Mystery

complained?”

“The house appears to be in fine shape.”

“Did they plant flowers?” said Marshbarger. “They promised to, that was part of the deal.”

“The garden looks great, sir.”

“I assure you, if there was some way I could’ve screened them, I would’ve, but what were my options?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“There was exigency,” he said. “I bought the place, figuring I’d live there myself. Three months later the firm transferred me here. I asked for compensation until I could rent the house at fair market and the firm agreed but the unspoken message was Do it quick, Marsh. Those bimbos were the first to show up with real money and good credit. Which makes total sense, I suppose, if they were fronting for some porn outfit. That industry grosses more than Hollywood, right? And lots of it never gets reported—is that what this is about? Some tax thing, you figured I’d know about it because I’m a CPA? Sorry, no, nothing. And that’s all I want to say.”

“Mr. Marshbarger, there’s no tax issue and your tenants aren’t suspects in anything. Including pornography.”

“What, then?”

“They’ve associated with what we call persons of interest.”

“Organized crime? Oh, Jesus—”

“No, sir, you’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about in that regard. I just need some information.”

“What kind of information?”

“Basic facts for verification. What names did they use on the lease application?”

“Apparently their real ones,” said Marshbarger. “That’s what the credit check company said, believe it or not.”

“You had your doubts.”

“Divana Layne? Lori Lennox? Those sound real to you?”

That from Oral Marshbarger.

I said, “What job history did they list?”

“Models. They said they worked mostly in Japan.” Snicker. “Those Asians go for the voluptuous ones, don’t they?”

“And they both had good credit histories.”

“A-plus. Six-figure incomes for both of them. Maybe the yen–dollar exchange worked in their favor.” He chortled again. “Models. Maybe for Hustler but not for one of those fashion rags my ex used to read, with those stick figures.”

“Who were their previous landlords?”

“Real estate companies in Tokyo, they showed me letters of reference. In Japanese but they also had translations. Kind of hilarious, actually. Like those manuals you get with cameras and stereos?”

“You verified.”

“I made a couple of long-distance calls, got taped messages in Japanese, left my own message, never heard back. I didn’t have time to be doing all that international calling, I needed to move, they had the money. And they haven’t missed a month. In fact, if they’re taking care of the place and there’s no criminal activity, maybe I’m glad I rented to them. Why’s this information so important, anyway?”

“How’d the girls find you?”

“Craigslist,” said Marshbarger. “I tried ads, agencies, all that did was attract losers. And like I said there was a time element, so I did what everyone does nowadays. I didn’t expect much. But they showed up with the goods. Financially speaking.”

“Anything else you want to tell me about them?”

“So I shouldn’t evict them.”

“No grounds I can see, Mr. Marshbarger. You shouldn’t contact them, period. They haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Porn’s okay?”

“There’s no evidence they’re into porn.”

A beat. “So why are we talking?”

“They know some people who’ve come to the department’s attention. Speaking of which, let me run some names by you. Steven Muhrmann.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Tara Sly?”

“Now, that’s a porn name,” he said. “Or a stripper name—is that what they are? Pole-riders?”

“Markham Suss.”

“Nope.”

“Anyone named Suss?”

“Nope.”

“What’s the rent on the house?”

“I wanted two thousand, we settled for sixteen hundred plus they handle all the utilities and gardening. And plant flowers and keep them up nice. The place looks okay?”

“Charming. Do they pay by check?”

“Auto-pay account through Wachovia,” said Marshbarger. “They never miss. So it’s okay for them to stay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay … what did you say your name was? Just in case things do get complicated.”

“Phone West L.A. Division and ask for Lieutenant Sturgis.”

I gave him the number.

He said, “That’s not you.”

“Lieutenant Sturgis is the boss.”

“Sure, but—”

I hung up, silently thanking Robin for insisting we get a blocked number. Left a detailed message at Milo’s private cell, plugged in divana layne lori lennox lingerie.

The computer spit out five Japanese websites and two from Bangkok. Canned translations turned the text into malaprop-laden gibberish that elevated camera manuals to Shakespeare.

Not a problem; the images said it all.

Page after page from Asian trade shows. Divana, Lori, and other similarly endowed beauties strutting Tokyo runways in various combinations of satin, lace, rayon, fishnet.

Name recognition for underwear models. They’d achieved minor celebrity in a culture with a genius for micro-delineation and exquisite refinement.

The most recent show was three years ago. Both women were old enough to have begun modeling over a decade ago.

That gave them plenty of opportunity to hook up with any combination of Suss males. A few years on the other side of the planet, then back to L.A. where they’d reunited with the twins.

So far they’d made the grade.

Tara’s fate said they’d better hope that continued.

The house on Old Topanga Road was owned by one Olna Fremont.

I turned the name into a keyword. The information highway spread out before me.

I sped. Slowed to rubberneck.

Screeched to a halt.

ori Lennox nee Lorraine Lee Bumpers came to her door, hair in curlers, wrapped in a white terry bathrobe lettered Hilton on the breast pocket.