The Wedding Guest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Corinne said, “It’s a criminal matter, not civil.” That same patronizing tone.

  He wheeled on her. “Like O.J.? Ever hear of that one? The cops fucked it up but the family got justice from the civil suit. Geez.”

  He stormed back into the rear office and slammed the door.

  Corinne Rapfogel said, “Sorry, guys. I’ll walk you out.”

  * * *

  —

  When we reached the sidewalk, she said, “Where’s your police car?”

  Milo pointed. “The green Seville.”

  “Ooh, plainclothes—I love that model. My dad had one, a white one with the designer gold plating. He used to loan it to me to go to the beach with my friends.” Loosening her hair and shaking it out as she spoke.

  I said, “A real classic.”

  “My dad was a classic,” she said. “Unlike the junker I married.” She edged closer. “Listen, guys, I’m leaving him but he doesn’t know it. I just sat down with a lawyer.”

  “Guess I shouldn’t say sorry to hear it?”

  She laughed. “Hell, no.” Another hip thrust. “Hell on toast no, it was long coming. I waited for the wedding to be over. Didn’t want to spoil Baby’s big day.” Her eyes misted. “So much for that.”

  Milo said, “What an ordeal. Sorry. If you think of anything.”

  He and I turned toward the car.

  Corinne Rapfogel said, “Hold on, guys.” Her eyes flicked back to the office building. She walked several feet ahead of us and stopped.

  “Look, I’m not saying this is anything relevant, but one of the reasons I’m leaving him is he can’t keep it in his pants. That’s why our business is sliding into the crapper. We’ve had a bunch of Me Too lawsuits and now we’ve got a poisonous reputation. He ruined the business, okay? He habitually pisses people off.”

  She paused, flipped her hair. “If there’s anyone someone would want to mess up, it’s him.”

  I said, “Is there a type of woman he goes after?”

  “The type with a vagina.” She looked ready to spit. Then she slumped.

  “When I met him, he was good looking, believe it or not. Surfed, seemed nice, played tennis, kept in shape, I really thought he was the guy. The being buff lasted longer than the nice. By the time Baby was a toddler, he was cheating on me. Probably before, but that’s when I found out about it. I threatened to leave him and he did the atonement bit and claimed it wouldn’t happen again.”

  She middle-fingered the sky. “We’ve been to couples counseling with three different therapists, lot of good they do. He even spent some time in a ridiculous rehab place for sexual addiction. Like it’s a disease, huh? Total bullshit, it’s bad behavior. I asked my therapist and she agrees.”

  I said, “So he’s pretty indiscriminate.”

  “The ones I know about were all too young for him.” A beat. “Some were halfway cute. Like your victim, I guess. At least from that picture, she looked cute. Considering.”

  “But you don’t recognize her.”

  “Nah,” she said. “Except for the ones who worked for us, I never met any of them, he’s a sneak, not a flaunter. Only reason I found out he was hitting on the staff is one quit and a year later she sued us and then came the others. Four others, can you believe that?”

  Her turn to flush. “Bastard. Then I told a couple of my friends and boy did that open the valves. They started telling me about seeing him with bimbos, offering their husbands threesomes, all kinds of sleazy shit. You’d think they might’ve considered letting me know, right? They’re ex-friends now, but that’s okay, I don’t need anyone.”

  The hip retracted. Her spine bowed. “I’m ready to strike out on my own, use the grit and initiative I learned from my daddy. He was poor, put himself through school—I might even go back to school, become a hygienist. I was in Daddy’s office enough to know more about teeth than most dentists.”

  Milo and I both nodded.

  I said, “Good luck, Corinne.”

  “Hopefully I won’t need luck, just talent,” she said. Another glance at the building. “If there’s anyone who could inspire hate it’s him.”

  Movement from the building. Denny Rapfogel lumbering toward us. He held out his hands, palms-up, in a what-the-hell gesture.

  Corinne said, “Just saying goodbye.”

  “Can we get back to business? That rental agent just called back. There’s a place on Olympic might work.”

  “Sure, Den,” said Corinne. Under her breath, her lips out of view: “Motherfucker.”

  * * *

  —

  I drove west on Wilshire, turned south at the next light, and headed back toward the station.

  “That was something,” said Milo.

  I said, “The ties that un-bind.”

  “Denny the dog, younger women. Looks alone, Red Dress would seem out of his class. But she took off her clothes for money. Maybe she thought he had enough so she could retire. But given Corinne’s plans, you’d think she’d be watching him, might notice a hottie in Fendi. Even if she didn’t, him slipping away long enough to strangle someone, tidy himself up, and return to the festivities woulda caught her attention.”

  “Maybe she’s past the point of caring.”

  “Good point. There’s also his role. My brother Patrick married off four daughters, told me father of the bride ranks right below janitor.”

  I said, “Any way to get Denny’s phone records, maybe establish a link between him and Red Dress?”

  “If it’s a joint account and Corinne volunteers access…maybe. Lemme ask John.”

  He speed-dialed Deputy D.A. John Nguyen.

  In place of Nguyen’s usual wise-guy, baseball-reference-laced voicemail was a terse message. I’m not in, leave a message.

  “Hmm.” He phoned the main office, was informed D.A. Nguyen was out, no idea when he’d be back.

  I said, “John sounds grumpy.”

  “That’s because John’s a rational human being—hold on.” His cell chirped an excerpt from Handel’s Water Music. “It’s Reed.” Click. “What’s up, kiddo?”

  “Struck out everywhere else but a bartender at The Booty Shop on Sunset says she used to dance there a couple of years ago. Not as Kim or Kimberly. He knew her as Sooze.”

  “Short for Susie?”

  “When I suggested that to him, he got all puzzled, like I was talking in Afghani or something.”

  “Einstein.”

  “Old guy, probably been pickling himself for decades with well booze.”

  Milo said, “I’m not gonna ask your definition of old. Geezer was sure it’s her.”

  “Says he is. And he described her the same way the bouncer did: lazy dancer, kept to herself. The backpack, too. She’s the only one he’s ever seen who did that, apparently dancers really do go for big designer purses. I asked him why he thought she acted different. He said she probably wanted to be different. I said maybe she’s shy. He said, ‘Shy people don’t flash their pussies at perverts.’ I kept that out of my notes.”

  “Does the place keep better employment records than The Aura?”

  “Don’t know, L.T., still trying to find out who owns it. Geezer gave me the name of what turned out to be a shell corporation, address near the docks in Wilmington that’s now a parking lot. The manager’s due in soon. I can wait around for her unless you need me somewhere else.”

  “Wait, kid. Have a Shirley Temple on me.”

  Reed chuckled. “You know me and sugar.”

  “Your loss,” said Milo. “Female manager, huh?”

  “How’s that for cracking the glass ceiling?”

  * * *

  —

  Just as Milo pocketed the phone, it chirped again. Radical shift to something atonal—Schoenberg or the like.

  John Nguyen said, “Fina
lly, you ask me a no-brainer. With a joint account, you get permission from either account holder, it’s legally obtained evidence.”

  “Even if the two of them end up in a nasty divorce.”

  “Do it before the divorce.”

  “Even with—”

  “You want to debate? That’s the law.”

  “Great. You okay, John?”

  “I’m fantastic.” Sounding anything but.

  “What happened to the old voicemail?”

  “New boss,” said Nguyen. “Don’t ask ’cause I won’t tell, telling’s what got me in the shit in the first place. Did you know baseball represents white male privilege and is an inappropriate intrusion on work-related communication? Bet you didn’t. Bet you do whatever the hell you want over in Blue Land.”

  “You’re white?” said Milo.

  “When they want me to be I am.”

  Click.

  Milo’s lips fluttered, emitting a raspberry.

  I said, “Good news on the phone.”

  “If it’s in Corinne’s name and she agrees. But probably a waste of time. What’s the chance Denny would be stupid enough to phone his girlfriend when his wife has access to his call record?”

  “Doesn’t sound as if he’s ever been discreet. Maybe part of the thrill is throwing it in her face.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to get her permission. Maybe I’ll stalk the office later this afternoon, get lucky and catch her by herself. Meanwhile, we’ve got another sighting of Red Dress but with a different name.”

  I said, “She’s been working in L.A. for at least two years, has to have some kind of residence.”

  “It’s a big county,” he said, wheeling back and stretching his legs. “Kimby, Sooze. Backpack. Maybe you’re right about her being a student. Or the barkeep’s right and she was just putting on airs to stand out.”

  He looked at his phone again. “Nothing from Alicia on the dress, yet. Which I knew without checking because I already checked twenty seconds ago. What’s the treatment for OCD?”

  “It’s anxiety-reducing behavior,” I said.

  “So?”

  “Sometimes success does the trick.”

  He pretended to study the phone again. “Maybe if I stare at it long enough, something wonderful will take place.”

  “That happens,” I said, “write a book and make millions.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  No word from Milo until Thursday, just after four p.m.

  “Couldn’t catch Corinne, office was locked. Headquarters for Rapfogel marital bliss is in Sherman Oaks. Couldn’t see driving out there on the off-chance, so I left an ambiguous message on her cell, still waiting for a callback. Consistent with all that joy, the manager at The Booty Shop called in sick so Moe couldn’t talk to her. Some of the dancers showed up, though, and he talked to them, the kid owes me. No one who works there now knew Sooze/Kim/whoever. The only remotely possible bright spot is the manager lives close to the station, I’m gonna try a drop-in. You free? Or just reasonable?”

  * * *

  —

  Consuela Elena Baca lived in an aquamarine stucco ranch house near L.A.’s southern border with Culver City. Neatly kept place, aloe and yucca and verbena in place of a slavering lawn, a copper-colored nineties Jaguar convertible in the driveway.

  Decals on the house’s front window touted the services of a security company. The door button elicited Westminster Abbey chimes.

  From within, a nasal female voice: “Who is it?”

  “Police, Ms. Baca.”

  “Not the alarm again!”

  The door cracked but remained chained. Eyes so pale they verged on colorless took us in.

  “Your I.D., please.”

  Milo gave her a look at his badge. Not his card; no sense beginning a conversation with “Homicide.”

  She undid the chain and appraised us again.

  Tall woman in her forties wearing a clingy black rayon robe over something beige and lacy. Red nose, bloodshot eyes, white-blond hair bunched up atop her head.

  “Yes, I’m Consuela.” Sniffle, throat clear. A wadded tissue in her hand dabbed the nose. A droplet formed at the bottom of one nostril. She said, “Ugh,” and caught it before it dropped.

  “Listen, I really can’t be paying any more false-alarm fines. It did not go off. Not once during the past twenty-four hours and I’m sure because I’ve been here all that time. Got this crud of a virus, okay? Haven’t left the house. So whatever problem you think there is, it’s not mine.”

  Name notwithstanding, Consuela Elena Baca looked proto-Nordic, with milky skin, a high-bridged uptilted nose, and a firm, square chin. Leggy and full-breasted, close to six feet tall in fuzzy slippers.

  Milo said, “This isn’t about the alarm, ma’am.”

  “Then what?”

  “May we come in?”

  Consuela Baca thought. “Sure, but at your own risk. There’s a gazillion obnoxious little germs floating around.”

  “We’ll chance it,” said Milo.

  “Brave cops, huh?”

  “Protect and serve.”

  She smiled. Coughed. Muttered “oops” and covered her mouth, bent over and coughed some more. When she stopped, her face was grave. “Is someone dangerous lurking around the neighborhood?”

  “Not at all, ma’am. We’re here to get some help.”

  “I can help you?” said Consuela Baca. A half shrug brought on more coughing. “Why not? There’s been times you’ve helped me. At work, I run a nightclub. Though it’s inconsistent, sometimes you guys really know how to take your time—what the eff, c’mon in.”

  * * *

  —

  We followed her into a square white living room. A black sofa faced a red sofa. Both were shaped like dog bones. In between sat a chrome-and-glass table on a rug that looked stitched from white rags. On the table, a box of lotion-enhanced tissues. On the floor, a black plastic wastebasket overflowing with used paper.

  Two walls were hung with half a dozen black-and-white photos, all featuring the moody chiaroscuro of prewar French camera work. Three depicted jazz combos playing in dim, smoky rooms. Spotlight on the leaders: Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Benny Goodman.

  The remaining trio of images starred Consuela Elena Baca, naked, in her twenties. Darker shade of blond, a complex hairdo full of flips, shags, and layers, long smooth body adored by the camera.

  She motioned us to the red sofa. Directly opposite her photo-memoir.

  Ill but still able to choreograph.

  “That was a long time ago,” she said. “Great to be young, right, guys?”

  Nowadays, even compliments can get you in trouble. We smiled.

  She crossed her legs, allowing the robe to ride up to mid-thigh. “What kind of help do you think I can give you?”

  Milo said, “If you know this woman, it would be a tremendous help,” and handed her Red Dress’s death shot.

  She said, “Suzy Q? She’s…oh, God, she is, isn’t she.”

  “She’s the victim of a homicide, ma’am.”

  Consuela Baca’s right hand flew to her mouth. She reached for a fresh tissue, patted both eyes. “Poor Suzy. How? Who?”

  Milo said, “Unfortunately, we can’t get into how and we don’t know who. That’s why we’re here. Anything you can tell us about her will be appreciated.”

  Pale eyes narrowed. “How’d you connect her to me?”

  “One of our detectives visited The Booty Shop. We were told she danced there.”

  “That was a couple of years ago.” She frowned. “They gave out my personal data?”

  Milo smiled and took out his pad. “No, we detected and found out you managed the place. So you knew her as Suzy Q. Last name, please.”

  Consuela Baca kept studying the dead gir
l’s image. “She’s not someone I’d have thought would end up—I mean she never did anything high-risk. Not that I saw. If anything, she was kind of…buttoned-up—restrained, that’s the word.”

  I said, “As opposed to other dancers?”

  “Dancers,” she said. “They teach you guys PC, huh? They’re not ballerinas, they’re strippers, and yes, a lot of them like to walk the edge. It’s the nature of the business.”

  “What’s the edge?”

  “The wrong guys, the wrong drugs.”

  “Not Suzy,” I said.

  “Far as I knew. In terms of her last name, she told me Smith. Susan Smith. I assumed it was phony.”

  “Because it was Smith?”

  “That and fake names are also part of the biz. Girls do it for safety and security and because they like to create alter egos. When I worked in Vegas I was Brigitta. When I wasn’t Ingrid. Or Helga. My Minnesota Swedish mother wasn’t amused. My dad never said anything but when she started yelling at me, I caught him smiling.”

  The memory made her sigh. She took another look at the photo, shook her head, and returned it. “Poor Suzy.”

  Milo said, “When did Susan Smith become Suzy Q?”

  “It wasn’t a formal thing,” said Baca. “She suggested it and I said okay. It’s kind of a natural extension of Susan, no? Like Hannah becomes Honey Pie, Sarah’s Sexy Sadie? I had one girl, her name was Dara, which was actually fine as a stage name. She thought becoming Drizella was a great idea. I told her that’s one of the ugly sisters in ‘Cinderella,’ bad idea. So she became Dru. Is that better than Dara? But everyone has their own ideas. They do the job, I don’t hassle them.”

  “Did you save Suzy’s employment forms? Withholding, Social Security, that kind of thing?”

  “Can’t save what I don’t have, guys. The only forms we keep are for the alcohol-license Nazis and the pests from the health department. The girls aren’t employees, they’re independent contractors. That’s pretty much the industry standard.”