“Okay, thanks.”
“Working with the cops,” said Corinne. “This is kind of an adventure.”
He placed my note on the desk. “One more thing. Do you ever pay Denny’s phone bill?”
“I always pay his phone bill,” she said. “I handle all the bills.”
“Is the number registered to the business?”
“Of course it is.”
“And you’re a partner in the business.”
“I am—ah.” She laughed. “I get where you’re coming from. It’s in his name but I actually share it. Yeah, you’re right. You want me to ask Verizon for another copy of his bill.”
“If you’re okay with that.”
“If he had something to do with wrecking Baby’s big day, I’m more than okay. Minute I hang up, I’m on it. Very creative, Lieutenant. I can relate to that, I’ve always been the creative one. If we depended on him for ideas, we’d be living on Skid Row.”
CHAPTER
13
I’d just left his office and was halfway down the corridor when he called me back.
Waving a sheaf of papers.
Back I went.
* * *
—
Summary of the autopsy results on Jane Doe #5 of this year composed by Acting Deputy Medical Examiner Basia Lopatinski, M.D. He’d printed two copies from his desktop. We read simultaneously.
Well-nourished white female, approximately twenty-five to thirty, in excellent health prior to death by asphyxiation due to ligature strangulation, “most probably by a metal filament.” Tiny marks running diagonally along the neck wound suggested a wire topped by wound strands. Approximate gauge, making allowances for “skin compression and atmospheric changes subsequent to death,” .025 to .040 inch.
No alcohol or drugs in the decedent’s system but for a nonlethal dose of fentanyl mixed with heroin. That, combined with the pain and shock of the injection in a “nerve-rich site,” could have stunned the victim “possibly to the point of lost consciousness.”
I visualized it. Red Dress taken by surprise, drugged into submission.
Leaving plenty of time to finish the job.
Why not simply O.D. her on fentanyl? The drug was fast acting and easily lethal.
Why slow things down with heroin?
Fentanyl had begun as a Big Pharma profit well. Drug companies touting it to doctors for conditions far beyond its original use for intractable cancer pain. Causing one of the worst addiction crises in history.
Cheap to produce. Maybe a mixture was what you got on the street, nowadays.
Or someone had craved the prolonged minutes it took to choke the life out of a human being.
Full-face, hands-on kill, a helpless victim.
Watching the lights go out.
I sent an email to Robin and resumed reading.
Stomach content analysis revealed partially digested lettuce, corn, green beans, tuna fish, red peppers, and an egg-based liquid, probably diluted mayonnaise. All of that ingested approximately two to three hours prior to death.
She hadn’t intended to dine.
At the bottom of the report was a note by Dr. Lopatinski for Milo to call.
He complied, got voicemail, left a message.
I said, “The food’s interesting.”
“She had a tuna salad before showing up.”
“What I mean is she ate before the wedding because she had no intention of enjoying the catering. Add that to no booze or self-administered dope in her system and the all-work-no-play scenario firms up.”
My phone pinged a text.
Robin answering my question.
I sent her a Thanks, hon, and relayed the info to Milo: “At the low estimate, the gauge fits a wound guitar D-string, at the upper end, a light A-string.”
He said, “So look for a killer with a Gibson. Hey, that would be a pretty good slogan.”
* * *
—
I got home by four p.m. An hour later, Maxine Driver called me.
“Got Ms. Burdette’s schedule such as it is, and guess what, an address.”
She read off numbers on Strathmore Drive.
Walking distance from campus. “Thanks, Maxine. How’d you get it?”
“Don’t ask,” she said. “In terms of the schedule, there’s not much. She takes one real class, chem for non-science-majors. The rest is independent study with no set time, her DIY is Multiverse Cultural Aspects of Civilization. Part of a program the administration tried a couple of years ago but discontinued. Brainy little tots recommended by their high school counselors allowed the freedom to explore their inner whatevers.”
“Why’d they drop it?”
“Word has it one of the kids committed suicide but I can’t confirm and the official reason was attrition. As in too many of the geniacs dropped out. Not just from the program, from the U. I guess it makes sense, Alex. You’re a precocious squirt, grow up hearing you’re a god from helicopter parents who overstructure your life with one class after another. Then you leave home and all of a sudden you’re expected to create your own structure. Poo-eh widdle tings pwobly withered.”
“Not Amanda,” I said. “She comes across assertive. To be charitable.”
“Doesn’t she. Survival of the rudest. That would explain politics.”
* * *
—
I texted the address to Milo.
He phoned. “A student who lives near school. All that to get what DMV could’ve given me if she was normal—’scuse me, conventional. Thanks, so far it’s the only scrap of good news. The pathologist is at some sort of convention and apparently San Diego’s another planet. The big bad is Corinne’s phone stalk of Denny turned up six months of his bills misfiled in another drawer, so he wasn’t hiding anything. She recognized every number except twelve, took it upon herself to play amateur detective. Nine were legit prospective clients Denny was calling back. None of them ended up signing with the agency, which Corinne attributes to his ‘Neanderthal conversational skills.’ Another was a florist—‘probably one of the times he was shitty to me.’ The last was a condolence call to a cousin of his in Arizona who’d just lost a mother to cancer. ‘Even though he never had the decency to phone all the time she was sick.’ ”
“True love,” I said. “So she’s probably telling the truth. Unless she’s overacting because she’s covering for him.”
“I think she’s righteous, Alex. She was clearly bummed about not digging up any dirt and when I hung up she was wondering about a secret phone account and saying she’d try to figure out who Marissa was.”
“The game’s not over. Denny could be using burners.”
“If nothing else pans out, we’ll do a loose surveillance on him. Meanwhile I’m learning about fashion. One of the boutiques Alicia visited didn’t recognize Suzy/Kim but they were able to educate her about the dress: Three seasons ago an adorably pert actress wore it to the Golden Globes. Three years isn’t that long, it coulda been bought new or online. I’m having her devote another half day to high-end places then switching her to stripper-equippers.”
“Moe’s being punished?”
“No, he’s still got the gig but these places are all over town, with traffic it’ll take forever. I’m figuring maybe tomorrow to visit the bride and groom…how’d Maxine score the info on Amanda?”
“Confidential source.”
“She loves the intrigue.”
“That she does.” I told him about the disbanded program.
He said, “Suicide. Yeah, that would quash parental enthusiasm. But all Westside suicides go through us and I read every list. Kid at the U. doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Wouldn’t the campus police handle it?”
“They’d be the primary if it happened in a dorm or some other campus facility and
didn’t end up complicated. But we’re supposed to hear, anyway. So maybe Maxine’s source isn’t that golden. Not that it matters. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here still waiting for an image dump from snail-imitator and part-time photographer Bradley Tomashev. He says six-hundred-plus images. I’m ready to get my squint on.”
I said, “Feel free to email a copy. Two sets of eyes and all that.”
“Appreciate the offer,” he said. “I’ll prove it by accepting.”
* * *
—
An hour later, nothing new in my inbox.
I took Blanche for her brief afternoon walk, gave her fresh water, and waited as she lapped daintily. When she was through, we walked to Robin’s studio. The Martin had been shipped and she’d moved on, a thick slab of spalted maple resting on her workbench. Her apron was flecked with snowy sawdust.
I said, “Beef. It could be what’s for dinner.”
“Perfect. All the heavy lifting, I could use the iron.” She hefted the slab.
“Strat clone?”
“Les Paul clone, meaning more wood. This thing already weighs a ton, I was just about to shape it. Maybe ninety minutes?”
“Marinade is patient.”
She offered her mouth for a kiss, gave Blanche a pat on the head, and began scrutinizing the wood.
In her own world, a beautiful place.
* * *
—
Back in the kitchen, Blanche promptly fell asleep on the floor.
I dry-rubbed a couple of rib eyes, which opened her eyes for a second.
“Not yet, Julia Child.” She drifted back to dream-world.
After shucking two ears of corn, I made a no-frills romaine salad and rechecked my phone for the wedding photos.
Three new emails: a pair of lousy-syntax, huckster spams (“These stock is bounds to explode!”) and a query from a judge regarding a recent custody report. The answers to the jurist’s questions seemed self-evident but I responded as if they deserved contemplation. Then I ran a search on recent campus suicides at the U.
Not a word.
No surprise; colleges are known for keeping a lid on bad news. In the case of a young person’s self-destruction, little chance of protest from the family.
I logged onto the L.A. Times homicide file, paged back to thirty months prior, and began scrolling forward.
The usual gang killings and domestics until a case that fit twenty-three months ago: Cassandra Michelette Booker, “a 19 year old white female,” had died in Westwood twenty-five months ago, cause of death pending.
Googling cassandra booker’s death pulled up nothing. So did substituting suicide or murder for death and pairing the deceased girl’s name with amanda burdette. But cassandra michelette booker produced a five-year-old squib in The Des Moines Register.
Rotary Club award ceremony, three high school students earning trophies for essays on “Civic Responsibility: The Truest Freedom of All.” Cassandra “Cassy” Michele Booker, a sixteen-year-old junior at Sandpoint High School, had scored second place.
An accompanying photo featured a pair of middle-aged, suit-and-tie Rotarians—a banker and an insurance broker—flanking three adolescents.
Two of the winners were boys, tall, bespectacled, and beaming. Between them stood Cassy Booker, small and thin and round-shouldered, blond hair plaited into pigtails.
Her long, pallid face hosted a tentative, off-center smile, as if she doubted her own merit.
Once you’d seen Amanda Burdette, the physical resemblance was inescapable.
Petite and fair wasn’t an unusual look. But Amanda had also won an essay competition.
Writing prowess as a prerequisite for an honors program made sense. Or the ability to put words together convincingly was just another feather in a plume of precociousness.
I searched for more info on Cassy Booker, came up empty, and tried to learn about the make-your-own-major setup the U. had tried. Nothing. Getting up from my desk, I stretched and took my old Martin—by now a 50K instrument—out of its case. Just as I settled on my battered leather patient couch, Blanche padded in.
She stared at the guitar and jumped up beside me.
I said, “Where’s your backstage pass?”
Batting her lashes, she looked up with big, soft brown eyes.
She favors mellow music so I tuned down to Hawaiian slack key and began fingerpicking slow and easy stuff. By the fourth note, she was back asleep and letting out volcanic snores.
I said, “Everyone’s a critic,” and threw in a few sixth chords to keep it evocative. Let’s hear it for Don Ho at the Islander.
My fingers moved autonomously as my brain wondered about a mentally gifted young woman ending her own life. A beautiful young woman in a red dress having her life taken from her.
No link between the two that I could come up with. Just clammy, gray sadness.
I was finally able to steer my head away from all that, slow my fingers down even further, and visualize white sand and blue water.
Then, nothing but music.
CHAPTER
14
By the time Robin and I finished dinner, the photos from the wedding still hadn’t come through.
She said, “That was delicious. Nice long bath fit your schedule?”
Slipping out of her clothes as she headed for the bedroom. I followed her. Blanche knew enough to stay in the kitchen.
* * *
—
Wet-haired and loose-limbed, in a T-shirt and shorts, I gave my phone a final look.
An email from Milo’s home computer had arrived ten minutes ago. No heading. Text plus attachment.
A: technical problems on his end but finally. Not six hundred, seven fifty two. Curse digital. Looking for a magnifying glass. M.
I wrote: Deerstalker cap and calabash pipe, too? and opened the file.
Page after page of postage-stamp images filled the screen, each enlargeable by keystroke. The first three hundred thirty-nine covered the processional and the ceremony.
Surprisingly traditional stuff. Color shots made it easier to look for Red Dress. Several other women had chosen variations on the color but she was nowhere in sight.
Next: four hundred thirteen photos from the reception. As Tomashev had said, the emphasis had been the bride. At least two-thirds of the images featured her in various degrees of close-up, maybe half in the company of her new husband.
Baby smiling.
Baby dancing by herself.
Baby doing jazz hands walking like an Egyptian trying on a variety of kittenish pouts sticking her tongue out curling it caressing her own chest gracing the camera with a dizzying collection of views of her butt.
When Garrett was in the frame, he alternated among an uneasy smile, the saucer-eyed bafflement of a tourist viewing a piece of unfathomable art, and an expression so blank he could’ve been a mannequin.
No sign of the girl in Fendi in any of those. Same for the few dance-floor photos that had managed to exclude the bride.
I kept scanning. Spotted her.
Image number five hundred eighty-three, the red dress bright as arterial blood.
She stood in a horde of celebrants crowding one of the bars at the front of the venue. Hanging back at the rear of the throng, a sober face among a sea of bleary grins and agape mouths.
Sober gorgeous face. The angle of her eyes suggested she was watching the entrance.
Waiting for someone?
I inspected the rest of the pictures, found nothing, and enlarged the image.
That blurred the details but clarified emotion. Serious bordering on grim. Definitely not a celebrant.
Waiting for something unpleasant. Having no idea.
I speed-dialed Milo’s home number. The call got jammed up because he was trying to reach me at the same time.
/> Cellular version of the old Alphonse-Gaston-after-you-no-after-you routine.
I clicked off and then rang again.
He said, “See it?”
I said, “Oh, yeah. Are the shots in chronological order? If they are, she was killed toward the end of the party.”
“I’m texting ol’ Bradley right now to find out. Any other impressions?”
“She wasn’t part of the festivities. She seems to be watching the front door.”
“Waiting for someone she’s pissed at. Or worried about.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Fits your blackmail thing,” he said. “Unless it was a date and she’s peeved that he was late—hold on, Tomashev’s texting me…some cameras have metadata, his doesn’t, so no chronology. Also, he rearranged everything to prioritize Baby’s photos. Has no idea when that one was taken.”
“Going the extra mile even though he didn’t get paid. Is she someone special to him?”
“I wondered the same thing and asked him and indeed she is. But nothing romantic, the two of them go back to middle school. He’s chubby and gay and used to get bullied a lot. She stuck up for him when no one else did.”
I said, “Nice to hear something positive about her.”
“Tomashev says she’s a ‘cool girl’ when she’s not uptight. I asked him if he’d come up with any new ideas about who’d want to mess up her big day. He said he’d been thinking about it and could only come up with two possibilities that probably weren’t true. Obviously, I pushed him. First, maybe another girl. In school, lots of them were jealous of Baby because she was cute, athletic, and popular, but he had no specific candidates among her current friends.”
The Wedding Guest Page 12