Mystery

garnets.

Just as before, the white BMW and the bronze Lexus occupied the cobbled motor court.

Milo directed me to a spot up the block with an oblique view of the gates. We sat for a while before he phoned John Nguyen and asked about a subpoena of all Suss financial records.

Nguyen said, “Why are you doing this to me?”

“What?”

“Making me the bad parent. The answer’s no, now go clean your room.”

Ten more minutes passed, during which Milo polluted the Seville with cigar smoke and returned a message from Rick. A clinic that tested for STDs and genetic disorders was situated in a Cedars-affiliated building on San Vicente. Rick had phoned the director, an immunologist he knew casually, only to be barked at.

Any breach of patient confidentiality would be fought aggressively and Rick should know better.

Milo said, “So much for professional courtesy. Sorry.”

“Guy’s always been a dick, don’t worry about it.”

“That’s why I love you.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“You want me to start listing?”

“Nah. Wait until you’re home and have time to expound.”

After another quarter hour, Milo decided to ring Phil and Connie Suss’s gate buzzer.

“Not that I have any idea how to explain my interest.”

“You can always take the soft approach, see how they react.”

“Meaning?”

“Apologetic, self-deprecating, the name Suss came up in the personal effects of a victim, if they’d be kind enough to spare a few minutes.”

“Genuflect and kiss ass,” he said. “I’d rather get my face sanded.” A beat later: “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

Just as he was reaching for the door handle, Connie Suss-Longellos stepped out her front door, wearing a black-velvet tracksuit and running shoes, no makeup, blond hair tied in a high pony. Starting up the Lexus, she lowered the hardtop and drove to the gate.

Filigree parted electrically. She turned south.

Milo said, “Oh Lord of Detection, lead us to the Promised Land.”

A previous trip had taken forty years.

I kept my mouth shut.

onnie Longellos-Suss drove to a nail salon on Ventura near White Oak.

Milo said, “Don’t see the river Jordan anywhere.”

She stayed inside for thirty-two minutes and he took the opportunity to murder a chili dog from a nearby stand and slurp two Cokes. When she stepped outside examining a silver manicure, he was rubbing a greasy lapel stain with soda water.

Down came the top on the Lexus for a half-mile drive east into Sherman Oaks. She parked in front a boutique named Poppy’s Daydreams.

No additional spaces.

Milo said, “Circle the block.” Then: “Damn.”

“What?”

“There’s an Orange Julius and I filled up on the brown stuff.”

I drove around the block, was nearing the clothing store when Connie reappeared, checked her parking meter, fed coins, continued on foot.

One block east to a bistro named Max Cuisine.

Milo said, “Wonder if that means portion-sized. Hang a U and park across the street.”

By the time we reached the restaurant Connie had been served. Her plate said the portions were anything but generous: something small and pale and vaguely fowl-like floating on a cloud of green wisps. Bottle of designer water at her elbow, untouched bread basket. Her fork hung midair as she perused a copy of Modern Painter.

Too late for the lunch crowd, too early for dinner, and she was the only patron. But for the lace-trimmed streetwalkers and absinthe-addled boulevardiers inhabiting a collection of Toulouse-Lautrec prints, the only other human face in sight was a heavy woman in a chef’s toque smoking at a far table while scanning Le Monde.

When we entered, Connie Suss ignored us. When we got two feet away she paid attention.

Milo’s badge unhinged her mouth. “Is everything okay? With my husband?”

“Everything’s fine, ma’am. May we sit down?”

“Um … I guess so. What’s going on?”

She put the fork down, then the magazine. Handsome woman, with clear blue eyes and clean, symmetrical features. She’d managed to maintain the tan while avoiding conspicuous damage. Maybe the color was spray-on. Or something her brother-in-law or sister-in-law had provided. Did doctors do that kind of thing? In Beverly Hills, probably.

We sat on either side. The table’s small size enforced intimacy. She scooted an inch from Milo’s bulk, found herself closer to me, and grimaced. I gave her some space.

“What’s going on, guys?”

“Sorry to bother you—is it Ms. Suss or Ms. Longellos?”

“Depends.”

Milo raised an eyebrow.

“What I mean,” she said, “is I use Longellos professionally but legally I’m Suss. When I met my husband I was already established so keeping my maiden name seemed easier.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Did, I’m retired. Finance, investment banking, that’s how I met my husband, I managed money with a company that handled his family’s finances. Then I got into art—why is this important? Why am I talking about anything to the police?”

“It’s really nothing,” said Milo, “but we need to be thorough. Your name came up in the personal effects of a victim.”

“A victim? What kind of victim? I don’t understand.” She inched back.

“Homicide, ma’am.”

Connie Longellos’s head shot forward as if she’d been shoved brutally. “What? What on earth would my name be doing with a—this is crazy, you must be mistaken.”

“Connie Longellos,” said Milo. “We traced you through that name.”

“Well, that’s crazy, that’s really totally insane.” She fingered the zipper of her track jacket. Lush velour, tiny logo on the sleeve. An Italian brand I’d never heard of. “Who is this victim?”

“A woman named Tiara Grundy.”

“Now I know it’s insane. I have no idea who that is.”

“She also went by Tara Sly.”

“Same answer, guys. That one sounds like something a porn actress would use. No, you’re totally mistaken, I don’t know any Tiara or Tara anybody. How’d my name come up—was it on a piece of art? I’ve sold a lot of art in my day, I suppose she could’ve been a customer.”

“No, ma’am,” said Milo.

“Then what? Where was my name?”

“Personal effects.”

“What are you talking about?”

Milo didn’t answer.