He wore a white shirt under a gray crewneck, wide-wale green cords, brown moccasins with rawhide laces. The sweater showcased dandruff flecks. He'd shaved recently, but not precisely, and dark hairs hyphenated a raw-looking neck. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes were bloodshot and resigned, and when they met mine the pupils expanded.
I smiled. He turned away.
Milo said, "Easy ride. Scenic."
Dugger said, "Come on in," and admitted us into an off-white ante-room set up with cream canvas chairs and tables piled with magazines and hung with photos of the ocean in various color phases. An unmarked door at the back took us into a larger space, empty and silent and lined with a white door on each wall. The entrance to the left had been left open, revealing a very small, baby blue room furnished with a single bed draped by an Amish quilt and a plain pine nightstand. Stacks of books on the stand, along with a cup and saucer and a pair of glasses. Dugger continued toward a door to the right, but Milo paused to look into the blue room.
Dugger stopped and raised an eyebrow.
Milo pointed at the blue room. "You've got a bed in there. Sleep research?"
Dugger smiled. "Nothing that exotic. It's a genuine bedroom. Mine. I sleep here when it's too late to drive back to L.A. Actually, this was my home until I moved."
"The whole building?"
"Just this room."
"Kinda cozy."
"You mean small?" said Dugger, still smiling. "I don't need much. It sufficed." He crossed to a closed door and took out a key ring. Double dead bolts, a sign marked PRIVATE. He'd unlatched the first bolt when Milo said, "So how long ago did you move to L.A.?"
The keys lowered. Dugger took a deep breath. "All these questions about me. I thought this was about Lauren's employment."
"Just making conversation, Doctor. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable."
Dugger's lips curled upward, and his long, grave face managed a low, inaudible laugh. "No, it's fine. I moved a couple of years ago."
"Newport too quiet?"
Dugger glanced at me. Again I smiled, and again his eyes whipped away. "Not at all. I like Newport very much. But things came up, and I needed to be in L.A. more, so I opened the Brentwood office. It's not really in full gear yet. When it is, I may have to close this place down."
"Why's that?"
"Too much overhead. We're a small company."
"Ah," said Milo. "Things came up."
"Yes," said Dugger, releasing the second bolt. "Come, let's meet the staff."
On the other side of the door was a large, bright office pool partitioned into workstations. The usual off-white blandness, computers and printers and bracket bookshelves, potted plants and cute calendars, stuffed animals on shelves, the smell of lilac air freshener, Sheryl Crow from a cassette player over the watercooler.
Four women stood by the watercooler, all blandly attractive, ranging from mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Each wore a variant of sweater-and-pants, and it came across as a uniform. Dugger rattled off names: Jilda Thornburgh, Sally Patrino, Katie Weissenborn, Ann Buyler. The first three were research assistants. Buyler, the secretary, was already equipped with Lauren's time cards.
Milo flipped through them, began questioning the women. Yes, they remembered Lauren. No, they didn't know her well, had no idea who would have wanted to hurt her. The word punctual kept coming up. As they talked to Milo I searched for signs of evasiveness, saw only the discomfiture you'd expect from honest people confronted with murder. Ben Dugger had retreated to a cubicle dominated by a large, framed zoo association poster—koalas, cute and cuddly—and had turned his back to us.
Occasionally, one or more of the women looked his way, as if for support.
The women.
Surrounding himself with females.
Like father, like son?
Milo said, "Dr. Dugger? If you don't mind, Fd like to see that room— the one where Lauren worked."
Dugger turned. "Certainly."
As he walked toward us Milo said, "Oh yeah, one more thing, gang. Shawna Yeager. Anyone by that name ever work here?"
Four headshakes.
"You're sure?" said Milo. "Not as a subject or a confederate or anything else?"
Dugger said, "Who?" Milo repeated the name.
"No," said Dugger, eyes steady. "Doesn't ring a bell. Ann?"
Buyler said, "I'm sure, but I'll check." She pecked at her computer keyboard, called up a screen, manipulated the mouse. "No. No Shawna Yeager."
"Who is she?" Dugger asked Milo.
"A girl."
"So I gathered, Detective—"
"Let's see that room," said Milo. "Then I don't need to waste any more of your time."
20
BACK IN THE inner lobby Milo said, "So who're your clients?"
"You're not thinking of contacting them," said Dugger.
"Not unless the need arises."
"It won't." Dugger's voice had grown sharp.
"I'm sure you're right, sir."
"I am, Detective. But why do I get the feeling you still suspect me of something?"
"Not so, Doctor. Just—"
"Routine?" said Dugger. "I really wish you'd stop wasting your time here and go out looking for Lauren's killer."
"Any suggestions where?" said Milo.
"How would I know? I just know you're wasting your time here. And as far as clients go, in terms of the intimacy study there isn't one. It's a long-term interest of mine, goes back to graduate school. Our commercial projects tend to be much shorter—attitudinal focus groups, a specific product, that kind of thing. We work on a contractual basis, the timing's irregular. When we're in between projects, I focus back on the intimacy study."
"And now's one of those times," said Milo.
"Yes. And I'd appreciate it if you don't talk about clients to the staff. I've assured the women that their jobs are secure for the time being, but with the move ..."
"You may be revamping. So you're financing the intimacy study on your own?"
"There isn't much expense," said Dugger. "That woman you mentioned—Shawna. Was she murdered as well?"
"It's possible."
"My God. So this— You're thinking Lauren could've been part of something?"
"Part, sir?"
"A mass murderer—a serial killer, pardon the expression."
Milo jammed his hands into his pockets. "You don't like the term, Doctor?"
"It's a cliche," said Dugger. "The stuff of bad movies."
"Doesn't make it any less real when it happens though, does it, sir?"
"I suppose not— Do you really think that's what happened to Lauren? Some psychopathic creep?" Dugger's voice had risen, and he was standing taller. Assertive. Aggressive. Locking eyes with Milo.
Milo said, "Any tips in that regard—speaking as a psychologist?"
"No," said Dugger. "As I told you before, abnormal psychology's not my interest. Never has been."
"How come?"
"I prefer to study normal phenomena. This world— We need to emphasize what's right, not what's wrong. Now I'll show you my room."
Ten by ten, sand-colored walls, matching acoustical tile ceiling, the same kind of canvas chairs as in front, similar coffee tables but no magazines, no pictures. Dugger peeled back a corner of the carpet and exposed a series of stainless steel slats bolted to a cement floor. Soldered to some of the panels were wires and leads and what looked like integrated circuit boards.
"So they just sit here and you measure them?" said Milo.
"Initially, we tell them they're here for marketing research and they fill out attitude surveys. It takes ten minutes on average, and we leave them in here for twenty-five."
"Fifteen extra to get acquainted with the confederate."
"If they so choose," said Dugger.
"How many do?"
"I can't give you a precise number, but people do tend to be social." I watched his lips, listened to his words for import. Flat tone, no commentary implied or expressed. Maybe that said plenty.
Milo walked around the room, seemed to fill it with his bulk. Running his hand along a wall, he said, "No one-way mirrors?"
Dugger smiled. "Too obvious. Everyone watches TV."
"Set me straight on procedure, Doctor," said Milo. "How do you ensure that the subjects and the confederates don't meet after the experiment's over?"
"The subject leaves the room before the confederate. While the subject is debriefed, the confederate is moved to a private waiting area—behind the main office. And we monitor subjects' exits—walk them out, watch them drive away. There's simply no opportunity for subsequent contact."
"And there's no one—a loose cannon, a subject who resented being deceived—who might've wanted to harm Lauren?"
"No one," said Dugger. "We prescreen with a basic test of psycho-pathology."
"You don't like abnormal psychology but you recognize its worth."
Dugger twisted his collar. "As a tool."
Milo paced some more, scanned the ceiling. He stopped, pointed to a small metal disc in the corner. "Lens cover? You film them?"
"We're set up for video and audio recording. It's an option."
"Do you keep the tapes?"
"No, we transcribe the data numerically, then reuse the tapes," said Dugger.
"Nothing you'd want to hold on to?"
"It's a quantitative study. The main findings are the informational bits that transmit from the grids to our hard drives. As well as the confederates' observations."
"The confederates report back to you?"
"We interview them."
"About what?"
Dugger's lips tightened. "Qualitative data—variables that can't be numericized."
"Weird behavior?"
"No, no—nuances. Observational impressions. Measures the grids can't pick up."
"And you have no interest in abnormality." Dugger pressed himself against the wall. "I really don't see the need to discuss my research interests."
"The fact that Lauren was murdered—"
"Sickens me. Just knowing someone, who's been murdered sickens me, but—"
"How well did you know her, Doctor?"
Dugger stepped away from the wall. His eyes rose to the ceiling. "Look, I know what you're after, and you couldn't be further off the mark. I told you the first time, I never slept with Lauren. The idea is ridiculous and disgusting."
Milo's shoulders bunched like a bull's as he stepped closer to Dugger. Dugger's hands rose protectively, but Milo stopped several feet away. "Disgusting? A beautiful girl like Lauren? What's disgusting about sleeping with a beautiful girl?"
Once again sweat beaded Dugger's upper lip. "Nothing. I didn't mean it in that sense. She was—a lovely girl. It just wasn't like that. She was an employee. It's called professionalism."
"An employee with whom you had dinner, several times."
"Jesus," said Dugger. "If I'd have known that would set you off, I'd never have mentioned it. We talked about psychology, her career plans. That's it."
"Beautiful girls aren't your thing either?"
Dugger's hands lowered, curled into fists, opened slowly. He smiled, brushed dandruff from his sweater. "As a matter of fact they're not. Per se. I'm sure you're constructed differently, but external beauty means very little to me. Now please leave—I insist you leave."
"Well," said Milo, remaining in place. "If you insist."
"Oh, come on," said Dugger. "Why does this have to be adversarial? I realize it's an occupational hazard, but straighten your sights. Lauren deserves that."
His head dropped, and he covered his eyes. But I saw what he was trying to conceal. The glisten of tears.
Before we got back in the car we stopped at the Chinese restaurant, got some egg rolls and wontons to go, showed the proprietors Lauren's picture. "Yes," said the cook, in perfect English. "She came in here a few times. Chicken fried rice to go."
"Alone?"
"Always alone. Why?"
"Routine investigation," said Milo. "What about Dr. Dugger? From next door."
"No," said the cook. "All these years we've been neighbors, and he's never come in. Maybe he's a vegetarian."
Milo drove six blocks, pulled over, ate a roll in two bites, scattering crumbs and not bothering to brush them off. I got to work on a wonton. Greasy and satisfying.
"How'd he react when I popped Shawna's name? I didn't pick up anything striking."
"No reaction at all," I said. "Which is interesting in itself. Wouldn't you expect some puzzlement?"
"Or, as you remind me from time to time, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." He opened the envelope with the time cards that Ann Buyler had given him, and I read over his shoulder. Ten to twenty hours a week, the last pay period three weeks ago.
I said, "So either Dugger's concealing something or Lauren lied to Sa-lander about going to work during the break."
"Dugger concealing? What, you don't believe him about no hanky-panky with the help, no attraction to mere physical beauty?"
"He was sweating again."
"Noticed that. And did you see those tears when he went on about Lauren? What's with the guy?"
"He's holding back something."
Still eating, he pulled away from the curb, and I slapped his sleeve lightly. "Mean, bad policeman. You made him cry."
"Jesus, you've turned into a hard case," he said, finishing another roll and reaching for a third.
"That marketing company of his," I said. "There's a phony feel to it-He got really defensive when you asked him about clients, claimed to be between jobs. Maybe because he doesn't get many. Doesn't need to, because he's got funding from the Duke Foundation—overtly or otherwise. And that would've raised the blackmail stakes: What if the old man's getting tired of financing Junior's supposedly pure lifestyle? Especially with Ben distancing himself from all Tony Duke regards as holy. But still takes the money. What if Duke's looking for an excuse to cut Ben off? A nasty scandal would play nicely into that. More than Dugger's reputation could be at stake."
"Well, let's see if anyone around here remembers him doing anything scandalous. With Lauren or anyone else."
We spent the next two hours cruising Newport and showing Lauren's photo to restaurant servers and hosts, dropping Ben Dugger's name, getting absolutely nothing. More than once someone said, "A face like that I would've remembered." A kid in a seafood joint said, "If you find her, can I have her number?"