Mystery

“Yup.”

“It didn’t bother them.”

“Not at all.”

Lori said, “Who killed her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“How’d she die?”

“She got her face blown off.”

Divana said, “With like dynamite?”

“With guns.”

“Oh, no,” said Lori.

“Yuck,” said Divana. Tougher timbre in her voice. But she was the first to water up. “Why would someone do that?”

“Once we know that, we’ll catch whoever did it. You’ll notice I said ‘guns.’ Plural.”

Lori said, “Two guys did her?”

“Looks that way.”

Divana’s eyes got huge. “You’re kidding—no, no way.” She squirmed in her chair. Recrossed her ankles. Looked away from her friend. “Actually,” she murmured.

Lori leaned toward her.

Divana gave a long, chest-heaving sigh. Two hair tosses.

“Divvy?” said Lori.

“It’s no big deal, Lore.”

“What?”

Milo said, “You know where they were that night, Divana.”

Nod.

“What, Div?”

“I know, okay?”

“That was the night you said you had to visit your mother.”

Divana’s smile was sickly.

Lori’s mouth dropped open. “You—oh, wow, I can’t believe—”

“It’s not my fault, Lore. They called.”

“I was here.”

Divana said, “I know, but …”

“But what?”

“It’s them, not me, Lore.”

“I was right here!”

“I’m sorry, okay? They didn’t want that, okay?”

“Didn’t want me?” Lori clutched her abdomen.

“It wasn’t like that, Lore. It wasn’t not you, it was … they wanted to try something different, okay? It’s no big deal, they still dig you, look at all the times since then—it was once, okay? Okay?”

Lori’s jaw worked.

Divana reached for Lori’s hand. Lori yanked it away.

“It’s not my fault, Lore. They wanted it, they asked for it. Like specific.”

“Just you, huh? They said that? Or you suggested it.”

“Why would I do that, it would just be more … they wanted to try it, okay? For something different. It’s. No. Big. Deal.”

Lori heaved her cola glass across the room. It landed on carpeting, bled brown, rolled still. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

“It’s no big deal, Lore.”

“Maybe not to a total slut.”

“I’m a slut? You’re the one made me watch when you—”

“That’s different! You were there, everything was honest. What you did was … was  … cheating!”

Divana crossed her arms. “I don’t see it that way.”

“Like hell you don’t.”

“Okay. I’m. Sorry. Okay?”

“It’s definitely not okay.” Lori stamped out of the room.

Divana looked at us. “Now see what you’ve done.”

Milo said, “Can you prove you were with Philip and Franklin Suss that night?”

“Why would I make it up and fuck up my thing with Lori? Yes, I can prove it. We checked into the Beverly Hilton at like eight, watched a porn, then another. Then … afterward we had room service, we didn’t get out of there until early the next morning. I couldn’t go home earlier because Lori thought I was at my mom’s and she lives in Oxnard and I always stay until morning. Frankie had to leave first, he had work, had this procedure, this laser whatever, he put on his doctor stuff—scrubs, white coat—and Phil made some crack about how I could be the patient. Frankie laughed, said that would be a lot more fun than burning out some old broad’s liver spots. We were all in Phil’s car, so we all left and drove Frankie to his office, it was still early, probably around seven thirty. We had the room until eleven so Phil … it’s not important.”

I said, “You and Phil went back for some private time.”

“Whatever. The main thing is they were with me.”

“Neither of them left the entire evening.”

Divana grinned. “Trust me, they were there. They were totally there.”

Lori never reappeared and Divana remained in her chair. Examining her pedicure as we exited the house.

When we were back in the car, Milo phoned the Hilton, verified the room and the payment with Philip Suss’s platinum card. Records from electronic keys said no one had left until seven forty-eight in the morning, with reentry half an hour later.

I said, “Talk about an ironclad alibi.”

Milo’s smile was wider than Divana’s. “Titanium-clad.”

“Bet that was more fun than your meeting downtown.”

“Death would be more fun than my meeting downtown. That was nirvana.”

We high-fived.

“Bro.”

“Bro!”

Next stop: a quarter hour east on the 101 to North Hollywood.

The old man lived in a calamine-pink bungalow just south of Victory Boulevard. Cutest house on the block. When we got there he was pruning a massive bird-of-paradise that nearly obscured his picture window. A back bent at birth lowered his stature so he needed a footstool to reach the middle of the plant.

I supposed he’d needed some kind of lift to work the bar at the Fauborg. All those years, I’d never thought about that.

When he saw us he put down his clippers.

“Can I help you?”

Teutonic accent. I’d never heard him speak.

Gustave.

I’d pulled a surname from an L.A. Magazine article on the city’s best mixologists.

Milo said, “Mr. Westfeldt, we could use some help.”

The old man listened to the request. “Sure, no problem.”