She’d mentioned joining LAPD to Milo. I had no idea there’d been follow-through. No reason for me to know; for nearly three months, there hadn’t been a murder where Milo felt I’d be useful.
As we passed the partygoers, a few looked up. The slumping posture and resigned eyes of passengers stranded in an airport.
I said, “How long ago did it happen?”
Milo said, “Victim was found at nine fifty, probably an hour before, give or take.” He glanced at the crowd. A couple of people looked over hopefully. As Milo continued to walk, their heads drooped.
“Meet my new alter ego: Officer Buzzkill.”
We continued to the end of the walkway, hooked left as if we were exiting through the front door, then he made another left and began trudging up a flight of grimy stairs.
I said, “Up to the VIP area?”
“Doesn’t look like it ever was one, nothing pimped-up about the second floor.”
“Maybe back in the day this place was a pioneer of income equality.”
* * *
—
He huffed and began climbing the stairs. At the top, a third left took us down a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway. Four doors, three of them closed.
A suited, gloved, and masked crime scene tech squatted near the open door. Beyond her was a small bathroom. Urinal and sink to the left, wooden stall straight ahead. The floor and walls were inlaid with yellowish tiles that had once been white.
Cramped, windowless space. A mélange of foul odors.
The stall door was propped open. A dark-haired young woman lay facing us on the floor. Late twenties to early thirties, wearing a blood-red, one-shoulder dress that had ridden up to mid-thigh. Pantyhose trailed up to what looked like red bicycle shorts.
She was diminished by death but still beautiful, with smooth skin and delicate features. Hints of cream in her skin where the terminal pallor hadn’t set in.
Luxuriant wavy black hair fanned the dirty floor as if arranged that way.
I asked if it had been.
Milo said, “Nope, the girl who found her thought she was sleeping, poked her, and she slid and ended up like this.”
The tech lowered her mask. “Hair falls that nicely, you’ve got a good cut.” Young, Asian, serious. “I’m not being mean, she hasn’t skimped. The dress is Fendi, the shoes are Manolo, and the hair is awesome.”
Milo said, “Thanks for the tip.”
I said, “The girl who found her, what was she doing up here?”
Milo said, “Trying to find a place to pee. She knew about this john because she’d been up here before the wedding. One of the bridesmaids. Those other rooms are where the wedding party got dressed and prepped.”
The tech pointed to a yellow pool to the left of the body. “That’s from the girl who found her, not the victim. Her bladder didn’t hold out.”
I said, “Where is she?”
“In Moe’s group.”
I studied the body. Didn’t need to get close to see the ligature band on the dead girl’s neck. Deep enough to cut into flesh and create a blood-flecked necklace.
“Garrote?”
The tech said, “Looks like something thin and strong, like a wire.”
“Or a guitar string. Any musicians at the wedding?”
Milo said, “A maniac into real death metal, downstairs? I should be so lucky. Nah, just a deejay.”
I said, “A bit more pressure and we’d have a near decapitation.”
Both of them looked at me. “No insight, just an observation.” But I wondered about the precise exertion of force.
I turned to the tech. “Strangulation but she didn’t evacuate?”
The tech said, “She actually did a bit—there’s a little mess under the dress but she’s wearing a body shaper and it held stuff in.”
She lifted the dress, pointed to the girl’s inner thigh. The suggestions of a stain where the pantyhose met the shaper. “Not much from what I can see but we’ll know more when she gets to the crypt.”
She shrugged. “She doesn’t look like she needs a shaper. Maybe she’s a body perfectionist, didn’t eat much beforehand ’cause she wanted to rock the dress and that’s why there’s not a whole lot of feces. Or she’s just not a big evacuator, some people aren’t.”
Hearing the woman discussed that way, seeing her exposed, made my throat ache. I turned away and waited until the red dress was dropped back into place. “What makes you figure an hour ago?”
Milo said, “Leanza Cardell—girl who found her—said she was cold, so at least an hour.”
The tech said, “Liver temp fits one to three hours, but you know how that is, this ain’t TV.”
I said, “When did the celebration start?”
Milo said, “Ceremony was at a Unitarian church in the Valley at five. Reception was called for seven but you know traffic, my guess would be seven thirty, eightish but I’ll confirm.”
“It couldn’t have happened too early, with the rooms being used for the wedding party. So maybe closer to nine.”
He thought about that. “Good point.”
The tech nodded.
I said, “C.I.’s are gone already. Easy I.D. or none?”
Milo shook his head. “Zip. She’s dressed for the wedding but Leanza doesn’t know her and she claims to know everyone from the bride’s side. Which is most of the crowd. I took a screen shot of her face, sent it to the Three Musketeers. Once you agree, they’ll start showing it to the guests and the staff.”
“Why wouldn’t I agree?”
“I dunno, maybe you had some psychological thing in mind.” He looked at the dead woman. “Poor thing—this is different, no? Talk about crowd control issues.”
I said, “At least there are no kids. Not that I noticed downstairs.”
“You know,” he said, “that’s true.”
“Time to go for it.”
“Hundred suspects,” he muttered as he sent a text to Reed, Binchy, and Bogomil.
I said, “How many people on the staff?”
He checked his notepad. “Three bartenders, three cooks doubling as servers—which was just bringing chow from the trailer to the table. Three cocktail waitresses, two cleanup guys, the deejay, the photographer. Except for the cooks and the janitors, none of them are in uniform so they can’t be distinguished from guests.”
I said, “Per the invitation: Everyone has to look hot.”
The tech said, “She certainly followed instructions.” Smoothing the hem of the red dress, she stood. Five feet tall, maybe ninety pounds. Perfect for working in a cramped space.
I said, “I don’t see a purse.”
Milo said, “Nada.”
The tech said, “The shoes probably won’t help I.D. her, they look like a new model, you can get them anywhere. But the dress, maybe. If it’s vintage, you could be dealing with upscale resale boutiques. On the other hand, there’s online, so maybe not.”
“You know your fashion, huh?”
“Sister wants to be a designer. She’s obsessed.”
“Maybe she can help with the age of the dress.”
“She’s sixteen, Lieutenant. My parents already hate that I do this, I was supposed to be a dentist. If I get Linda involved, they’ll accuse me of being a bad influence.”
Milo said, “Hey, that can be fun.”
She grinned.
He edged closer to the corpse. “Dress doesn’t look like it’s been worn much.”
The tech smiled. “Something nice and expensive, people tend to take care of it, Lieutenant. Could even be one of those runway things, worn once, then resold. The discount is huge.”
“Killer couture,” he said, shaking his head. “Thanks for all the input. Very helpful, CSI…Cho.”
“Peggy,” said the tech. She sighed. “For s
ome reason this one seems especially sad to me. She took so much care to look her best.”
I said, “Trying to impress someone.”
Milo said, “Also easier to crash the party. If that’s how it shakes out.”
I said, “If she was a crasher, how would she know to come up here? Unless she’s been here before. At another function. Or back when it was a club.”
He eyed the body. “A dancer? Why not, nothing about her says she wouldn’ta been qualified. It’s worth checking out if nothing downstairs pans out. God forbid.”
Peggy Cho remasked. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’m going to start printing the room. Place is gross. If my parents really understood what I do, they wouldn’t let me in the house.”
CHAPTER
3
Milo and I checked the other upstairs rooms. The first two were crammed with piles of female clothing, tubes, bottles, and jars of cosmetics, bobby pins, clips, hair dryers, curlers, and equipment I couldn’t identify. The smallest space—probably a former closet—was a jumble of casual menswear that smelled like a locker room.
In all three rooms, windows were pebbled, painted shut, too small for an adult to crawl through.
Milo said, “Bad guy walked in just like anyone else.”
I said, “How many points of access are there?”
“Front door, the rear where you came in, and on the north side where you drive through, there’s what used to be a kitchen entry but is now used for storage. Next you’re going to tell me you didn’t notice any cameras and I’m going to nod my head mournfully. Place looks like no one takes care of it. Any other inspirations from what you’ve seen so far?”
“She could be a guest from the groom’s side.”
“Easy enough to check, not many people on his side.”
“He from out of town?”
“Nope, local. They both are.”
I said, “But it’s her big day.”
“From the few minutes I spent with them, all their days together are gonna be like that—want to meet the lucky couple?”
* * *
—
Before we descended the stairs, he put his phone on speaker, called Alicia Bogomil, and asked her to bring the bride and groom through the storage room and out to the north side of the building.
She said, “Got it, Loo.”
“Any luck with an I.D.?”
“Not with my people, no one claims to know her.”
“Claims,” he said. “You’re sensing evasiveness?”
“Nope,” said Alicia. “No one seems squirrelly, the opposite, everyone’s kinda numb, reminds me of when I worked a big fatal apartment fire in Albuquerque. Speaking of the bride, she seems pretty fragile. Emotionally speaking. I noticed you with Dr. Delaware. Good call, El Tee.”
* * *
—
We left the building through the front door. Up close the signage was even shabbier, the stucco on the windowless front flaking off in patches. Hard to imagine this place as a church.
We turned right to the service driveway. Alicia stood midway up the wall, a few feet away from the couple of the moment.
From a distance, bride and groom were figurines lifted from a cake. They held hands and watched us, shrinking back like cornered prey.
Brearely “Brears” Burdette née Rapfogel wasn’t much bigger than Peggy Cho. DMV put her at twenty-nine years old two months ago. Long black hair was twirled into sausage-like ringlets, trembling lips were glossed silver. A pug-nosed pixie face striped by mascara tear-tracks was veneered with too much pancake. Her gown was snow white, backless, sleeveless, semi-frontless, and decked out with seed pearls and lace. She dropped her new husband’s hand and when he put his arm around her shoulder, she shrugged it off.
Garrett Burdette smiled weakly. Thirty-four, stooped and lanky in a gray suit, he had soft brown eyes already framed by crow’s-feet. Even in heels, his bride reached only the middle of his chest. His license said he needed corrective lenses. The eyes were liquid. Contacts for the big day.
“Babe,” he said.
Brears shook her head and sniffled.
“Want me to get you a tissue, Babe?”
“I want you to make this go away!”
Milo said, “Guys, we are so sorry this happened.”
“You’re not sorrier than me!”
“Of course not, ma’am.”
His quick assent, combined with “ma’am,” caused a pouting mouth to drop open, flashing teeth whiter than the gown.
What began as a smile quickly switched to a snarl. She turned her back on us, faced yellow-taped dumpsters and garbage cans.
“This is stressing me out!”
Garrett said, “It’s horrendous, Babe.”
Brears Burdette wheeled and looked at her brand-new husband. “Thank you, Mr. Obvious.”
Garrett said, “Ba—”
She jazz-waved him off. “Just forget it.”
His hands jammed into his pockets as he studied asphalt.
Milo said, “This has to be incredibly stressful, so we’ll try to keep it brief. I know Detective Bogomil showed you a picture of—”
Brears said, “I said we don’t know her and that’s not gonna change. She’s probably some slut who wanted to mess me up.”
“Mess you up how, ma’am?”
“I’m not ma’am! My mother’s ma’am! Everyone calls me what they call me, so just go with the program, okay? I’m not ma’am.”
Garrett looked up, flushed. “Sir, everyone calls her Baby. Except me, I call her Babe—”
“Don’t do their job for them, Garrett. Make them do…” Another wave. “Whatever they do.” To Milo: “How would it mess me up? Like that’s a question? She shows up when she’s not invited, the party’s going awesome and she turns it into shit? What was it, an overdose?”
Garrett tugged his tie. “You’re upset, sweetie.” To us: “Of course we feel bad for her.”
The woman known as Baby growled.
Garrett said, “Right, Babe? We both feel upset for her.”
Bare arms folded across a lace-and-pearl bodice. “Speak for yourself.”
She turned again, took four steps toward the trash bins, stopped. When she showed us her face, it was crumpled and wet, mascara flow reactivated.
“I’m not mean. I really am not,” she said. “It’s sad but I don’t know her, okay? I really don’t and I’m so sorry it happened, I really am, no one wants anyone to…all’s I’m saying is…”
She threw up her arms. Jewelry clanked. “I get it, it’s terrible, worse than terrible, it’s it’s…tragic, I shouldn’t be bitching, it’s tragic for her but it was supposed to be my happy day!”
Garrett went to her and put his arm around her. This time she accepted comfort, flopping her cheek onto his chest and shutting her eyes.
He said, “It’s okay, Babe. We’ll get through this.”
“I know, Gar. But why’d she have to do it at my wedding?”
* * *
—
As we walked them back inside, I said, “Can you think of anyone who’d want to mess you up?”
“No, sir,” said Garrett.
Baby stared at me as if I was dense. “Everyone likes me,” she said.
* * *
—
The couple returned to their table amid a scatter of dispirited applause. As they sat back down, Milo beckoned the three detectives out of the main room and over to the photo booth.
The looks on their faces made it obvious, but he asked anyway. “Any luck?”
Moe Reed was the first to shake his head, Sean following. Alicia Bogomil waited her turn. Still learning the ropes, making sure she knew her place.
“Unfortunately, nope,” she said.
Milo said, “Any signs someone could b
e lying about not knowing her?”
“Not that I noticed, L.T.,” said Reed.
“Same here,” said Binchy.
Bogomil said, “A lot of them are intoxicated, so we could let them sober up and try again.”
Milo said, “In a perfect world, great idea, Alicia. But we’ve already kept them here for a while and picking people out because they’re tipsy is subjective and risky. We’ve got I.D.’s on everyone plus tags on the cars, will match that to the invitation list. Someone looks iffy, we’ll find them.”
Bogomil said, “Maybe the interesting list is folks who weren’t invited. Like the killer and the victim.”
Reed said, “You get snubbed so you strangle your date?”
“I know it sounds crazy, Moe, but people go psycho over weddings. Both my sisters morphed into evil space creatures and it caught on like a virus, everyone turned scary.” She smiled. “Even me for a few seconds.”
Binchy said, “You’ve got a point, Alicia. And maybe it was more than just a snub. What if it was a serious rejection? Like an ex of the groom. Or the bride.”
“They both deny anything like that but it’s an interesting thought, Sean,” said Milo. “That said, this isn’t the time to ask about it. They’re not going on a honeymoon so I’ll let them be and follow up in a few days. Alex, any psychological reason not to close this down right now?”
I said, “At the risk of adding to the buzzkill, I’d let most of the guests go but hold on to the staff, the woman who discovered the body, and the immediate family for a second go-round. Why no honeymoon?”
Alicia said, “His work, some sort of accounting thing. They’ve got a Maui trip planned for the summer. My group included the bridesmaids so I tried to encourage some girl talk. Leanza—the one who found the body—was in my section, too. That’s her, the chunky redhead in the grayish-tan silk thing. She started off freaked out, had a couple Martinis and loosened up. So, yeah, she’s a good candidate for follow-up. Why hold on to the family, Dr. Delaware?”
“Destroying a wedding has a personal feel.” I picked a piece of paper from the floor. Printed account of the wedding procession. “This should help.”
The Wedding Guest Page 2