Robin and I continued to peruse but let our eyes drift.
Dr. Franklin Suss, bald head glowing, wearing a slate-blue Nat Nast shirt embroidered with billiard balls, cream linen pants, and brown calfskin loafers, kissed the woman wearing the black top, then her friend.
Then he walked to his brother and both men embarked on a garrulous ritual of hugs, double-cheek kisses, more hugs, back pats, power shakes.
Red Top said, “Enough, you two, I’m gonna get jealous.”
Black Top said, “Or we’ll think you guys are
Frank and Phil kissed again. Frank wiggled his hips in a parody of girlishness.
Everyone laughed.
Frank slid into the booth next to Red Top.
His arm snaked around her shoulder with the ease of habit. Phil’s arm did the same for Black Top.
Phil uncovered the second iced tea and slid it over to Frank.
Frank high-fived air, raised the glass. “Thank you, bro.”
Phil did the same with his tea. “Bro.”
They stretched in front of the women and clinked.
Red Top said, “Here we go again. Boys, pay attention: There are beautiful, sexy women here.”
“Brotherly love beats that,” said Black Top, pouting.
Frank said, “Brotherly love. Guess we should live in Philadelphia.”
Red said, “Huh?”
She turned to Black, who shrugged. “What do you mean, Frankie?”
Phil said, “Forget it, Lori, let’s order.”
“Is it some kind of joke? Philadelphia’s like nowhere.”
“Ever been there?”
“No, but there’s no beach.”
Phil said, “Now you’re a geography expert.”
Frank snickered.
Black said, “C’mon, Frankie. What’s the joke?”
Frank did a slow eye roll. “It was a bad joke, baby. So what’re we having?”
Red said, “Why would you tell a bad one?”
Frank’s face tightened. “I didn’t know it was bad until I said it.” Speaking slowly, as if to a dull child.
Red said, “Oh. Okay.”
Phil said, “Think of it this way: When you guys put on the wrong bikini it takes you by surprise, right? It looks good on the rack, but then you find out it doesn’t work on the bod.”
Lori pouted. “Everything’s right on
Her friend did the same. Then she brightened. “Oh,” she said, “I get it: Philly from Philadelphia.”
Titters.
Black said, “But Frankie from Philadelphia doesn’t fit.”
Dr. Frank Suss said, “There you go, always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”
Puzzled looks.
Phil Suss said, “Enough of this bullshit. You guys are the hottest thing on the planet and Frankie and I dig you and I’m hungry.”
hil, Frank, Lori, and the woman finally identified as Divana punctuated their lunch with frequent kisses, cheek strokes, and some not-so-subtle under-table gropes.
The couples paired off loosely: Frank with Divana, Phil with Lori. But I remembered the ass-patting back on Alhama Drive and doubted it was as simple as that.
Robin and I picked our way through a couple of salads and tried to look casual. As the meal wore on, her smile began to look like a decal.
But she was relaxed as we left Satori moments after the foursome departed.
Brothers in the middle, arms around each other’s waists, laughing. Mute women flanking.
Phil and Lori got into the BMW. Frank ushered Divana into a black Cadillac XTS.
I said, “Any suggestions if they split up?”
Robin said, “I’d stick with Phil. It was his wife whose name got used.”
Girl detective.
Both cars edged out of the lot. North on the canyon would take them back to the Valley, south, past the spots where Steven Muhrmann and Tiara Grundy had died.
The Suss twins chose neither, staying on Old Topanga and proceeding deeper into the wooded, quiet corners of the canyon.
Two brothers, two cars.
Two brothers, two guns?
Easy nonverbal twin communication could lead to a perfect two-man firing squad. The synchronized wounds that had puzzled Clarice Jernigan.
Ready, aim.
They’d probably done it a thousand times as kids, using peashooters, toy pistols, water guns.
Adulthood changed the game, as the big thrill became aping Daddy’s approach to women.
Taking on Daddy’s Sweetie as a cruel inheritance.
A foolish, naive girl who had no idea she was chattel, easily disposed of like any other liquid asset.
Phil’s white car slowed.
Frank’s black car did the same.
The surroundings changed to tucked-away houses, many of them trailers and shacks and do-it-yourself follies, set well off the road. The brothers turned onto an unmarked dirt strip that angled acutely. A rural mailbox tilted on a stake. Shaggy cedars and drought-loving oaks drooped over the passage.
Both cars were soon enveloped in darkness, then gone.
I drove another twenty yards, kept the Seville running, got out.
“Where are you going?”
“For a look.”
“I’ll go, too.”
“Inefficient,” I said. “Take the wheel and keep the motor on. If I need to make a run for it, you’ll be ready.”
“A run? How about neither of us goes and we just give Milo the address.”
“I’ll just check for a second, it’s no big deal.”
She held my wrist. “Too much testosterone, baby, and now we know what they’re capable of.”
“Testosterone will work in my favor. They’re thinking fun, not felony.”
“You can’t be sure of anything, Alex.”
I removed her hand, left her there.
Dried-up stick-on address numerals curled on the side of the mailbox. I memorized them, checked the box. Empty.
Thirty feet in, the dirt driveway S-curved, explaining the cars’ quick disappearance.
Pressing to the left side, so I’d be facing any surprise oncoming vehicle, I continued, sinking into leaf litter that squished and hissed. Stopped to listen. Heard nothing.
A few more yards: laughter.
Fun, the best distraction of all.
As the driveway snaked to an end, afternoon sunlight flashed hot and white.
I inched forward. Stopped twenty feet back from a tamped-soil clearing, half an acre or so in diameter.
Aqua flash of swimming pool. Behind the pool, the log-sided flanks of a low, wide house. Behind the house,
