"No surprise," I said "The story said 'former president.' Irving's moved on to brighter prospects."
"How'd you find this out?"
I thought about telling him of my day at the beach. Said, "Hurtling through cyberspace. The M'Lady connection was cited in Anita Duke's wedding story. It makes me wonder. Irving married Anita two years ago, but they probably dated for a while before that—let's say six months to a year. That's part of the time period Lauren claimed to be working the Mart. I agree, modeling was a cover, she was hooking. But the garment-biz part of it might have been true. If Irving was one of her clients—a big-time regular, throwing around big money—his marrying megamillions would make that an embarrassing bit of biography. What if Lauren tried to profit from that—told Michelle, et cetera, et cetera, and Michelle did the same. Or someone thought she was going to. As in Gretchen Stengel. Who also knew Irving from the good old days and told him. And he had the problem taken care of."
Long silence. "So now you've got a new bad guy."
"Big bucks at stake—an executive type—would fit with the professional hit scenario. As well as leaving the bodies to be found. Warning off others. It would also explain the theft of Lauren's computer records. In addition to Anita's money, Irving's got a top job at Duke Enterprises, and he's part of a group that's developing Paradise Cove. Lots at stake. Any way to find out if his name comes up in Gretchen's case file?"
"And Dr. Dugger? No more sexy secrets?"
"I'm not abandoning him," I said. "Just suggesting an alternative. And even if Dugger wasn't directly involved in the murders, he could've set everything into motion, without intending to. By trying to get something going with Lauren—bringing her to the Duke estate. She and Irving came face-to-face—talk about a blast from the past—and she started leaning on Irving. That could explain Dugger's strong reaction when we told him about Lauren's death. He was surprised. But he's also aware of his role in it—however unintentional. Suspects Irving. He can't say a thing, because he doesn't want to expose his family. So he claims innocence, cooperates up to a point, starts sweating when you get too close to his personal life."
"All this from cyberspace. . . . And where does Shawna Yeager figure into this grand production?"
"That I don't know. Unless Irving had something going with her too."
"This guy gets around."
"Maybe I'm totally off base," I said, "but wouldn't a look at the Gretchen files be a place to start?"
"The Gretchen files," he said, "are a problem. The feds took over from the locals, they're the ones who prosecuted her, they orchestrated the plea bargain. Throughout the whole thing, no customers' names were ever exposed and, believe me, the papers tried to get hold of Gretchen's files. That was the whole point of the deal. Protecting Johns in high places. Gretchen kept her mouth shut in return for a short sentence. I'll call the U.S. attorney, but don't get your hopes up. First, though, I need to find Andy Salander. His rabbit really bugs me. . . ."
"When did he leave?"
"Middle of the night, no notice, a month's rent due, packed all his clothes, left the furniture behind. The landlord is not pleased and neither am I. Salander was the last person to see Lauren alive. With all due respect to your creative mind, wouldn't it be a peach if this comes down to a stinking little roommate thing?"
"You really see Salander overpowering, trussing, and shooting Lauren in the head, then dumping her in the trash?" I said. "Doing the same to Michelle and Lance and burning their bodies?"
"Alex, I've been doing this too long to be surprised by anything. For all we know Michelle and Lance were shot because of something totally unrelated to Lauren."
"And Jane?"
"Mel Abbot shot Jane, friend. That's the way it's going down, and I have nothing to say it shouldn't. What I do have is Salander cutting out after he gave his word that he wouldn't. I was just by The Cloisters. The manager said Salander didn't show up for work yesterday or today, didn't phone, which is a switch—he's always been reliable. Something's definitely not right."
"Maybe he's scared," I said. "Knows something he shouldn't. Jane Abbot's death just hit the news. Maybe Salander figured he could find himself in the same situation and panicked. Because he knows what Jane knew."
"What—Lauren has this big valuable secret and she tells everyone?"
"Lauren was a loner. And lonely. Salander made a point of telling me what a good listener he was. And perhaps Lauren didn't tell him everything, merely hinted around, or gave him a partial story. Now that people are dying, he's worried that's enough."
"Fine," he said. "Maybe. But if he knows something, that's all the more reason for me to go after him ASAP. The manager at the bar says he had an on-again, off-again boyfriend, and that's the lead I'm chasing."
"Could be on-again," I said. "The first time I met Salander, he was waiting for someone to show up, implied it was a former flame, some sort of reconciliation. Who's the boyfriend?"
"Some film agent who works for one of the big outfits. Manager thinks Andy said William Morris. He dropped in at The Cloisters infrequently, drank Singapore slings, schmoozed with Andy, not too friendly with anyone else. Last time was months ago, but I've got a description—forties, dark hair, slim, tiny little eyeglasses, Armani suits—and maybe a name. Manager thinks he heard Andy call this guy Jason or Justin. I'm heading over to Morris right now. Maybe they'll buy my screenplay."
"Didn't know you had one."
"Throw cash at me and I can write one in a couple of days, win an Oscar—have you seen the crap that gets on-screen?"
"What, cop against the odds?"
"Charming genius cop as sensitive soul and savior of the world."
I laughed. "If you dead-end in Beverly Hills, you might try Salander's parents. He had a snapshot of them in his room, taken in—"
"Yeah—Bloomington, Indiana. Called this morning. Salander's mother hasn't spoken with him in nearly a year. Seems Andy Senior has troubles with his only child's lifestyle, Junior left home a year shy of high school graduation, never returned to the Old Homestead. He sends Mommy a Christmas card and she mails him money that she saves from the grocery stash. When I hung up she was crying—I love my job. Anyway, thanks for the Irving info. Feel free to call with additional inspiration."
"Actually ..."
"What?"
"Try to stay calm," I said.
"If I could get calm, I could stay calm. What?"
"I've been traveling through more than cyberspace." I told him about my day at Paradise Cove, the time with Cheryl Duke, meeting Anita and Irving, catching sight of Black Suit in tennis garb.
"So you actually met the guy."
"Just for a few minutes."
Long silence.
"Kayaking?"
"It's good exercise."
"Alex," he said. Then he trailed off. More dead air. Finally: "Mr. Schmatte wears linen and the goombah plays tennis. Summer fun in the winter—maybe Joe Mafioso's another kind of pro. Brought in to improve the old guy's backhand."
"He's built more like a power lifter."
"Fine, fine, but lobbing balls across the net makes him even less likely to be some hoodoo hit man. If he was, they wouldn't put him up on home turf. Alex, I can't believe you actually took out a goddamn boat and did marine surveillance."
"No law against enjoying the great outdoors," I said. "Lucky I was there. The boy might've drowned."
An exaggerated sigh hissed through the receiver. "Myyyy heeero—so now Mommy's bonded with you. You going to date her?"
"Very funny."
"You took her number."
"What was my choice?"
"How about self-righteous indignation? You might've told me at the outset that you knew Irving from more than the Internet—"
"I was waiting for the right moment."
He laughed. "What's the use? Okay, so is there a reason, other than the garment link, that Irving twangs your antenna? What's he like in person?"
"He kowtows to his wife but likes to come across in charge. Styled hair, dresses like reruns of Miami Vice, tough-guy swagger—he impressed me as someone who wants to be seen as a player."
"If bad taste and phoniness were felonies, L.A. would be one big penitentiary," he said. "Okay, he's got poor fashion sense, that's why he bombed in the garment game. Give me something else—something ominous that I can work with before I go chasing around town."
"Can't," I admitted. "I'm just trying to connect the dots. There is one other issue that might or might not be relevant. Cheryl's pretty nervous about being judged a neglectful mother. And Irving suggested to me—a perfect stranger—that she was. I think he wants that information out there. I've done enough custody consults to develop a nose for impending conflict, and this one reeks of it. Rich families are the worst—enough funds to pay lawyers for too long, and it's never about the kids, it's about control. And money. In this case, big money. Cheryl said she and Duke split amicably, but that could be wishful thinking, or just a lie. Or taking the kids from her might not even be Duke's intent. The feeling I'm getting is that he's receded into the background. Hasn't thrown a party in nearly two years, Cheryl implied there wouldn't be any more. Duke's handing the corporate reins to Anita and, by extension, to Kent Irving. So maybe it's all part of Anita and Irving's power grab. Those two kids are heirs, two more slices of the pie. If Anita and Kent can gain custody of Baxter and Sage, they consolidate their grip on the empire. A power grab also fits the need to get rid of nuisances—like blackmailers who push too hard. I can see Irving hiring a hit man, maybe even being arrogant enough to put the hit man up at the estate. Because mobbing up is glamorous."
"Forget what I said about screenplays," he said. "You write it, I'll sell it."
"The other thing," I said, "is I was right about Dugger using his experiment to pick up women." I told him about Cheryl being a confederate in the intimacy study. Dugger wining and dining her, only to pass her along to Tony Duke.
"The experiment," he said. "Applied science. Dutiful son."
"Young blondes," I said. "Both father and son like young blondes. So, despite what Dugger claims, I'm not eliminating Shawna from whatever scenario turns out to be true."
"Sex, money—take your pick, huh? Quite an amalgam."
"I'm an equal opportunity theorizer. Lauren bought a weapon for self-protection, might've been carrying it the night she was murdered, but never used it. That would fit with her knowing the killer. Underestimating the threat. Lauren loved the money she got from hooking, but what really turned her on was the power. Dominance. If the killer was a John, or posing as one, she might have been deluded into thinking she was in charge. The killer dispatched her, dumped her, took her gun for future use. Setting up Jane's death. Using Lauren's gun on Jane, then planting it on Mel Abbot. A family gun, an obvious accident."
"Creative," he said. "Terrifyingly creative."
"Any major flaws to the logic?"
No answer.
I said, "It would sure be good to get a look at Jane's papers, see if she left behind anything provocative. What about Lyle Teague? He show up yet?"
"Suspect number one trillion?" he said. "No, I called the Castaic sheriffs and they promised to look for his truck. They haven't called me yet, so I assume he's still out there, hunting. Which is what I should be doing."
"I've still got those photos of Dugger and Black Suit."
"Oh yeah, those. Let me see how the time shakes out. I'll have my people call your people."
Forty minutes later he called. "Visited the Morris agency. Andy Salander's on-again is probably a guy named Justin LeMoyne. Fits the description, and he called in sick yesterday, canceled all his appointments. And guess what: He's your neighbor—lives right on Beverly Glen, maybe half a mile down. I'm on my way there now. Want to meet me and give me those photos? If Andy's there, you can observe my masterful interrogation, psych the lad out."
Robin would be sleeping for another half hour. I said, "Sure."
Justin LeMoyne's home was a petite, beautifully maintained white bungalow that had obviously once been the guesthouse of the Spanish colonial mansion on the neighboring property. A pair of Canary Island pines sentried the door, and wisteria vines twisted above the hand-painted tile address numerals. The front yard was planted with drought-tolerant specimens, obviously new. A single garage abutted the house. No car in the driveway.
Traffic on the Glen was a slow choke. I got there before Milo, parked and waited. No movement in or around the bungalow, but the same could be said for every house in the neighborhood. The only signs of life were the pained looks of the motorists caught in the crush, as they filed past miles of inanimate real estate. As if everyone were leaving L.A., in anticipation—or the wake—of the latest disaster.
Milo's unmarked finally appeared, spewing exhaust, bumping over the grass parkway bordering LeMoyne's driveway, and bounding over the curb. He drove up behind the Seville, exited while yanking the knot of his tie, and headed straight for the door. By the time I got there he was jabbing the bell. No answer. A hard knock elicited the same result.
"Hey," he said, eyeing the traffic. "Let's hear it for quality of life." His skin was gray around the edges, and his eyes seemed to be fighting to stay open.
I offered the envelope containing the Black Suit snaps. He stuffed them in his jacket pocket. Another bell jab. Nothing. "Let's try the neighbors."
At the mansion a black-uniformed, fair-haired maid with a lumpy face answered, and Milo asked her about Justin LeMoyne.
"Oh, heem," she said in a Slavic accent. The look of disdain was unmistakable.
"Problem neighbor, ma'am?"
"He ees, you know . . ." She proffered a limp wrist. "Flit-flit."
"Gay."
"Yah, homo."
"Does that create problems, Ms. . . ."
"Ovensky, Irina. You here, so dere must be problems." Big smile, gold incisor. "Vat did he do, awfficer? Something wit a keed?"
"Does he bring kids here?"