Mystery

forest.

The Suss brothers’ cars were parked carelessly in front of the pool, providing partial barriers.

Hums, thrums, laughter.

A male voice said, “Oh, yeah, baby.”

I made my way behind the Cadillac, gazed through both windows, was hampered by tinted glass.

I hazarded a look above the hood of the car.

Phil Suss sat on the rim of the pool, naked and tan, bulky muscles blunted by a coating of suet. Eyes shut, mouth agape as one of the women lay across the deck and tended to his lap. Across the water, at the shallow end, Frank Suss, pallid, thin but paunchy, embraced the other brunette. Her legs clasped his waist. The synchronized movement of their hips created a languid stroke never tried at the Olympics.

As I turned to leave, Phil pumped air with one fist. “Yes!”

Frank opened his eyes. Smiled dreamily. “Bro!”

“Bro!”

Both girls laughed. But it sounded rehearsed.

Robin rolled the Seville toward me and I got in. Before I could belt up, she was speeding away, passing Satori without a glance.

Hands clamped on the wheel, unsmiling.

“You okay?”

“Anything earthshaking?”

“Nope.”

“What, then?”

“What you’d expect.”

She frowned. “All of them together?”

“Separate but equal.”

“Right in front of each other. It’s almost incestuous. And those two hotties don’t have a clue what they’re dealing with.”

“Now they’ll have a chance to find out,” I said.

She put on speed, passed Steven Muhrmann’s death site. No reason for me to point it out to her. Same for where Tiara had lost her face.

The ride emphasized how close the two locations were to each other. Fast-action night of blood and surprise.

Robin said, “I wonder what that bumper sticker means. Has to be something lewd.”

It wasn’t.

A website on japanese bumper stickers translated the character as “peace” in a style of lettering called kanji.

Robin said, “Okay, time to get back to what I’m good at.”

lori divana combined with the Suss brothers’ names pulled up nothing.

I phoned Milo to give him the address on the log house’s mailbox.

Voice mail, again. Ditto at Moe Reed’s extension.

I tried Milo’s other acolyte, Detective I Sean Binchy.

“I think he’s downtown, Doc.”

“Must be a long meeting.”

Binchy said, “A lot of them are.”

“If you see him, have him give me a call.”

“Will do, Doc. Listen, could I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“My sister’s sister is thinking about going into psychology. Can she talk to you about it, one of these days?”

“Sure, Sean.”

“Thanks. I’ll give Loot your message.”

“Could you look up a couple of addresses to see who pays taxes on them?”

A beat. “Doc, all these new privacy regs, they’re really clamping down on personal use. Some guys think the brass even has spy programs on us, recording all our keystrokes.”

“The info’s not personal, Sean, it’s part of Milo’s case.”

“But he hasn’t officially authorized it, Doc. I don’t want to be a wienie, but …”

“I don’t want to put you in a spot,” I said. “But we’re not talking confidential information, I could go downtown and access the data myself.”

“That’s true, hmm,” he said. “We’re talking the face-murder?”

“Yup.”

“That poor girl … tell you what, I’ll look it up and leave it on his desk. Along with a note saying you suggested the search based on …”

“Something I observed an hour ago.”

“Okay, consider it done. And I’ll give Dorrie your number.”

I said, “Once it’s on his desk, Sean, would passing it along to me be a problem? Seeing as it’s right out in the open?”

Silence.

“It’ll save him time, Sean, I promise he won’t mind.”

“Oh, man,” he said. “Yeah, you’ve always been straight with me, Doc. What addresses are we talking about?”

he house on Alhama Drive was owned by one Oral Marshbarger.

The Web produced only a single person blessed with that name: an accountant at a firm in St. Louis.

Late to be calling over there, but I tried.

Voice mail coughed up a long list of extensions. “For Mr. Adams, dial 101. For Mr. Blalock, dial 102.”

I waited for the alphabet to glide by, punched 117.

A man answered, “Marshbarger.”

Misrepresenting yourself as a cop is a serious crime. Con-spieling while glossing over the details is hazy legal territory. It’s also an easy carney trick because most people pick up on buzzwords and don’t process details. Marshbarger, being a CPA, might mean he was the exception, but nothing ventured.

“Mr. Marshbarger, this is Alex Delaware working with the L.A. police on a case. Some question came up about a property you own in Woodland Hills on Alhama Drive.”

“Police? Don’t tell me they used it for that.”

“For what, sir?”

“Porn shoots, what else? When they showed up looking like that, all sweetness and … I guess you’d call it seductiveness—of course I was suspicious. I wanted to come right out and ask them if they were scouting for some porn outfit but I got worried there’d be some sort of sex-discrimination suit. Like would you ask us that if we were men? Nowadays everyone sues everyone for everything.”

I said, “When did their lease begin and what did they tell you about themselves?”

“So they did use it for that. Jesus.”

“You’re not in trouble, Mr. Marshbarger.”

“Why should I be in trouble? I’m the victim. The point is, it’s disgusting. And fraudulent, the house was clearly advertised as a personal residence. Did they trash the place, someone