man.”
She began to cry, reversed it abruptly when Chad bounced in announcing, “I’m thirsty, Aunt Bunny says I can have choco-milk if you say so.”
“Sure,” said Gretchen, grinning. “Look who came to visit.”
Chad’s eyes shifted to me.
“Say hello to Dr. Delaware, angel.”
“Kin I have choco-milk?”
“I said sure. Don’t you want to say hi to Dr. Delaware?”
Shrug.
Bunny Rodriguez came in. “I told him what you—”
“Chocolate milk’s milk so it’s healthy, go pour.”
Bunny trudged to the kitchen, filled a four-ounce glass. The boy drained it. “More.”
Bunny said, “Gretch?”
“Whatever.”
Glass number two disappeared just as quickly. So did three. Milo-in-training.
I walked over to Chad. “Feel like drawing again?”
“Guess.”
“Or we can do something else.”
“Draw.”
Gretchen said, “Have something healthy, too, on top of the chocolate milk. Everyone needs to be healthy.”
“No.”
“Whatever, angel.”
In his room, Chad said, “Mommy wakes up all the time. She’s wet.”
“Wet on her face?”
“All over. Her jammas.”
“She’s sweating.”
“I guess.”
“Know what sweat is?”
“It comes out of your body when you’re hot.”
“Exactly. Do you ever sweat?”
“When it’s hot.” Flicking the corner of a drawing pad. “She does it when it’s cold.”
“Even if it’s not cold, she may feel cold.”
“Why?”
“That happens sometimes when people are sick.”
“Her skin,” he said. “Then she coughs and I hug her. She like bounces.”
“From coughing.”
“I hug her.”
“You want to take care of her.”
He thought about that. “I don’t want her to fall.”
“Off the bed?”
“Anywhere.”
“That would be scary.”
“It would hurt.”
“Like falling on the floor.”
“I did it once,” he said. “It hurt. Mommy kept sleeping. I put myself back in the bed.”
“You’re good at taking care of yourself.”
“Let’s draw, I’m gonna win.”
Six bouts of frantic, page-ripping black circles later: “Mommy’s not gonna die.”
I said nothing.
He said, “That’s what I think.”
t took a couple of days but Darrell Two Moons came through.
The P.O.B. Tiara Grundy listed as her New Mexico address had been housed in a now defunct stationery store. Grundy had been arrested three times in Santa Fe, twice at eighteen, once at twenty. Misdemeanor possession of marijuana, two public intoxications. All charges dismissed, not an hour of jail time served.
I said, “Maybe another rehab candidate.”
Milo said, “Possibly, but the drunk busts could be less than they seem. Darrell says back then they were doing regular sweeps of the Plaza, basically vacuuming up kids because merchants were complaining about a bad atmosphere. So just hanging out could get you swept up and seeing as she never got arrested again, that might’ve been it.”
“Maybe she left Santa Fe and got in trouble elsewhere.”
“Listen to the pessimist. You don’t believe in personal redemption?”
“I do but she worked as a prostitute here in L.A. before she went cyber.”
He turned to me. “You know that because …”
“I’d check out people who were running high-priced call girls five to ten years ago.”
He wheeled back his chair. “You would, huh.”
I said, “It might also lead you to Muhrmann. He seems like the kind who’d hire out as muscle to a pimp.”
“A pimp who has to hire out muscle because of a lack of testosterone?” he said. “Maybe someone like Gretchen Stengel? Now that I think about it, she used to hire bodybuilders.”
“Like Gretchen, but I wouldn’t waste time with her.”
He pushed back some more, hit a wastebasket. As the receptacle spun and pinged the vinyl floor, he watched me.
I watched back.
“Okay,” he said, “what other bush do you want to beat around?”
“We can discuss the secret of eternal happiness.”
He laughed. I did the same but there wasn’t much joy in the air.
Tenting his hands, he studied a crack in the ceiling. “I’m thinking this connects to your mysterious appointment yesterday.”
I didn’t answer.
“I’m thinking it could also connect to that tip about SukRose.”
I pretended to brush a crumb from my sleeve.
“Gotcha! There’s a reason they pay me the big bucks.” Gripping his desk, he drew himself back, ending up so tight against the rim that his gut overlapped. “You want me to go pimp hunting, I will defer to your superior judgment. Even though Vice has never heard of Tiara Grundy or Tara Sly or anyone calling herself Mystery. But first, I’m following a juicy lead of my own.”
Flipping the murder book open, he drew out a photocopied mug shot.
“Meet Maude Grundy aka Momsy.”
Maude Stella Grundy had been twenty-five at the time of her arrest, looked nearly twice that.
A New Mexico penal code I didn’t know.
Dark, stringy hair framed a thin but flabby face. Sunken cheeks and puffy addict eyes said her life had been ravaged by bad decisions. But lurking behind all that was the delicate bone structure and symmetry of a woman born pretty, and if I looked hard enough I could see Tiara’s lineage.
Or maybe I was looking too hard.
Maude Grundy’s birth date made her fifteen years older than Tiara.
