The house was bland, bright, kept up meticulously. Glass tabletops gleamed, cushions were plump, fresh flowers overflowed vases, bad poster art hung strategically. The nugget of garden on the other side of sliding glass doors was overplanted but green and glowing. Oral Marshbarger would be pleased.
Lori said, “I’ll go get her,” and returned wearing a baggy beige blouse, faded nonskinny jeans, flat sandals. She’d taken down her hair, put on hoop earrings. Divana Layne née Madeleine Ann Gibson trudged behind her in a gray Power Gym sweatshirt and black yoga pants.
No prostitution record for her but her young adulthood had been marked by a trio of shoplifting episodes and she’d ended up at the same group home as Lori.
Milo said, “Hi, ladies. Please sit.”
“We’re okay,” said Divana. No reason to laugh but she did. Same throaty glee I’d heard from the deep end of the pool.
Milo said, “Please sit anyway. So I don’t have to stretch my neck.”
The women looked at each other. Settled on the edges of blue-velvet chairs, ankles crossed demurely.
Milo said, “So who wants to start?”
“Start what?” said Divana.
“The saga of Phil and Frank.”
Lori said, “We’re friends, that’s all.”
“Swimming buddies,” said Milo.
“Is it against the law?”
“To what?”
“Do a married guy,” said Divana. “If you think that, maybe you should live in Arabia or something.”
Lori said, “It’s a good deal. Keeps everyone happy.”
“Twenty-six grand a year keeps you happy.”
Divana twisted a ring. Small stone, maybe real.
She said, “We keep the peace, you guys should thank us.”
“Keep the peace and pay your rent,” said Milo. “Not that fifty-two grand a year means much to guys like Phil and Frank.”
Both women bristled.
Divana said, “Why are you here?”
“Steve Muhrmann.”
Blank looks.
“And, of course, Tara Sly.”
Divana’s nose wrinkled. Baffled.
Lori said, “Who are these people? You’re weirding us out.”
“Maybe you know Tara by her real name. Tiara Grundy.”
Divana giggled. Lori turned to her.
Milo said, “Something funny?”
Divana said, “Grundy sounds like an old lady. Like from a movie or something.”
“Unfortunately for Tiara, she’ll never get old.”
“Bummer,” said Divana. “What does that have to do with us?”
Milo showed them Tiara’s SukRose bikini shot.
Divana’s smugness vaporized. Lori said, “Oh. Omigod.”
Divana said, “That’s crazy—I need a drink. Anyone else?”
“Coke Zero,” said Lori.
“We’re fine,” said Milo.
“I’m not fine,” said Lori. “I’m freaked out.”
Half a Bloody Mary later, Divana licked brick-colored grit from her lips. “Yeah, we know who she is, she’s their father’s girlfriend, so what?”
“You met her.”
“No, they told us about her.” Pause. “Showed us her picture.”
“In what context?”
“What do you mean?”
“How did she come up?”
“Hmm,” said Divana. “I think it was at Cabo ... no, it was Sedona, right? Yeah, Sedona. Right, Lore?”
Lori drew her legs up, yoga-like, tapped a sandal. “I’m thinking yes.” She nudged an earring. “Yeah, definitely Sedona.”
I said, “One of your trips with Phil and Frank.”
Nods.
“You do a lot of those?”
“Not enough, let me tell you,” said Divana.
“Their schedules,” said Lori.
“At least they don’t have kids,” said Divana. “Just business.”
“And wives.”
I said, “Kids tie you down.”
“That’s what they tell us.”
“Phil and Frank?”
“No, our friends who have them.”
“But even with wives, the brothers manage to get away.”
“The brothers,” said Divana, shooting a lopsided grin. As if she’d never thought of them that way. “They’re the best little boys.”
“How did the subject of their father’s girlfriend come up?”
“Hmm ... we were ... I guess in bed. Right, Lore?”
“Probably.”
“We spend lots of time in bed,” said Divana. “Room service, champagne, pay-per-view, what’s better? That day, they went off to see some red rocks. Frankie and Philly, not us. We said suit yourselves, boys, we’re staying here with Mr. Moët and Mr. Chandon.”
I said, “But at some point all of you were in bed and the subject of Markham Suss’s love life came up.”
“Love life?” said Divana. “More like sex life. They said he was a total horndog, that’s where they got it from.”
“Proud of their heritage.”
“Huh?”
“They liked taking after their father.”
“Yeah, exactly. And then one of them said—I’m not sure if it was Philly or Frankie—he said guess what, the old guy’s hooked up with some piece he found online, he didn’t even used to like the computer. They thought it was funny.”
“They knew that because ...”
“I don’t know,” said Divana. “Maybe he told them.”
Lori said, “Maybe he was proud so he told them.”
“At his age, Lore? Probably super-proud. Probably Viagra, but still.”
“One thing I didn’t like,” said Lori, “was their making a big deal about her being young.”
“Tiara.”
Nod. “They were like, ‘She’s fresh, not a wrinkle.’ I said keep pushing it, Bad Boys, and we’ll kick you hard in the you-know-whats.”
“They like to be talked to that way,” said Divana.
I said, “Submissive.”
“Not really, they just like when we have spirit.”
Lori said, “That’s what they call it. Spirit.”
“So they were impressed with how young Tiara was.”
Lori said, “Philly started, I remember ’cause that time I was with Frankie and she was with Philly and Frankie started to laugh after Philly said it and his chin bumped me and I got p.o.’d, almost pushed him off.”
“That time you were with Frankie,” I said. “Other times you’re with Phil?”
Both women looked at the floor.
I said, “There’s no formal arrangement, everything’s relaxed.”
Divana’s eyes locked on mine. “It’s not illegal, okay?”
“You bet.”
“Think of it like a club. Fun Club, exclusive membership.”
I said, “This may be a stupid question but do their wives know?”
“Maybe,” said Lori.
“I think so, too,” said Divana. “Maybe.”
I said, “Really.”
“They don’t seem real careful. Use credit cards for everything and they’re like gone a lot.”
“With us,” said Lori. “Two months ago we went to Jackson Hole, hot-air ballooning. Private balloon. It was beautiful.”
“So was the Four Seasons,” said Divana. “That fireplace. Yum chocolates.”
I said, “What did Frankie and Philly really think about Tiara?”
“We just told you,” whined Lori. “They were happy. That he was having fun. They thought it was funny. It didn’t bug them.”
“They didn’t resent her?”
“No way.”
“Any money their father gave her they’d never get.”
“They don’t care about money,” said Lori.
“They’ve got tons of money,” said Divana. “All they care about is you-know-what.”
“They never expressed any bad feelings at all toward Tiara?”
“They’re not l
ike that, they’re happy. Like little boys.”
“Boys,” Lori echoed.
Milo spelled out the time of the murder. “Do either of you have any idea what Phil and Frank were doing then?”
Lori said, “C’mon, you can’t really think they would do something horrible like that.”
“If we find out they had opportunity, we’ll be after them and you won’t be able to stay under the radar.”
“What did we do?” said Divana.
“Had the wrong kind of friends.”
“You’re wrong. They’re not like that.”
He repeated the time frame. “Can you vouch for their whereabouts?”
Lori shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
I said, “It does sound like a fun club.”
“We’re just having a good time, what they do with their wives is their problem.”
“Or don’t do,” said Lori, giggling.
“About Tara Sly,” I said. “What else did they tell you?”
“Just that.”
“Their father’s girlfriend.”
“Yup.”
“It didn’t bother them.”
“Not at all.”
Lori said, “Who killed her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“How’d she die?”
“She got her face blown off.”
Divana said, “With like dynamite?”
“With guns.”
“Oh, no,” said Lori.
“Yuck,” said Divana. Tougher timbre in her voice. But she was the first to water up. “Why would someone do that?”
“Once we know that, we’ll catch whoever did it. You’ll notice I said ‘guns.’ Plural.”
Lori said, “Two guys did her?”
“Looks that way.”
Divana’s eyes got huge. “You’re kidding—no, no way.” She squirmed in her chair. Recrossed her ankles. Looked away from her friend. “Actually,” she murmured.
Lori leaned toward her.
Divana gave a long, chest-heaving sigh. Two hair tosses.
“Divvy?” said Lori.
“It’s no big deal, Lore.”
“What?”
Milo said, “You know where they were that night, Divana.”
Nod.
“What, Div?”
“I know, okay?”
“That was the night you said you had to visit your mother.”
Divana’s smile was sickly.
Lori’s mouth dropped open. “You—oh, wow, I can’t believe—”
“It’s not my fault, Lore. They called.”
“I was here.”
Divana said, “I know, but ...”
“But what?”
“It’s them, not me, Lore.”
“I was right here!”
“I’m sorry, okay? They didn’t want that, okay?”
“Didn’t want me?” Lori clutched her abdomen.
“It wasn’t like that, Lore. It wasn’t not you, it was ... they wanted to try something different, okay? It’s no big deal, they still dig you, look at all the times since then—it was once, okay? Okay?”
Lori’s jaw worked.
Divana reached for Lori’s hand. Lori yanked it away.
“It’s not my fault, Lore. They wanted it, they asked for it. Like specific.”
“Just you, huh? They said that? Or you suggested it.”
“Why would I do that, it would just be more ... they wanted to try it, okay? For something different. It’s. No. Big. Deal.”
Lori heaved her cola glass across the room. It landed on carpeting, bled brown, rolled still. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
“It’s no big deal, Lore.”
“Maybe not to a total slut.”
“I’m a slut? You’re the one made me watch when you—”
“That’s different! You were there, everything was honest. What you did was ... was ... cheating!”
Divana crossed her arms. “I don’t see it that way.”
“Like hell you don’t.”
“Okay. I’m. Sorry. Okay?”
“It’s definitely not okay.” Lori stamped out of the room.
Divana looked at us. “Now see what you’ve done.”
Milo said, “Can you prove you were with Philip and Franklin Suss that night?”
“Why would I make it up and fuck up my thing with Lori? Yes, I can prove it. We checked into the Beverly Hilton at like eight, watched a porn, then another. Then ... afterward we had room service, we didn’t get out of there until early the next morning. I couldn’t go home earlier because Lori thought I was at my mom’s and she lives in Oxnard and I always stay until morning. Frankie had to leave first, he had work, had this procedure, this laser whatever, he put on his doctor stuff—scrubs, white coat—and Phil made some crack about how I could be the patient. Frankie laughed, said that would be a lot more fun than burning out some old broad’s liver spots. We were all in Phil’s car, so we all left and drove Frankie to his office, it was still early, probably around seven thirty. We had the room until eleven so Phil ... it’s not important.”
I said, “You and Phil went back for some private time.”
“Whatever. The main thing is they were with me.”
“Neither of them left the entire evening.”
Divana grinned. “Trust me, they were there. They were totally there.”
Lori never reappeared and Divana remained in her chair. Examining her pedicure as we exited the house.
When we were back in the car, Milo phoned the Hilton, verified the room and the payment with Philip Suss’s platinum card. Records from electronic keys said no one had left until seven forty-eight in the morning, with reentry half an hour later.
I said, “Talk about an ironclad alibi.”
Milo’s smile was wider than Divana’s. “Titanium-clad.”
“Bet that was more fun than your meeting downtown.”
“Death would be more fun than my meeting downtown. That was nirvana.”
We high-fived.
“Bro.”
“Bro!”
Next stop: a quarter hour east on the 101 to North Hollywood.
The old man lived in a calamine-pink bungalow just south of Victory Boulevard. Cutest house on the block. When we got there he was pruning a massive bird-of-paradise that nearly obscured his picture window. A back bent at birth lowered his stature so he needed a footstool to reach the middle of the plant.
I supposed he’d needed some kind of lift to work the bar at the Fauborg. All those years, I’d never thought about that.
When he saw us he put down his clippers.
“Can I help you?”
Teutonic accent. I’d never heard him speak.
Gustave.
I’d pulled a surname from an L.A. Magazine article on the city’s best mixologists.
Milo said, “Mr. Westfeldt, we could use some help.”
The old man listened to the request. “Sure, no problem.”
ress for success.
For this job that meant my best suit, a black Zegna I’d found on sale, a yellow tab-collar shirt with French cuffs, a black-and-gold Hermès tie purchased at the same closeout, Italian loafers so infrequently worn their soles remained glossy.
One hand swung free. The other clasped the handle of a chrome-plated case fitted with stainless-steel clasps.
“Very James Bond,” said Robin. “Aston all gassed up?”
“With jet fuel.”
“Try not to eject.”
She walked me down to the Seville, touched an ancient Detroit-fashioned flank. “Guess this’ll have to do.”
“A boy can dream,” I said. “Zoom zoom zoom.”
The mansion’s copper pedestrian gate was locked. After I pressed the buzzer, the closed-circuit camera rotated. Seconds later, the front door eased ajar and the Slavic maid—Magda—studied me through the crack.
Manfred the cat sat by her feet, a plump bundle of feline confidence.
I smiled and waved.
She pushed the door fully open, came forward. The cat remained in place. “Yes?”
“Dr. Delaware for Mrs. Suss.”
“Doctor?”
“Dr. Alex Delaware.” I checked my watch. Things to see, people to do.
She studied me. “You here before.”
“Sure was.”
Her forehead rumpled.
I let her study my faculty card. The venerable med school across town prints nice-looking credentials, replete with an impressive gold seal. My appointment’s in pediatrics as well as psychology.
Clinical Professor, hoo-hah-hah. A couple of lectures a year, no salary, I get the title. Everyone figures they’re getting a deal.
Magda said, “Missus know you come?”
“You bet.” I hefted the chrome-plated case.
“She sick?”
“Just a checkup.” In a sense, it was.
I pocketed the card. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”
Nothing like a good suit. She unlocked the gate.
Once we were in the house, Magda seemed unsure what to do with me. I left her pondering in the entry and saw myself into the same delft-blue room. Sitting on the same downy sofa, I placed the metal case next to me, released the clasps but kept the lid shut. Crossed my legs and sat back and enjoyed the art and the glorious view to the glorious garden.
Magda came in, flummoxed.
“Go get her,” I said.
“Doctor?”
“Delaware.”
“She sleeping.”
Hardening my voice, I said, “She needs to wake up.”
Leona Suss racewalked into the blue room wearing body-conscious mauve velour sweats, rhinestone-spangled running shoes, and full-metal-jacket makeup. White fingers clamped a cell phone that matched the sweats.
Pale brown eyes zeroed in on mine. The lavender I’d seen last time was a contact-lens invention.
Artificial lashes fluttered like breeding moths.
“Morning, Mrs. Suss,” I said.
“What do you think you’re doing? I need you to leave.”
I rested my hands behind my head.
“Did you hear me?”
Flipping the metal case open, I removed a shiny black laptop, placed it next to me.
“I thought you were a cop.”
“Nope.”
She said, “Well, I don’t care who you are, I’m calling the Beverly Hills police.”
She began punching a number on the mauve phone.
I said, “Suit yourself, Olna.”
Mystery Page 25