Seeking: A Daddy of any age who knows how to be strong but also gentle, spiritual but also practical, kind but also a leader who embraces change. I’m not one of those people who thinks money has to give you headaches or mess up your life it’s all about balance and why not enjoy the world if no one gets hurt? I want an adventure with the right person and I don’t close doors I like to open them.
Flanking the profile were four photos.
One was a torso-shot of the girl I’d seen at the Fauborg wearing the same white dress, minus the scarf. Serious set of mouth, as if she was trying to get a point across. Her hair was drawn back and crowned by a network of elaborate braids. No diamond glint at her wrist or anywhere.
Two other photos were swimsuit poses. White thong bikini, long, windswept hair, collarbones in sharp relief above perfect cleavage, lips slightly parted. Rocks and ocean in the background, heart-shaped sunglasses reminiscent of Lolita.
The fourth had her in a dark pin-striped suit, perched on a desk and smiling coyly.
Long, lithe body, sweet unlined face, huge, soft, vaguely unfocused eyes. Even in the bikini shots, they managed to project a hint of innocence bordering on bewilderment.
A man looking to play Henry Higgins would be attracted.
So would a power freak out for total domination.
Milo said, “She was a cutie, wasn’t she,” and reread the profile. “Vegan Mexican joints and animal shelters, there’s an investigative lead. Hell, maybe I’ll find a place that saves fuzzies and ladles out cruelty-free menudo and we can grab lunch along the way.” His eyes dropped to the bottom of the bio. “She wasn’t much for spelling or grammar, was she? Guess the sisters don’t edit much.”
I told him what I’d seen in her eyes.
“Little Miss Helpless? Yeah, that could get you in trouble.”
He turned to the second page.
SukRose Daddy #2198
Codename: Stylemaven
Residences: Western and Eastern Elites
Education: More Than I Needed
Occupation: Gloriously Nothing
Habits: Fine spirits and wine but in moderation, ditto Cohibas and other premium Cuban cigars. Premium is my benchword and don’t get me in a discussion of the embargo (can you spell “patently absurd?”)
Profile: A rich productive life redolent of been there—done it could have caused me to sink into the grand ennui and renounce the value of future exploration. Instead, I chose to embrace my good fortune and make creative, constructive, cohesive use of my freedom by embracing adventure and embarking on a trajectory of emotional, physical and spiritual collaboration with an equally fortunate woman.
Shallow is for planting vegetables; if you have no interest beyond the superficial, look elsewhere. I’ve developed a strong ethos rooted in the credo that while relational stability forms the bedrock of societal continuity, without change and novelty, it remains just that: sterile, inanimate. Rock. Life is not about the mineral, it’s about the animal but not in a vulgar sense. I’m referring to libido the way Herr Professor Freud intended it: a vibrant, soul-enriching life force that forms the raison d’etre of our very existence. Without passion, connection, synchronicity, there is only existence, not life.
Seeking: A woman who understands all this.
At the bottom of the printout, Brian Agajanian had printed in firm block letters:
MARKHAM MCREYNOLD SUSS
Below that: two bracketed dates documenting Suss’s sixty-eight-year life span.
The county certificate had been issued eight months ago, twenty-six days after Suss’s demise from natural causes.
Milo called and verified the certificate number.
He returned to Tara Sly aka Mystery’s profile. “A guy pushing seventy trying to keep up with that? I keep picturing natural causes as getting literally screwed to death.”
A few more calls verified that no one else with Suss’s name had a current driver’s license or residential address in California or New York.
“How does he come across to you, Alex?”
“Like a guy who considered himself brilliant and wanted everyone to know it. I can see him attending top schools, possibly being attracted to intellectual pursuits, but putting it aside to make money.”
“Coulda been a cognitive contender so he tries to bowl the Sweeties over with syntax and vocabulary? Like the girls on the site would care.”
I said, “Maybe he needed to think they did. To make it more than it was.”
“From the way he goes on, you’d think he was looking for Madame Curie. So who does he hook up with? Little Ms. Luuuuuuv with the helpless eyes.”
I said, “Hey, they both like cigars.”
“There’s a foundation for a meaningful relationship. Any other impressions?”
I had another go at Suss’s braggadocio. “ ‘Stylemaven’ might mean he made his money in a fashion-oriented business. Tara claimed to read Elle and Marie Claire so that could’ve provided another basis for rapport. And they both talk about adventure, so that might have attracted him ... ‘newfound freedom’ could be due to a recent divorce. Or retirement. Or he was married and lying. The rest of it is pretty much puffery.”
“She bullshits, he bullshits, both of them read between the lines. ’Cause the real raison d’être for all the game playing is old guys trawling for young chicks willing to close their eyes and pretend they’re boffing a stud.”
He slipped the printouts into his case. Looked up Tara Sly in the databases. Nothing.
“Big shock, no way that’s a bona fide name. Think it was an in-joke, as in I’m craftier than I seem?”
I said, “That’s a little abstract unless she was a lot smarter than her prose suggests. Also, Sly could be fake but Tara could be real, because Ms. Tara could easily morph into Mystery.”
“How does Muhrmann figure in?”
“He could’ve provided protection for a share of the profits.”
“Your basic pimp-hustler.”
I said, “In this town they call it producing.”
He laughed. “I’ll make you a star, kid, and all you have to do is engage in geriatric sex and squeeze every golden egg out of the goose.”
“Unfortunately, the goose had the poor manners to die. Muhrmann hitting his mom up for money shortly after supports his involvement. It also fits with what we saw at the Fauborg being an audition for a new goose. Instead Tara ends up with no face, maybe because the mark was a predator with a script of his own.”
“If Muhrmann and Tara were looking for another Daddy, why didn’t they just go back to SukRose?”
“Maybe an opportunity came up elsewhere. Or they did return and Brian Agajanian is holding back on any other hookups because he doesn’t want the site drawn into a publicity nightmare. SukRose claims careful screening of members but Brian just told us they don’t collect significant data on the girls. If they’re not much more discerning with the men, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge for a slick psychopath to get in.”
He phoned Agajanian. The attorney swore that Markham Suss had been Tara Sly’s only Sugar Daddy. “The door’s already been opened, Lieutenant. I have no reason to play games.”
Milo didn’t answer.
Agajanian said, “What do you want from me?”
“The truth.”
“You have it. One client. Period. If there was another and he killed her, I’d want you to know because I’d want you to catch him because the last thing we need is some nutcase using us. She had one Daddy and that was Suss. One. Uno. Mek—that’s Armenian. Okay?”
Milo rolled his eyes. “Your sisters claim they screen everyone.”
“They do. A criminal background check is run on every candidate.”
“So you ran one on Tara Sly.”
“And it came back clean.”
“I’d expect that, Brian, seeing as Tara Sly’s not her real name.”
Silence. “That’s not our responsibility.”
Milo said, “Ever think of working fo
r the federal government?”
“Look, Lieutenant, in the last analysis we can only go by what they tell us. We’ve never had a problem.”
“Until now.”
“We still don’t have a problem. Markham Suss died nine months ago. Last time I checked people can’t murder from the grave. We’ve cooperated fully. Why do you have to keep pushing your weight around?”
“Bulk is my secret weapon,” said Milo. “Makes lunch tax-deductible.”
He clicked off. “Okay, let’s assume Muhrmann and Tara were doing some kind of dinner theater at the hotel. If the production went real wrong, Muhrmann could be a second victim, not a suspect. That would sure fit two killers, Mr. Bad Date brought along help in order to subdue a big, aggressive man.”
“Makes sense.”
He yanked his tie loose. “Makes sense but it would also mean bye-bye prime suspect and back to square one. The elusive Ms. Longellos isn’t jumping out at me as someone I need to pursue. She hooked up with Muhrmann at Awakenings, wrote him a reference, big deal. Okay, let’s head back to civilization. I saw some chicken in your fridge this morning looked fine, so Thai will just have to wait for the privilege of entering my digestive tract.”
Robin was in the living room, snuggling with Blanche and reading.
Milo bowed and kissed her cheek. He looked down at the dust jacket, grinned at the title. Trouble. “Someone already wrote my autobiography?”
“It’s a novel, darling.”
“So is my life,” he said. “Filed under Horror or Comedy depending on what day you catch me.”
“No progress on that poor girl?”
“More like anti-progress.”
“Tell me.”
“Trust me, you don’t wanna know.”
“Trust me, Milo. I do.”
Blanche let out a soft, breathy bark.
“Outvoted,” he said and proceeded to summarize.
Robin said, “Mystery. A girl who sells herself to the highest bidder is anything but mysterious. How old was she?”
“Her profile says twenty-four.”
“Pathetic.”
She got up, hugged me. “You guys eat yet? I made spaghetti with porcinis, there’s plenty left.”
I said, “The gourmet here prefers cold chicken.”
Milo said, “The gourmet will eat spaghetti with porcinis and like it.”
“You can have both,” said Robin.
“You are a wise, wise woman.”
The two of them headed for the kitchen but I veered to my office and cybersearched tara sly.
That pulled up MySpace pages for three separate women, one of them tarra. None was the girl who called herself Mystery.
I tried variants: torra, terri, sligh, sleigh, with no success.
Plugging in markham mcreynold suss was more productive: nine hits, most from business and trade journals covering the sale, twenty-five months ago, of Markham Industries to a private equity group based in Abu Dhabi.
A garment manufacturer with headquarters in Los Angeles and factories in Macao and Taiwan, Markham specialized in bottom-grade women’s undergarments and panty hose designed to look expensive. The company had been established in 1946 by Alger and Marjorie Suss, postwar transplants to L.A. from Ohio, where the couple had built up a small chain of dry-goods stores in Dayton, Columbus, and Akron before Marjorie’s chronic bronchitis spurred a move westward.
Her designs had formed the basis for the new concern based upon a conviction that only a woman could understand what made a “female foundation garment” comfortable. Eventually, that practical sensibility gave way to “cutting-edge concepts combined with low-cost materials” under the direction of Alger and Marjorie’s son Markham.
“This is a business based on sensory gratification not durability,” he was quoted in Barron’s. “There’s no reason a bra or a pair of panties should be expected to last forever. Women want style, they want class, they want that intangible but inexorable feeling of tactile sensuality that enhances feelings of femininity. To that end, polyester works as well as silk.”
A black-and-white photo of Suss’s parents said they could’ve posed for American Gothic if Grant Wood had been looking for more dour. Markham’s resemblance to his father was obvious. Both men were bald with distinctive faces: long, lean, lantern-jawed, thin-lipped. But where Alger’s prim visage radiated self-denial, Markham’s triumphant smile trumpeted bon vivant.
Alger looked as if he lived indoors. Tara Sly’s Sugar Daddy was flamboyantly tan.
Markham Suss’s high-dome pate, sun-splotched and naked save for white wisps curling above heavy-lobed ears, connoted nothing but advanced age. The same went for snow-puff eyebrows and a bulbous nose. But all that surrendered to crinkly bright eyes and an impish, boyish upturn of lip. The end result was a handsome man of a certain age projecting youthful exuberance.
Perhaps exuberance had something to do with the sum he’d gotten for his company: eighty-four million dollars, all cash.
When asked by L.A. Trade Quarterly whether he planned another venture in the rag trade, Markham Suss’s reply was unqualified: “Not a chance and I’d give you the same answer even if I wasn’t encumbered by a noncompetition clause. I’m going to embrace my good fortune and make creative use of my newfound freedom.”
Those same sentiments had found their way to his SukRose profile.
For all his bravado, just another man fighting mortality and shouting Look at me?
I turned to the nonbusiness references.
Two cited Markham and Leona Suss as donors at charity functions. The beneficiaries were a retirement home for screen actors and an inner-city arts program.
The third was a Beverly Hills Courier social-pages item citing a benefit for breast cancer at the Crystal Visions Art Glass Gallery in Encino.
That one featured a full-color illustration.
Markham and Leona Suss, flanked by two sons and daughters-in-law, had posed in front of an array of vitreous abstraction.
Tara Sly’s Sugar Daddy wore a navy blazer, aqua T-shirt, and indigo jeans. Trim man but the shirt stretched over a paunch that he seemed to flaunt.
Leona Suss was tall, bony, black-haired, around her husband’s age. Her pink leather jumpsuit was body-conscious. Enormous horn-rimmed glasses distracted from the rest of her face.
The tendency for son to favor father continued with Dr. Franklin Suss, bald, lean-but-potbellied, dressed identically to Markham but for a maroon T-shirt. Clutching his arm was Dr. Isabel Suss, a short, compact brunette in an olive-drab pantsuit.
The genetic train ground to a halt at Philip Suss, who appeared around the same age as his brother. Several inches taller than Markham and Frank, he sported a full head of dark wavy hair, a thicker, broader build, and a flat belly. A rust-colored caftan-type garment hung nearly to his knees.
His shapely blond wife was attired in an orange sari embroidered with gold thread and was identified as the owner of the glass gallery.
Connie Longellos-Suss.
I searched using her name as a keyword, found nothing. Tried crystal visions and learned on an art glass site that the gallery had closed six months ago.
I ran searches on both sons, learned about Isabel in the process. She and Franklin practiced together as dermatologists in Beverly Hills.
If Philip Suss was gainfully employed, the Internet hadn’t found out.
Printing what I needed, I made my way to the kitchen.
Milo was forking spaghetti onto three plates. Blanche nibbled daintily on a Milk-Bone. Robin poured red wine.
She said, “Perfect timing, dinner’s on, baby.”
I said, “And I brought dessert.”
obin was the first to speak. “People find each other on the site by surfing randomly through profiles. But Muhrmann managed to hook Tara up with his cougar girlfriend’s father-in-law?”
I said, “It’s possible Daddies can narrow their searches using keywords. Cohiba comes to mind.”
“What’s a Cohi
ba?”
“High-priced Cuban cigar. Suss mentions enjoying them and Tara says she’s a nonsmoker but she doesn’t mind if her date lights one up. Given what we know, that does seem like conspicuous branding.”
Milo crumpled a still-clean napkin. “Muhrmann and Connie used Tara as a lure for Suss. Wealthy family, it has to be something financial.”
Robin said, “Get your hooks in the old guy and start siphoning cash.”
I said, “Connie’s got a motive. Her gallery went under half a year ago but she had to know well before then that she was failing. Brother Frank’s a doctor but brother Phil doesn’t seem to have a job.”
Robin said, “Maybe Phil’s job was at the underwear company and he felt betrayed when Daddy sold out.”
“Money plus revenge,” said Milo. “A wealth of riches.”
The three of us returned to my office where I searched markham industries. Most of the hits reported the sale, seen as a coup for Markham Suss. But predating those was the catalog of a garment trade show in Hong Kong listing the company’s executive staff.
Markham M. Suss, President,
Chairman of the Board, Chief Executive,
Chief Operating Officer
Leona A. Suss, Vice President and Chief Financial Officer
Franklin D. Suss, M.D., Materials Consultant
Philip M. Suss, Design Consultant
Milo said, “Daddy takes four titles for himself, no mistaking who’s in charge. Officially Mommy handles the money and maybe that’s real. Or she gets a salary to stay out of Daddy’s hair. The boys get bullshit titles, maybe a stipend.”
I said, “What I find interesting is that even though Franklin has a career of his own, he tops Phil’s billing. That could turn out just to be alphabetization. But if it’s a sign of favoritism, Connie’s anger quotient just got kicked up.”
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