Offices in Newport Beach and Brentwood. A company sufficiently capitalized to offer free services. And what did personal-space research have to do with battered women?
It added up to money.
Some college profs are independently wealthy.
Simon de Maartens's hostility made me wonder about his financial situation. Time to learn more about both Dr. D's.
The Ovid files at the U's research library spit out forty-five publications for de Maartens, all on the psychophysics of vision in primates. He was thirty-three, and there were no lapses in his professional life: B.A. at twenty from Leiden University in the Netherlands, Oxford doctorate in experimental psychology at twenty-five, two-year postdoc at Harvard, where he served a three-year lectureship, then assistant professorship at the U and fast-track promotion two years later to associate. The usual society memberships and more than a handful of academic honors, including a grant and a service award from the Braille Institute—perhaps his chimp research offered human possibilities.
Benjamin J. Dugger had been less prolific: five articles, none more recent than two years ago, all in the same dry vein. The last three had been coauthored with Barbara Buffington and Monique Lindquist, the first two had been solos—summaries of Dugger's first-year graduate research study and dissertation: measuring personal space in hooded rats subjected to varying degrees of social deprivation. The dates allowed me to fix his graduate studies as beginning four years prior to receiving his Ph.D. That still left a six-year question mark between Clark University and Chicago.
Having nowhere else to go, I phoned both institutions and verified his degrees with the alumni associations. So far, nothing suspicious. Why should there be? I was groping.
Thinking about Lauren's body tumbling out of the dumpster, I calledChicago again and asked for Professor Buffington or Lindquist. The former was on sabbatical in Hawaii, but a woman answered Lindquist's extension with a high, bright "This is Monique."
"Professor, this is Mr. Lew Holmes from Western News Service. We've come across an article about some work you and your colleagues did on personal space and were wondering if one of you could talk to us about a piece we're putting together on dating in the nineties."
"I don't think so," she said, laughing. "That research was pretty esoteric—lots of math, nothing about dating. Where'd you come across it?"
"It came up on our database," I said. "So you don't think you can help?"
"I think if you wrote about our research your readers would fall asleep."
"Oh. Too bad. Sorry for bothering you, and I guess I won't follow up on Professor Dugger."
"Professor— Oh, Ben. No, I doubt he could help you either."
"Double too-bad," I said. "We're a California-based news service, and our clients are always looking for local sources to quote. With Professor Dugger being out here, it would've worked out great."
"I don't want to speak for Ben, but I doubt he could illuminate you either."
"Well, let me ask you this, Professor, are you doing any other research that might be of interest to our clients?"
"No, sorry. But I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone wanting the attention. Especially out in California. Bye—"
"What about Professor Dugger? Would he be doing anything else that might be interesting?"
"As in sex? Is that what you're getting at?"
"Well," I said, "you know how it is."
"I sure do. In terms of Ben Dugger's recent work, I have no idea what he's been up to. It's been a while since we worked together."
Matter-of-fact, no rancor.
"Maybe I'll give him a shot," I said. "I've got him in Newport Beach and Brentwood." I read off the addresses. "This firm he's got— Motivational Associates. What are they into, advertising?"
"Market research." She laughed again. "Something funny, Professor?"
"You're out for the sex angle—like every other reporter. If that's what you want from Ben Dugger, don't count on it." "Why's that, Professor?" "That's ... all I have to say. Bye, now."
"Some kind of hang-up?" said Milo. "Sounds more like he's a prude."
"There's something there," I said.
"She didn't imply anything nasty."
"No," I admitted. "She was lighthearted. Like it was some kind of in-joke."
"So maybe the guy's a Catholic priest or something."
"That wasn't in his bio."
He grunted over the phone. It was nearly noon. He'd taken two hours to return my call. Andrew Salander had verified that Lauren had owned a Toshiba laptop. After that Milo'd been tied up at the morgue, watching Lauren's autopsy. The coroner had found no evidence of sexual assault— of any recent intercourse. No illness, surgery, scarring, or drug use. The preliminary finding was that the first bullet fired into Lauren's brain stem—a 9 mm—had shut off her life functions nearly instantly. Until that second, a healthy girl.
"So she probably didn't suffer," he said. "I called her mom and told her she definitely didn't. Woman sounds as if she's been hollowed out and left to dry. . . . So de Maartens is an uppity putz and Dugger doesn't like to talk about sex."
"Dugger may also have money." I gave him the logic on that.
"If I had to choose, I'd say press the Dutch guy 'cause he got hostile. If you're up to that, fine."
"If I show up at his door, he'll slam it. I told him the police would probably be stopping by."
"Promises, promises. I'll try to get to it eventually. So far, no record of any cab or limo making a pickup in the vicinity of Lauren's apartment. Her broker in Seattle knows her only as a voice over the phone. She cold-called him a few years ago, said she had money to invest. Which is a switch, usually it's the salesmen who call, so needless to say he didn't argue. He said Lauren did her homework about the market, knew whatshe wanted but was willing to listen to advice. Overall impression: smart. He was surprised to learn she was only twenty-five, figured her for a good ten years older."
"What did he say she wanted?"
"Blue-chip funds, and she was patient enough to hold. He figured her for a high-income lawyer or some other executive type. I put two uniforms on the door-to-door, a couple of people think they remember her vaguely from the neighborhood—jogging, driving around in her convertible—but no one saw her getting picked up. Not the day she disappeared or any other time. I got hold of six months' worth of phone records. She actually used the horn very little. Talked to her mom every couple of weeks—the last call was two days before she disappeared. Nothing to Lyle—no surprise. The only things that did look interesting were five calls over the last two months to the same number in Malibu. Turns out to be a pay phone in Point Dume."
"Lauren told Salander she went to Malibu for rest and recreation. Is the phone near a motel?"
"No. Shopping center at Kanan-Dume Road."
"Have you found any cell phone account for her, or an answering service?"
"Not so far."
"Don't you find that surprising, if she was making dates?"
Pause. "A bit."
"Unless," I said, "she didn't need a service because she wasn't casting her net. Had one client who paid all the bills. Maybe someone who lives in Malibu, doesn't want wifey-poo to hear Lauren's call, so he uses the pay phone."
"Fifty grand plus from one John? One helluva habit."
"Lots of passion," I said. "When those kinds of things go bad, they go very bad."
"I'll drive there today, see what kinds of shops are nearby—maybe someone noticed something. Maybe I'll drop in on de Maartens on the way back. Where's he live?"
"Don't know, but his number's a 310."
"I'll get it. Thanks for all the work, Alex."
"However useless."
"Hey," he said, "you can never tell what'll pan out." Lying through his teeth. What else are friends for?
Just after one P.M. I got in the Seville and drove to Motivational Associates' Brentwood office.
The building was one of a group of towers that had sprouted on Wilshire during one of the booms. Four stories for parking, eight for offices, zebra-striped walls of white aluminum and black glass. The packing carton a serious building came in.
I walked past an empty guard desk to the directory. No pattern to the tenant mix: computer consultants, insurance agents, lawyers, an occupational therapy brokerage, a few psychotherapists. Motivational Associates was Suite 717, a third of the way down a gray-walled, plum-carpeted hallway. Black doors with tiny chrome signage. Bugger's was set between
E-WISDOM and THE LAW OFFICES OF NORMAN AND REBBIRQUE
No mail at or under the door, and when I peeked through the slot I saw an unlit waiting room, still no pile of letters. Either someone had collected or the post went to another location. I didn't knock—the last thing I wanted was to have to explain myself.
I'd returned to the elevator, was waiting for it to ascend from the lobby when the door to 717 swung open and a man came out carrying a scuffed brown leather briefcase. Locking the dead bolt, he made his way in my direction, swinging his keys.
Thirty-five to forty, five-ten, one sixty. Dark hair trimmed close to the sides, thinning on top, freckled bald spot at the crown. He wore a shapeless oatmeal herringbone sport coat with brown-leather elbow patches, an open-necked white button-down shirt with blue stripes, faded beige cords that would've suited Milo had they been five waist sizes larger, and brown loafers with toes worn to gray gristle. A wadded selection from the morning's Times was stuffed into a pocket of the jacket, weighing the garment down on one side and making him appear lopsided. Three black plastic pens were clipped to his handkerchief pocket. Tortoiseshell eyeglasses dangled from a chain around his neck.
He arrived at the lift just as the door opened, waited for me to step in, then followed and stood near the door. Placing the briefcase on the floor, he punched in P3 and said, "How about you?" in a pleasant voice.
Straight nose, straight mouth, smallish ears, firm chin. Nothing out of proportion, but something—a blurring of contours—kept it just shy of handsome. The lapel of his sportcoat was fuzzed where it met his shirt. Two white threads had come loose from his shirt collar.
I said, "Same, thanks."
He turned, offering a view of his bald spot. I noticed a worn gold monogram above the clasp of the case. BJD. As we descended he began whistling, and his hands grew active—fingers drumming, tapping, stretching, curling. A shaving nick bottomed his right earlobe. Another cut flecked his jawline. He gave off the smell of soap and water.
He stopped whistling. Said, "Sorry."
"No problem."
"They used to play Muzak. Someone must've complained."
"People tend to do that."
"They do, indeed."
No further exchange until we reached P3 and I hung back as he stepped out into the parking area. As he headed briskly toward a nearby aisle, I was watching from behind a concrete pillar.
His car was a white Volvo sedan, plain-wrap model, several years old. No alarm click, and he'd left the door unlocked. Tossing the briefcase across the seat, he slid in, started up, backed out blowing chalky smoke. I ran up the three flights to the lobby, was heading for the Seville when I saw him pull onto Wilshire, going west.
Toward the beach? Malibu?
He was ten blocks ahead of me, and it took several traffic violations for me to catch up. I stayed two car lengths behind in the neighboring lane and tried to watch him. He kept both hands on the wheel; his lips were moving and his head was bobbing. Either a hands-off cell phone or singing to himself. My guess was the latter: he looked utterly at peace.
He drove to Long's Drugstore in Santa Monica, stayed inside for ten minutes, emerged with a big bag of something, got back on Wilshire and drove to Broadway and Seventh, where he pulled up in front of a narrow, white-clapboard Victorian, once a three-story house, now THE PACIFIC FAITH APOSTOLIC CHURCH. One of the few old ones that had survived the Northridge quake. The white boards were freshly painted, and a crisp picket fence boxed off the church's yard. Sandboxes and swings and slides and monkey bars. Three dozen munchkins, mostly brown-skinned and dark-haired, scooted and jumped and shouted and squatted in the sand. Three young women wearing braided hair and long, pale dresses watched from the sidelines. A rainbow-lettered banner across the fence announced FAITH PRESCHOOL, SPRING REGISTRATION STILL OPEN.
Dr. Benjamin Dugger parked at the curb, walked through the picket gate, and entered the church. If he was burdened with sin, the bounce in his stride didn't say so. He remained inside for fifteen minutes, emerged minus the bag from the drugstore.
Back to Wilshire. His next stop was a fish-and-chips place near Fourteenth Street, where he came out with another bag, smaller and grease-spotted. Lunch was enjoyed on a bench at Christine Reed Park, behind the tennis courts, where I watched from the Seville as he shoved french fries and something breaded into his mouth, drank from a can of Coke, and shared leftovers with the pigeons. A quarter of an hour later he was back on Wilshire, heading east this time, staying in one lane, sticking to the speed limit.
He entered Westwood Village, parked in a pay lot on Gayley, and entered a multiplex theater. Two comedies, a spy thriller, a historical romance. Showtimes said he'd chosen either one of the comedies or the romance.
What a sinister fellow.
I drove home.
At three, deciding I should stick to what I knew, I phoned the Abbot house. The robot voice answered and, feeling grateful when neither Jane's nor Mel's broke in, I hung up.
At 4:43, Milo called. "The pay phone's in a gas station. Nearby are a gym, an insurance agency, and a cafe. No one remembers Lauren. The owner of the station doesn't recall any frequent callers. It's a busy place, lots of traffic, for him to notice someone they would Ve had to set up office in the booth. I also dropped in on a bunch of motels and showed Lauren's picture around. Zero. I'm back at my desk, figured I'd check out snippy Professor de Maartens. Who, as it turns out, lives in Venice. Want to tag along?"I debated whether to tell him I'd followed Benjamin Dugger. By now, the tail seemed ludicrous. No reason to share.