Female Caucasian, five seven, 121, a DOB on her license that made her thirty-two.
A genuine birth date on a twenty-one-year-old LAPD arrest form made her thirty-nine.
Only one arrest in L.A. County, but a sealed juvenile record implied priors. The solicitation for prostitution charge was nothing glamorous; she’d worked Sunset and Highland as an eighteen-year-old runaway, got nabbed her first week, was sentenced to a group home and counseling. A year later, she’d been picked up on a similar charge in Vegas but since then had stayed out of legal trouble.
The six-figure income she’d claimed was real but limited to the five years she’d modeled in Japan, buttressed by residuals from a few TV commercials filmed there and partial ownership of an apartment building in Laughlin, Nevada. Since her move back to L.A., a yearly gift of twenty-six thousand dollars from unnamed sources filled in some blanks. Gift tax was exempt for only half that amount, so most likely a pair of donors.
This morning her feet were bare, toenail polish chipped, face stripped of makeup. A reflexive smile corroded when she saw Milo’s badge.
“Morning,” he said.
“I thought it was.” She looked at her wrist. Pale band on a tan arm where her watch usually sat.
“Eight fourteen,” said Milo. “Hope it’s not too early, Ms. Lennox.”
She worked up another smile, produced uneasy dismay. “Actually, it kinda is.”
White teeth were flawless. Her breath was stale.
“Is Divana awake yet?”
“Just,” said Lori Lennox. “What’s going on?”
“Can we come in?”
“The police? It’s a little …”
“No big deal, Lori, all we want to do is talk.”
“About?”
“Phil and Frank Suss.”
Slate-blue eyes shuttled back and forth like ducks in a shooting gallery. Wanting to lie but insufficient smarts to come up with a good one. “Okay.”
“You know them.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why we want to come in,” said Milo.
“Are they okay?”
“They’re great, Lori. Coupla happy campers.” He pointed to the pale strip of arm. “Nice tan. I’m betting real rays, not bronzer.”
“Yeah, it’s natural.”
“Not a tanning bed, either,” he said. “More like a swimming pool.”
She relaxed. “I wish.”
“I’m not saying you own a pool, Lori. You’ve got something better. Access but no maintenance bills.”
“Huh?”
“Old Topanga Road.”
Her eyes fluttered.
Milo pulled out his pad, searched, read off the address. He knew it by heart but using paper makes it official, can kick up the intimidation level.
Lori Lennox began playing with the sash of her robe.
Milo said, “Three p.m. yesterday.”
No answer.
“Black bikini. Not that it stayed on very long.”
She blushed from sternum to brow. I liked her for that. “You have no right.”
“To what?”
“Spy.”
Milo thumbed his chest. “Us? God forbid. Then again, it could be worse. So if you don’t want to talk—”
“What do you mean worse?”
“Tara Sly.”
“Who?”
“Cute little blond girl.”
“Lots of those,” said Lori Lennox.
“Now there’s one less.” He showed her his card. Tapped a finger next to
She gulped. Made a third attempt at smiling, stopped midway, and stood back to let us in.
The house was bland, bright, kept up meticulously. Glass tabletops gleamed, cushions were plump, fresh flowers overflowed vases, bad poster art hung strategically. The nugget of garden on the other side of sliding glass doors was overplanted but green and glowing. Oral Marshbarger would be pleased.
Lori said, “I’ll go get her,” and returned wearing a baggy beige blouse, faded nonskinny jeans, flat sandals. She’d taken down her hair, put on hoop earrings. Divana Layne nee Madeleine Ann Gibson trudged behind her in a gray
No prostitution record for her but her young adulthood had been marked by a trio of shoplifting episodes and she’d ended up at the same group home as Lori.
Milo said, “Hi, ladies. Please sit.”
“We’re okay,” said Divana. No reason to laugh but she did. Same throaty glee I’d heard from the deep end of the pool.
Milo said, “Please sit anyway. So I don’t have to stretch my neck.”
The women looked at each other. Settled on the edges of blue-velvet chairs, ankles crossed demurely.
Milo said, “So who wants to start?”
“Start what?” said Divana.
“The saga of Phil and Frank.”
Lori said, “We’re friends, that’s all.”
“Swimming buddies,” said Milo.
“Is it against the law?”
“To what?”
“Do a married guy,” said Divana. “If you think that, maybe you should live in Arabia or something.”
Lori said, “It’s a good deal. Keeps everyone happy.”
“Twenty-six grand a year keeps you happy.”
Divana twisted a ring. Small stone, maybe real.
She said, “We keep the peace, you guys should thank us.”
“Keep the peace and pay your rent,” said Milo. “Not that fifty-two grand a year means much to guys like Phil and Frank.”
Both women bristled.
Divana said, “Why are you here?”
“Steve Muhrmann.”
Blank looks.
“And, of course, Tara Sly.”
Divana’s nose wrinkled. Baffled.
Lori said, “Who are these people? You’re weirding us out.”
“Maybe you know Tara by her real name. Tiara Grundy.”
Divana giggled. Lori turned to her.
Milo said, “Something funny?”
Divana said, “Grundy sounds like an old lady. Like from a movie or something.”
“Unfortunately for Tiara, she’ll never get old.”
“Bummer,” said Divana. “What does that have to do with us?”
Milo showed them Tiara’s SukRose bikini shot.
Divana’s smugness vaporized. Lori said, “Oh. Omigod.”
