"Like you'd hit a nerve," I said.
"Exactly. She gave me the off look and said, 'Mindy, I would never date anyone my age. Give me an older guy any time, 'cause they know how to treat a woman.' And that's when it hit me: the way she was dressed. A suit—all that makeup. It's like she was trying to make herself look older, so I wondered. And that's what I told that pest from the Cub. Which is probably what you've got in there." Pointing to the pad. "But I don't know for sure," she added. "You didn't ask her?" said Milo.
"I tried— I can be nosy, I admit it. But like I said, Shawna was private. She just kind of blew me off, picked up her suitcase, and left."
"So older men know how to treat a woman," said Milo. "You think she meant financially?"
"That's the way I took it. 'Cause Shawna liked things. Talked about becoming a psychiatrist or a plastic surgeon, getting herself a big house in one of the Three B's—Brentwood, Bel Air, Beverly Hills—like she'd read about that in some magazine. I mean, she actually took the bus into Beverly Hills once, walked up and down Rodeo Drive—unsophisticated. Kind of adorable, really."
"Into stuff," said Milo.
"Clothes, cars—she said one day she'd drive a Ferrari."
"From being a plastic surgeon or marrying one?"
"Maybe both," said Mindy.
"She ever talk about any professors she really liked?" "What, you think it was a professor?" "They're the older men on campus." "No, she never said."
"Okay, thanks for your time," said Milo, flipping through his pad, then slipping it into his pocket. Mindy smiled, and her posture had just loosened when he said, "Oh, one other thing—and this'll stay as private as possible too. There was mention of some photos Shawna might've posed for, for Duke magazine—"
"Oh, please," snapped Mindy. "That stupid idiot—the weirdo from the
Cub."
"Weird, how?"
"Obsessive. Like a stalker. He wouldn't leave me alone. Kept dropping in at the dorm, doing his big reporter thing. The last straw was when he barged right past me, started poking around our stuff. The whole Duke thing came up because Steve had left some magazines around—Sports Illustrated, GQ. And, yes, some Playboys and Dukes too—you know guys. And the idiot has the nerve to start poking around in the stack and these loose pages fall out of the Duke and Green—the idiot—grabs them and says, 'Whoa, is this Shawna?' I grab them back and tell him to keep his filthy mitts off and his mind out of the gutter. And he gives me this knowing smile—this smirk—and he says, 'What's the matter, Mindy? Why shouldn't Shawna pose? God gave her the bod and the hair—' disgusting talk. That's when I threatened to scream and he left, but he kept hassling me, and I had to get Steve to warn him off. Maybe you should be looking at him."
"Did he know Shawna before she disappeared?" I said.
"No—I don't think so. I was just talking in the sense that he was weird. Anyway, that's where that Duke stupidity came from."
"So Shawna never posed."
"Of course not. Why would she do that?"
"Same reason any girl does. Money, fame—or maybe she'd met an older guy who was also a photographer."
"No," said Mindy, "no way. Shawna wanted to be a doctor, not a centerfold. That's not the kind of money and fame she wanted. None of us want that. It's demeaning."
"Shawna entered beauty contests," said Milo.
"And hated it—Miss Olive Oil, whatever. She told me she only did it for the prize money and because she figured it would look good on her U application. She wasn't that kind of girl."
"What kind is that?"
"A bimbo. She was smart." Another quick study of the ceiling. White knuckles around the gold pen. One hand let go and began tracing the outline of her narrow hip. Her face had turned salmon pink. Her eyes jumped around like pachinko balls. .
"Demeaning," she said.
Milo smiled at her. Let it ride.
21
As MINDY RETURNED to her office the corridor filled with people.
Milo said, "That Chinese food made me thirsty."
We rode a crowded elevator down to the med school cafeteria. Amid the clatter of trays and the odors of mass fodder, we bought Cokes and settled at a rear table. Behind us was a cloudy glass wall looking out to an atrium.
"So," he said. "Mindy."
"Not a terrific liar," I said. "Her complexion wouldn't cooperate, and she was squeezing that pen hard enough to break it. Especially when she talked about the photos. Adam Green said they were loose black-and-whites, not magazine pages. Mindy tried to make him out as some nut, but he seemed pretty credible to me. And Mindy's explanation makes no sense. Why would her boyfriend keep skin mags in her room? Green wondered if both Shawna and Mindy had followed up on a solicitation to pose. That would explain Mindy's nervousness."
He nodded. "Especially now that she's an old married woman."
"You didn't press her on it."
"I felt I'd gone as far with her as I could. For the time being. Even if Shawna did pose for nudies, there's no proof it was really a Duke gig, and not some con man with a business card. Fact is, I can't see Duke using some psycho photographer—too much at stake. And I can't exactly march into Tony's corporate headquarters and demand access to the photo archives."
His beeper went off. He read the number, cell-phoned, couldn't get a connection, and stepped outside the cafeteria. When he returned he said, "Guess who that was? Lyle Teague. Mommy doesn't call me, but Daddy does."
"What did he want?"
"Have I gotten anywhere, was there anything he could do? Forcing himself to be polite—you could just about see his hands clench through the phone lines. Then he slips in a question about Lauren's estate. Who's in charge, what's going to happen to her stuff, do I know who's handling her finances?"
"Oh, man."
He shook his head. "The vulture circles. When I told him I had no idea about any of that, he started to get testy. Poor Lauren, growing up with that. Sometimes I think your job's worse than mine."
He bought another Coke, emptied the can.
I said, "The one thing Mindy did confirm was Shawna's attraction to older men. That and a Duke angle—real or not—does provide a possible link between her and Lauren."
"Dugger," he said.
"Older man, rich, smart. A psychologist, no less. He fits Shawna's list. And talk about business cards—he's got paternity to back it up. For all we know he uses the magazine as a lure. Same for the intimacy study."
"Double life, huh? Mr. Clean by day, God knows what after hours?"
"Even by day he's strange," I said. "He has no current clients but keeps that lab going. Putting people in a strange little room and measuring how close they get to each other. Sounds more like voyeurism than science to me. And he was running ads prior to both Shawna's and Lauren's disappearances."
"His staff said Shawna had never been to Newport."
"So he destroyed records. Or met Shawna another way. Taking glam pictures, or he used some other premise. Mindy said Shawna got all dressed up for that weekend thing back home. She didn't buy the story, assumed the obvious: a date. Shawna was eighteen years old, hungry for the finer things, talked openly about digging older guys. It wouldn't take a genius to seize upon that and exploit it. And here's something else to think about: A year has passed between Shawna's disappearance and Lauren's death, but that doesn't mean there've been no victims in the interim."
"I checked for that," he said. "Right after you told me about Shawna. No obvious similars."
"Things happen," I said. "Stuff no one knows about. Especially when there's money involved."
He didn't answer. But he didn't argue.
We left the Med Center and walked to the no parking zone in front, where he'd left the unmarked. A parking ticket flapped under the windshield wipers. He crumpled it and tossed it in the car's backseat.
I said, "At the very least, it would be worth talking to Shawna's mother. She might be able to confirm or deny the weekend event in Santo Leon. Maybe she's still working at the Hilton."
"Someone else to make miserable," he said. "Yeah, yeah, let's blow by. After that, I'm heading out to Sherman Oaks to see Jane Abbot. Happy Mother's Day."
The Beverly Hilton sits at the western edge of Beverly Hills, just east of where the L.A. Country Club begins its dominance of Wilshire. The drive from Westwood was five minutes. The hotel's personnel office was cooperative but careful, and it took a while to find out that Agnes Yeager had left the Hilton's employ nine months ago.
"She didn't stay long," said Milo. "Problems?"
"No problems at all," said the assistant personnel manager, Esai Valparaiso, a small, friendly man in a tight brown suit. "We didn't dismiss her, she just left." Valparaiso's thumb flicked the edge of the folder. "Without notice, it says here."
"Any idea where she went?"
"No, sir, we don't follow them."
"And her job was to clean rooms."
"Yes, sir—she was a Housekeeper One."
"Could I have her most recent address?"
Valparaiso's hands spread atop his desk. "I hope she hasn't done anything that reflects upon the hotel."
"Not unless grief's bad for your image."
"Twelve hundred Cochran," Milo said, reading the slip as we headed for the car. "The place Mindy told us about." He plugged Agnes Yeager's name into DMV. "No wants, warrants, violations, but the address is back in Santo Leon."
"Maybe she gave up, moved back."
He got the area code for the farm town, called Information. "Not listed— Okay, let's have a look at Cochran."
The apartment was a six-unit dingbat just south of Olympic, on the east side of the street. White-stucco box faced with blue diamonds, remnants of sparkle paint glinting at the points, an open carport packed with older sedans, and a spotless concrete yard where there should've been lawn. No Yeager on the mailbox in front, and we were about to leave when an old black man leaning on a skinny chromium cane limped out of the front unit and waved.
His skin was the color of fresh eggplant, shaded to pitch where a wide-brimmed straw hat blocked the sun. He wore a faded blue work shirt buttoned to the neck, heavy brown twill trousers, and bubble-toed black work shoes with mirror-polished tips.
"Sir," said Milo.
Tip of the hat. "So who did what to who, Officers?" The cane slanted forward as he limped toward us. We met him midway to the carport.
Milo said, "We're looking for Agnes Yeager, sir."
Cracked gray lips canted downward. "Agnes? Is this about her daughter? Something finally happen with that?"
"You know about her daughter."
"Agnes talked about it," said the man. "To anyone who'd listen. I'm around all the time, so I ended up doing lots of listening." Bracing himself on the cane, he held out a horned hand, which Milo grasped. "William Perdue. I pay the mortgage on this place."
"Detective Sturgis, Mr. Perdue. Nice to meet you. You're talking about Mrs. Yeager in the past tense. When did she leave?"
Perdue worked his jaws and placed both hands on the cane. The straw of his hat brim had come loose near the band, and the sunlight poking through created a tiny lavender moon under his right cheekbone. "She didn't leave of her own will—she got sick. Nine or so months ago. Happened right here. My niece was down visiting me from Las Vegas. She's a traffic dispatcher for the police there, works the morning shift and tends to get up early, so she was out that morning just before sunrise. She heard it—a big noise from Agnes's apartment." Twisting slowly, Perdue pointed to the ground-floor unit across from his. "Agnes fell down, right inside her door. The door was open, and the newspaper was on the floor next to her. She went outside to fetch it, took a step back inside, and collapsed. Tariana said she was breathing, but not too strong. We called 911. They said it looked like a heart attack. She didn't smoke or drink—all that sadness was probably what caused it."
"Sadness over her daughter."
"It cut her to the bone." The cane wobbled, but Perdue managed to draw himself up.
"Any idea where she is, Mr. Perdue?"
"They took her right down the block—to MidTown Hospital. Tariana and I went to see her there. They had her in the intensive care and we couldn't get in. She didn't have insurance, so a while later they moved her to County Hospital for evaluation. That's a far trip for me, so I just called her. She wasn't in much of a state for talking, said they still didn't know what was wrong with her, but she'd probably be moving out, she'd send someone for her things, sorry about the rent—she owed a month. I said not to worry and don't be concerned about her things either— There wasn't much, she rented the place furnished. I had everything packed up—two suitcases—and Tariana brought them over to County Hospital. That's the last I heard from her. I know she was discharged from County, but no one would tell me where."
"Mr. Perdue," said Milo, "did she have any ideas about what happened to Shawna?"
"Sure did. She figured Shawna had been killed, probably by some man who lusted after her."
"She used that word, sir? 'Lusted'?"
Perdue pushed up the brim of his hat. "Yes, sir. She was a pretty religious woman, one of those with a strong sense of sin— Like I said, nodrinking or smoking, and once she got home from work, she sat and watched TV all night."
"Lusted," said Milo. "Did she tell you why she thought that?"
"It was just a feeling she had. Shawna meeting up with the wrong gent. She also said the police weren't doing much—no offense. That the officer in charge didn't communicate with her. One time I met her out back. We were both taking out the garbage and she was looking sad and I said what's wrong, and she just started bawling. That's when she told me. That Shawna had been a little difficult back home and that she'd tried her best but Shawna had a mind of her own."
"Wild in what way?"
"I didn't ask her, sir," said Perdue, sounding offended. "Why would I pour salt in her wounds?"
"Of course," said Milo. "But she didn't give you any details?"
"She just said she regretted the fact that Shawna's daddy died when Shawna was a baby. That Shawna never had any father, didn't know how to relate to men properly. Then she started crying some more, talking about how she'd done the best she could, how when Shawna announced she was moving down here to go to college it had scared her 'cause Shawna was all she had. But she let her go, because you couldn't say no to Shawna—she'd do what she pleased, like entering those beauty contests. Agnes never approved of that, but Shawna wouldn't be refused. Agnes figured you had to cut the apron strings. 'Now look what's happened, William,' she told me. Then she just cried some more. Pitiful."