“So Lauren didn't come by often,” said Milo.
“She was always busy. With school and all that— the times she was here, she loved Mel's jokes.” Her eyes hardened. “Lyle never told her jokes. Lyle wouldn't know a joke if it— There wasn't much to laugh about in our family. I'm sure you remember that, Dr. Delaware.”
I nodded.
“What a grim life we had. Mel taught me what real living was all about. Then, a year ago, he had the first stroke. Then another. And another. His legs went first, then his mind. Sometimes he's clear as a bell, but mostly he's like what you just saw. My other baby. Thank God the elevator was already in place for Doris or I don't know what we'd do. So it's not that bad. He weighs next to nothing, getting him in the chair's no problem— my training. Bathing him's a bit of a— But no big deal, for the most part, things go smoothly.” Her face constricted, and tears gushed from her eyes. “For the most part, they go very very smoothly.”
I took her hand. Her skin was dry and cold, thrummed by an unseen tremor.
“He'll be beeping me soon,” she said. “He misses me when I'm not there.”
“Do what you need to do, ma'am,” said Milo. “We'll work with you.”
“Thank you. You're sweet. Oh, this is . . . oh . . .” She threw up her hands, laughed horribly.
“A few questions, ma'am. If you feel you can handle it—”
“I can handle anything,” she said, without conviction.
“Some of these questions are going to seem stupid, but they need to be asked.”
“Go ahead.”
“Can you think of anyone who'd want to harm Lauren?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Everyone loved her. She was sugar.”
“No ex-boyfriends? Anyone with a personal grudge?”
“She never had a boyfriend.”
“Never?” said Milo.
Silence.
Jane Abbot said, “She was going places. With her work, her education. Didn't have the time for relationships.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“She told Mel that. When she'd come over, he'd say, ‘You're so gorgeous, doll. Why no stud on your arm?’ Or something like that. She'd laugh and say she didn't have time to waste on a man, and Mel would make cracks about if only he were two hundred years younger. . . . When— If he figures out what happened, it'll crush him.”
Her nose began to run, and I handed her a tissue.
“Her work,” said Milo.
“Modeling— she freelanced, saved up quite a bit of money. It allowed her to go back to school.”
“No time for boyfriends,” he said. “Not a single one.”
“No one that I ever met.” Her eyes shifted to the floor, and I knew she was holding back. Aware of Lauren's real profession?
“Busy with her studies,” said Milo.
“Yes. She loved her classes. Loved psychology, planned to go all the way— get a Ph.D.” To me: “You inspired her. She thought you were great.”
Milo said, “In addition to classes, did she do any psychological work?”
“You mean like volunteering? I don't think so.”
“Volunteering, research.”
“No,” said Jane. “Nothing that she mentioned.”
“What about travel?”
“She took off from time to time. But only for a day or two. Not a week— that's how I knew something was wrong. Andy— her roommate— knew it too. I could tell when I spoke to him. He was worried. He knew this was wrong.”
“Andy,” said Milo. “Lauren and he get along pretty well?”
“Famously, like two peas. He finally got Lauren to spruce that place up. He has a great eye— most of them do.”
“Them?”
“Gays. They're clever that way. It was a smart arrangement. I told Lauren that. No hanky-panky, and he had a great eye for decorating.”
“What did she say to that?”
“She agreed.”
“So,” he said, “you're not aware of any conflict between her and Andy?”
She stared at Milo. “Andy? You can't be— No, no, ridiculous. He'd have no reason— He's more of a girl than a boy. They were like two sorority sisters.”
“No reason for conflict because no sexual tension.”
She blanched. “Well, yes— aren't so many things like this . . . physical— men hurting women because they're . . . twisted?”
“You think this might've been a sexual crime?”
“Well, no,” she said. “I don't think anything— what do I know? Was there— Did someone abuse her?”
“Nothing points that way, ma'am, but we'll have to wait for the coroner.”
“The coroner.” Jane began crying again. I was ready with another tissue, and Milo wrote in his pad. I hadn't seen him take it out.
“When Lauren went off for a few days, where'd she go, Mrs. Abbot?”
She looked up. “I don't really know.” Another eye shift, and something new had come into her voice. Wariness. Milo had to have heard it, but he kept his eyes on the pad.
“So she never told you details, just that she was taking off,” he said.
“Lauren was twenty-five, Detective.” Long bout of crying. “Sorry. I was just thinking: She'll never be twenty-six. . . . Lauren was a private person, Detective. I knew I had to respect that if I wanted to . . . keep getting along. We had . . . a history. Dr. Delaware can fill in the details. Lauren was a really rebellious teenager. Even as a small child, if I pushed, she'd pull. If I said black, she'd insist it was white. Then my ex walked out on us and we got poor overnight and Lauren didn't want to know about that. She ran away when she was sixteen, never lived with me again. For years, I barely heard from her. I tried . . .” She looked at me for support.
I mustered a nod.
“We reconnected,” she went on. “All those years of barely hearing from her, and she wanted to reconnect. I was afraid if I bugged her, I'd lose her. So . . . I didn't. And now . . . maybe if I'd . . .”
“No reason to blame yourself,” I said.
“No? Do you mean that, or is that something you just say to all the . . . whatever I am?”
Her head dropped into her hands. The nape of her neck was moist with sweat. I thought about the lunch that had sent Lauren home upset. Complaining Jane was trying to control her. At odds with Jane's speech about restraint.
She sat up suddenly, flushed, cold-eyed. “What I'm trying to say is I was trying to get to know her again. To know my daughter. And I thought I was doing pretty good. And now . . . I should be able to tell you more but I can't. 'Cause I don't know— it's come to this and I don't know!”
“You're doing fine, ma'am.”
She laughed. “Sure I am. My baby's dead and the one upstairs will be beeping me soon. I'm doing fantastic, just fantastic.”
“I'll do everything I ca—”
“Find whoever did this, Detective. Take this seriously and find him— not the way the cops took it like a joke when Lauren went missing—”
“Of cour—”
“Find him! So I can look him right in the eye. Then, I'll slice his balls off.”
10
MILO QUESTIONED HER a bit longer, honing in on Lauren's finances, any jobs she might've worked between seventeen and twenty-five, any business acquaintances.
“Modeling,” said Jane. “That's the only work I know about.”
“Fashion modeling.”
Nod.
“How'd she get into that, ma'am?”
“I guess she just . . . applied and got work. She's— was a beautiful girl.”
“Did she ever mention an agent? Someone who got her work?”
Jane shook her head. She looked miserable. I've seen the same thing happen to other surviving parents. The pain of ignorance, realizing they'd raised strangers. “She paid her own way, Detective, and that's more than you can say for a lot of kids.”
She unlaced her hands, glanced toward the elevator. “I don't like it when he gets too quiet. As is, I
barely sleep— always worried about something happening to him.” Sickly smile. “This is a bad dream, right? I'll wake up and find out you were never here.”
She sprang up, ran to the elevator. We saw ourselves out, trudged back to the Seville. From somewhere in the hills, an owl hooted. Plenty of owls in L.A. They eat rats.
Milo looked back at the house. “So she knows nothing. Think it's true?”
“Hard to say. When you asked her about Lauren's travel, her eyes got jumpy. Also, when she began talking about Lauren's modeling. So maybe she knows— or suspects— about how Lauren really paid the rent.”
“Something else,” he said. “She was quick to tell us about her prenup with Mel. But even if she did marry him for the loot, I can't see what that has to do with Lauren. Still, I think I'll follow the money trail— Lauren's finances. This one smells like money.”
“Sex and money,” I said.
“Is there a difference?”
I got behind the wheel and turned the key. The dash clock said 1:14 A.M. “Too late for Lyle in Reseda?”
He stretched the seat belt over his paunch. “Nah, never too late for fun.”
* * *
I drove back to Van Nuys Boulevard, turned right and picked up the 101 west at Riverside. The freeway had nearly emptied, and the exits before the Reseda Boulevard off-ramp zipped by like snapshots.
As I got off, Milo said, “Daddy and Mommy live pretty close. Wonder if they had any contact.”
“Mommy says no.”
“So near and yet so far— nice metaphor for alienation, huh? Not that I'm in any mood for that kind of crap.”
Lyle Teague's street was a scruffy, treeless stretch, south of Roscoe, smelling of infertile dirt and auto paint. Apartments that looked as if they'd been put up over the weekend mingled uneasily with charmless single-family boxes. Old pickups and cars that had rolled off the assembly line without much self-esteem crowded curbs and front lawns. Crushed beer cans and discarded fast-food containers clumped atop storm gutters. My slow cruise brought forth a chorus of canine outrage. Dogs that sounded eager to bite.
The Teague residence squatted on a third-acre table of what looked to be swept dirt. Eight-foot chain link gave the property a prison-yard feeling. Something in common with his ex-wife: They both liked being boxed off.
But this house was dark, no outdoor lighting. Milo used his penlight to sweep the property. The narrow beam made it a lengthy exercise, alighting on windows and doors, lingering long enough to arouse suspicion, but neither that nor the continuing hound concerto brought anyone out to check.
The flashlight continued to roam, found a GUARD DOG ON DUTY sign, but no animal materialized to back up the warning. A chain heavy enough to moor a yacht tied the gate to the fence. A fist-sized padlock completed the welcome. The house was a basic box with a face as flat as Spike's but none of my pooch's personality. Pale stucco on top, dark wood siding below. A few feet away sat a prefab carport. A long-bed truck with grossly oversized tires and chromium pipes rested in front of the opening. Too tall to fit inside.
“No squawk box, no bell,” said Milo, scrutinizing the gate.
“Different tax bracket than Jane's.”
“Could make a fellow irritable.” He rattled the chain, called out, “Hello?” got no response, pulled out his cell phone, dialed, waited. Five rings, then a voice on the other end barked loud. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear.
“Mr. Teague— Sir, please don't hang up— This is Detective Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Force. . . . Yes, sir, it's for real, it's about your daughter . . . Lauren. . . . Yes, sir, I'm afraid I am. . . . Sir, please don't hang up— This isn't a prank. . . . Please come outside, we're right in front of your house. . . . Yes, sir, at the gate— Please, sir. Thank you, sir.”
He pocketed the phone. “Woke him up and he's not pleased.”
We waited. Two minutes, three, five. Milo muttered, “Tobacco Road,” checked his watch.
Still no lights on in the little house. Finally, the door opened and I saw the outline of a figure standing in the opening.
Milo called out, “Mr. Teague? We're over here.”
No answer. Twenty seconds passed. Then: “Yeah, I see you.” Gravel voice. Thicker than I remembered, but I didn't remember much about Lyle Teague. “Whyn't you show some I.D.?”
Milo flashed the badge and waved it. The skimpy moon provided little help, and I wondered what Teague could see from this far.
“Do it again.”
Milo's black brows rose. “Yes, sir.” Another wave.
“How do I know it's not a Tijuana special?”
“Department's not that hard up, sir,” said Milo, forcing himself to keep his voice light.
Teague took a few steps closer. Silent steps. Bare feet, I could see them now. Saw the barrel of his bare chest. Wearing nothing but shorts. One hand tented his eyes, the other remained pinioned to his side. “I've got a shotgun here, so if you're not who you claim to be, this is fair warning. If you are, don't lose your cool, I'm just protecting myself.”
Before the speech was complete, Milo had stepped in front of me. His hand was under his jacket, and his neck was taut. “Put the shotgun down, sir. Go back inside your house, phone the West L.A. Division at a number I'm going to give you, and check me out: Milo Sturgis, Detective Three, Homicide.” He recited his badge number, then the station's exchange.
Teague's shotgun arm flexed, but the weapon remained sheathed in darkness.
Milo said, “Mr. Teague, put the shotgun down, now. We don't want any accidents.”
“Homicide.” Teague sounded uncertain.
“That's right, sir.”
“You're saying . . . This is about Lauren? You're saying she . . . ?”
“I'm afraid so, Mr. Teague.”
“Shit. What the hell happened?”
“We need to sit down and talk, sir. Please put down the shotgun.”
Teague's gun arm remained pressed to his side. He stumbled closer, catching just enough moonlight to limn his flesh. But the light didn't reach above his shoulders, and he turned into a headless man: white torso, arms, legs, making their way toward us unsteadily.
“Fuck,” whispered Milo, stepping back. “Put the gun down, sir. Now.”
“Lauren . . .” Teague stopped, spit, kneeled. Placed the shotgun on the ground, straightened, shot both arms up at the sky. Laughed and spit again. Close enough so I could hear the plink of saliva hitting dirt.
“Lauren— Lord, Lord, this is fucked.”
* * *
He made his way over to the gate, head down, arms stiff and swinging. Reaching into a shorts pocket, he took a long time to produce a key, tried to spring the padlock, fumbled around the hole, cursed, began punching the chain link.
Milo said, “Let me help you with that, sir.”
Teague ignored him and gave the lock another stab, with no more success. Breathing hard. I could smell his sweat, vinegary, overlaid with the rotted malt of too many beers. He pounded the fence again, cursed raggedly. Getting a closer look at him sprang a memory latch in my head. Same face, but his features had coarsened and his eyes had regressed to piggish slits. A clot of scar tissue weighed down on the right eye. Still bearded with a full head of long, wavy hair, but the strands were gray and drawn back in a ponytail that dangled over one beefy shoulder, and the once-barbered facial pelt was an unruly bramble.
As he attacked the fence his biceps bunched and his chest swelled. Big, slablike muscles but slackened— drained of bulk, like goatskins emptied of wine.
“Give that to me,” said Milo.
Teague ceased punching, stared at the lock, panted, tried once more to fit the key into the hole. His knuckles were bloody, and wild hairs, pale and brittle as tungsten filament, had come loose from the ponytail. The shotgun, lying in the dirt like a felled branch, might've made him feel younger, sharper.
Finally, he succeeded in springing the lock, ripped the chain free, and flung it behind him. It cla
ttered in the dirt, and he yanked the gate open, holding his hands out defensively, letting us know he didn't want to be comforted.
“Inside,” he said, hooking a thumb at his house. “Fuck if I'm going to let any of these bastards see it.” Squinting at me, he stared, and I prepared myself for recognition. But he turned his back on both of us and began marching toward his front door.
We walked along with him.
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