Robin said, “We’re talking about one of the daughters-in-law?”
“Yup. The other one wasn’t as friendly, but considering the way we barged in on her and dredged up unpleasant memories, she was damn near saintly. Bottom line: They both come across as honest and solid and utterly un-criminal and there’s nothing in their backgrounds to suggest anything nasty.”
“How come you looked at them rather than their husbands?”
“Because someone used the first daughter-in-law’s name to check into rehab, meaning another female.”
“Dr. Isabel,” she said. “What’s the other one’s name?”
“Connie Longellos.”
Robin said, “Connie can be a man’s name. Connie Mack used to manage the Yankees.”
“How do you know stuff like that?”
“Daddy’s girl.” She dropped her eyes, the way she does when remembering her father.
“I’m impressed,” he said. “Unfortunately, the landlord said it was a woman.”
Robin said, “Did I just complicate your life, Big Guy?”
I said, “Actually.”
They turned to me.
“The landlord may have assumed it was a woman from the name on the reference. He never spoke to anyone.”
“Indeed,” said Milo. He winced. “Maybe you prevented some serious tunnel vision. I’d thank you for thinking outside the box but anyone who blabs about outside the box has obviously never been there.”
Robin patted his hand. “Would you like some dessert?”
walked Milo down to his car.
“Thank Robin for the meal.”
“You already did.”
“Do it again. For dessert.”
“We didn’t have dessert.”
“I sure did,” he said. “Sweet insight.” Shaking his head. “Connie Mack. Why the hell not? Those brothers get looked at tomorrow.”
I said, “Fake Connie’s P.O.B. was in Pacific Palisades, which isn’t that far from both murders. En route, actually, if you’re coming from B.H.”
“Gotta be some kind of tie-in … okay, brace yourselves, Phil and Frank. If I can get backup, I’ll have them both watched. If not, I’ll start with Phil because his hours are more flexible. Plus, he’s married to the real Connie and I can see some disgruntled husband pulling something like that.”
“No DUIs on Phil’s record.”
“None on Frank’s, either, but big deal, could be luck. Like Phil’s the night he passed the Breathalyzer.” He laughed. “Luck on top of the sperm club. Okay, sweet dreams, if there’s something to clue you in on I will.”
The call that came through at eleven a.m. wasn’t from him. Blocked number, straight to my private line.
“Doc, this is Moe Reed. L.T. asked me to tell you he got called downtown, doesn’t know for how long.”
“Trouble?”
“If you call a statistics meeting trouble.”
“He’s been avoiding that for a while.”
“Chief calls you personally and … expresses his opinion, you don’t avoid.”
“Thanks, Moe. Anything else?”
“Chief woke him at six a.m.,” said Reed. “Some way to start your day.”
I plugged each Suss twin’s name into several search engines, cross-referencing with Topanga, Pacific Palisades, Malibu, a couple of West Valley towns. Nothing.
At noon, I walked down the kitchen stairs, crossed the garden to Robin’s studio, stopped to feed the fish. She was studying the same guitar top, holding it to the light, tapping at various spots, running a finger along the outer contours. To my eye, she hadn’t done much to it. Ten feet away, Blanche snoozed on her doggy bed.
“What’s up, honey?”
“Milo’s tied up, I thought I’d take another look at Philip Suss’s house.”
She picked up a chisel, wiped the blade, set it down. “I’ll keep you company—don’t be so shocked. Why not?”
“For one, it’ll be boring.”
“With me to keep you company? Now I’m insulted.”
“I’ll be fine, you’ll be in a stupor.”
She looped an arm around my waist. “I shouldn’t be carving, anyway. Too distracted.”
“By what?”
“Her. I know there’s no rational reason, but sometimes I get tired of ignoring how I feel. What’s the second reason?”
“What second reason?”
“You said ‘for one.’ What’s two?”
I had no comeback.
She said, “There you go. With me along, we can pass for a loving couple, you’ll be less likely to be mistaken for a weirdo snooper.”
“Guess I won’t need my greasy raincoat and my Groucho nose.”
“The nose could be cute but definitely no coat.”
She propelled me toward the door. Blanche awoke, stretched, yawned, flexed her ears, then bulldog-bounced after us.
“You’re sure you want to do this? It’ll probably end up a whole lot of nothing.”
“Cheer up,” said Robin. “It’ll be fun. Or at least different.”
“Ann and Andy, huh?”
“I was thinking Nick and Nora.”
“We taking Asta along?”
She thought about that. “No, she bores easily.”
We reached Portico Place shortly before one p.m. Crows squawked and squirrels raced up trees but no sign of human habitation, which is routine for any high-end L.A. neighborhood. The same vantage spot was available but I parked south of the house and farther away to avoid a pattern.
Oblique view but good enough to make out the BMW and the Lexus in the cobbled court.
Robin said, “Nice place. For one of those.”
“McMansions?”
“No, it’s better than a McMansion. Nice proportions. But new trying to fake old never really works, does it? Still, this one’s a valiant try.”
She handed me one of the sandwiches she’d prepared.
Roast beef on rye, horseradish-flavored mustard, wrapped precisely in foil. Potato chips, pickle slices, sweating cans of soda. Everything packed in a mini-cooler.
“This is way too civilized,” I said.
“What does Milo eat?”
“Burritos are a favorite but anything quick and massive and oily.”
“Well,” she said, “why not kick it up a bit, class-wise? Even when doing something uncivilized.”
“What’s uncivilized about watching?”
“We’re not watching, we’re hunting, angel. Praying for someone to end up helpless and thrashing in a snap- jaw trap.”
“That bother you?”
“Not at all.”
We finished the food and the drinks, sat another twenty-three minutes before the gates swung open.
