the Seville’s rear plate, hitched up her belt, studied some more.
Milo gave his mini-salute. She wasn’t impressed.
Small woman. Five three, tops, narrow-hipped, small-busted, and open-faced, with a long brown ponytail.
“Looks about twelve,” said Milo, digging into his pocket. “Maybe she’s selling Police Scout cookies.”
The cop confided something to her radio. Adjusted her belt again and came forward, one hand on her baton.
The open face was freckled, lightly made up except for generous eyeliner and mascara turned to gritty paste.
Borderline Goth; go know.
“Gentlemen. That your Cadillac?”
I said, “It’s mine.”
“License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.” A too-husky voice tightened the cords of her neck. Straining, as if she’d taken lessons in authoritative but missed the final.
Milo flashed his badge and his card. “Will this do, Officer?”
Bede’s teal-green eyes seemed to enlarge as her pupils contracted.
She said, “L.A. Homicide? Nothing came up at roll call about any joint investigation.”
“There’s an investigation,” said Milo, “but it only touched upon your fair city a few minutes ago.”
“Touched? I’m not … sure what that means.”
“The occupant of this house is someone we might eventually want to talk to.”
“This house?” As if owning eight-figure real estate exempted you from suspicion.
Milo said, “Mrs. Leona Suss.”
“What’s your interest in her?”
“She may know certain individuals of interest and we wanted to make contact with her.” Smiling. “Top of that, Officer, we get to hang out in nice places. But you’re used to that.”
Bede’s posture relaxed and her eyes crinkled. Wholesome farm girl in tailored blues. “You’d be surprised, Lieutenant. We get alarm calls, ninety percent are false but we do walk-throughs anyway. You’d be amazed at the crap people call decorating in Beverly Hills.”
“Big money, no taste.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“Did Mrs. Suss call us in?”
“Five minutes ago, the non-emergency line.”
“Good response time.”
“That’s why people live here.”
“What was the complaint?”
Bede smiled again. “Two males loitering in an old car.”
“A Ferrari woulda made a difference?”
“Probably.”
“Maybe someone should tell her there’s old and there’s classic.”
Bede stepped back, appraised the Seville. Did the same for me. “You do keep it up pretty nice. You get it on a confiscation? When we invoke RICO we get all sorts of cool stuff. Just added a Bentley used to be owned by a San Diego dope dealer who made the mistake of transacting here. The right plainclothes assignment comes along, someone’s going to be riding pretty.”
She glanced back at the mansion. “I do need to have contact with the complainant. What do you want me to tell her?”
Milo looked past her. Silk drapes had parted behind a ground-floor window. Woman holding a cat.
Tall, thin, with short black hair, she wore a body-hugging champagne-colored velour tracksuit and oversized, white-framed sunglasses.
Milo said, “Some variant of the truth will work fine, Officer Bede. You want, we can take it from here.”
Officer W. Bede said, “No, I need to make contact for my report. Okay if I tell her you’re kosher, doing an investigation, but I don’t add details? Then, if she wants to talk to you, it’s your game.”
“Free country.”
“Nothing’s free in Beverly Hills.”
eona Suss stepped through her gate, cradling her cat in the crook of one arm.
Officer W. Bede said, “Ma’am, turns out they’re L.A. police.”
Leona patted Bede’s shoulder. “Thank you, honey. I’ll be fine.”
Bede frowned. “I’ll be off, then, ma’am.”
“Have a nice day, dear.”
Bede’s Suburban roared off.
Leona Suss said, “They’re hiring babies nowadays.” A limp-wristed, bangled arm dangled toward Milo. “Hello, fellas.”
“Lieutenant Sturgis, ma’am. And this is Alex Delaware.”
“Leona. But you already know that.”
Her smile was so wide it threatened to split her face, sacrificing the lower half to gravity. She’d been tucked, but a while ago and with a light touch. The stretch-lines punctuating her jaw and her mouth and her forehead had begun to relent. The end result wasn’t unpleasant, hinting of what she’d been at thirty.
A nice-looking woman for any age. When she removed her shades and exposed almond-shaped, purple-blue eyes, that got upgraded to beautiful.
Angular, porcelain-skinned, finely boned, she reminded me of someone … Singer Sargent’s Madame X.
