Flesh and Blood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Yah, wit de dogs. Missus Ellis has dogs— de Pekes— and dey bark a leetle, vy not, dere dogs, no? But heem”— she hooked a thumb toward LeMoyne's house—“is de beeg baby, always coplain, always wit dee-bark dem, dee-bark dem.”

  Irina Ovensky drew a finger along her throat.

  “He wants you to debark the dogs.”

  “Yah. Crrooo-el, no?”

  “Not an animal lover,” said Milo.

  “A boy lover,” she said.

  “He brings boys here?”

  “Jus wan.”

  “How old?”

  Irina Ovensky shrugged. “Twenny, twenny-two.”

  “A young man.”

  “Yah, but leetle, like a boy. Skeeny, wit de yellow hair up here”— patting her head—“and de tattoo, here.” Her hand lowered to her shoulder.

  “What does the tattoo say?” said Milo.

  “I don’ know, I don’ get dat close.” Ovensky stuck out her tongue.

  “When's the last time you saw Mr. LeMoyne and this person?” said Milo.

  “Las’ night. Dey get in de car and go.” Flick of the hand.

  “Mr. LeMoyne's car.”

  “Mertzedes. Red.”

  “What time was this, ma'am?”

  The sight of Milo's notepad set off sparks in Ovensky's brown eyes.

  “Eleven, eleven-tirty,” she said. “I hear dem tawkin', so I look tru de vindow.”

  “Eleven, eleven-thirty,” echoed Milo.

  “Yah. Is important?”

  “Could be, ma'am. Any idea where they went?”

  “Who know? Wherever dey types go.”

  “Were they carrying luggage— suitcases?”

  “Yah, two big suitcases. Maybe dey stay away and we don’ get no dee-bark dem, dee-bark dem. De dogs have a right to sing, no?”

  “Two suitcases,” said Milo, back at the unmarked. “Not a yearlong cruise, but enough for a while.”

  He glanced back at the mansion. Irina Ovensky remained in the door, and she smiled and waved.

  “A saint,” I said.

  “The type you take home to Mom.” He waved back, smiling. His jawline knotted as he opened the car door, got in, took out the envelope. “Okay, let's have a look at these.” Flipping through the photos quickly, he paused at a close-up of the stocky man's face. “He does have that mechanic look. . . . Still, what I said holds. If he was doing wet work for the Dukes, why would they keep him close? If I have time, I'll run this by the Organized Crime Task Force.”

  “Didn't know there was one,” I said.

  “Since the fifties. Not much mafia in L.A., so for years the task force guys enjoyed long lunches. Now they're tied up with Asian and Latin drug gangs, but who knows— maybe this mug'll show up in their files. The Morris office is closed, but I'll be there first thing tomorrow morning, see if I can learn anything about Justin LeMoyne's travel habits before they kick my butt out to South Rodeo— Think I should wear a designer suit?”

  “You own one?”

  “Yeah, fashion by Sir Kay of the Mart. I put a call in to a guy at the D.A.'s office who worked on Gretchen's case— let's see if Kent Irving's name shows up, for what that's worth. I also placed my third call to Leo Riley, still no answer.”

  “So much for professional courtesy,” I said.

  “More likely he's got nothing to tell me. We law-enforcement types don't like to dwell on our failures. Meanwhile, I'm packing it in for the evening. Rick has informed me that we're going to eat at a genuine restaurant tonight, where we will pretend to be persons deserving of fine cuisine and impeccable service. And then, maybe a movie. He says if I bring the phone, he will dismantle it with surgical precision.”

  “Frustrated.”

  “I tend to do that to people.”

  31

  I CRACKED THE bedroom door. Robin was curled on her side, the top sheet pulled down to her bare belly, mouth parted, breathing slowly. As I approached the bed and shut off the alarm clock, her eyes opened.

  “A minute to six,” I whispered. “Good morning.”

  She yawned and stretched. “I got tired . . . didn't see you much today— what'd you do?”

  “Took a little drive up the coast.”

  “Oh . . . I was thinking maybe we'd have dinner somewhere at the beach. Guess not, now that you've already—”

  “The beach is one thing,” I said. “The beach with you is another.”

  Kissing her chin. What a sweet guy. But all the time thinking: Malibu's a small place. Running into someone I knew would not be pretty.

  * * *

  By the time we left the house it was eight P.M., and we reached the coast highway twenty minutes later. I bypassed all the trendoid-infested spots-of-the-week and tried a place we'd never been before— a gray-wood café resembling an oversized bait shack perched on a mound of dirt above PCH. On the land side, just past Big Rock, where massive mudslides are the rule and thirty-foot-wide beach properties level off at a million and a half bucks. The decor was rickety picnic tables, sawdust floors, daily printed menus with all the polish of a high school bulletin, char broilers on overdrive, beery dialogue. The room was high enough to catch a clean vista of black ocean, and if the grandmotherly old waitress who greeted us with “Hello, dearies” had ever harbored showbiz illusions, they predated Technicolor.

  Several miles before Paradise Cove.

  We huddled at a tiny table in the corner, gorged on the mixed seafood grill, fresh corn, creamed spinach, decent Chablis, terrible coffee.

  Having a life, and when Robin said, “You seem a little more relaxed,” I hid my surprise and nodded innocently. Cheryl Duke's number sat in my wallet, but Robin never goes through my things.

  I reached for her hand. She allowed me to hold it for a few minutes, then let go, and I wondered if I was less Olivier than I'd given myself credit for.

  “Everything okay?” I said.

  “Everything's fine. Just a little tired.”

  “Still?”

  “Guess so.”

  * * *

  We went to bed without making love, and I slept restlessly.

  The next morning she was up way before me, and by the time I reached the kitchen she was heading out with Spike.

  “Errands?” I said.

  “Elvis, again. He still thinks he can sing— Stay safe.”

  “You too.”

  “Me?” she said. “That's never an issue for me.”

  Before I could respond, she was gone.

  * * *

  I didn't hear from Milo until three P.M. “No progress on LeMoyne and Salander's travel plans, couldn't get past the front desk at Morris, and the prosecutor who handled Gretchen's case has been kicked upstairs to Washington, D.C. Her assistant has taken over, and she says Kent Irving's name doesn't ring a bell. I asked her to check anyway— I suppose there's a chance she will. I asked her about garment guys, period, and she did admit that Gretchen's girls had worked the Mart— servicing buyers, that kind of thing. But the main reason I'm calling is I identified your Mr. Goombah.”

  “The task force knows him?”

  “Didn't have to go to the task force. I had the photos spread out on my desk last night, and when Rick came in to drag me out to dinner he glommed on to them and said, ‘How do you know Maccaferri?’ As in Dr. Maccaferri. First name, Rene. The guy's a renowned physician, Alex. Big-time researcher headquartered in Paris, but he consults to the National Cancer Institute. Rick recognized him because he attended a seminar Maccaferri gave last year. Prostate cancer. It's his specialty.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Tony Duke's sick.”

  “And Dutiful Son went to the airport to pick up his doctor.”

  I laughed. “So much for my big-time mafia theories.”

  “Hey, you tried.”

  “Maybe the rest of it's worthless. . . . Cancer— that's why the parties have ended. Why Cheryl said there'd be no more. Tony passed the banner to Anita because he's in no shape to run things. That may also be why Cheryl and the kids
moved back— the gas leak story could be a ploy to keep Tony's illness quiet.”

  “Hold on,” he said. “Maccaferri's no big bad torpedo, but Lauren and a lot of people are still dead. So let's not be too hasty. And I'm still left with little Andy Salander. Alex, the more I think about his cutting out so abruptly, the less I like it. He and LeMoyne packing and leaving in the middle of the night— it's a clear rabbit. The rest of my day will be spent on the phone with the airlines. Maybe I'll luck out. Anyway, thanks for trying, have a nice day.”

  * * *

  Renowned physician.

  So much for my big-time intuition. Milo had been gracious, but was the rest of it— including suspicions of Ben Dugger— just as off base?

  Still, Dugger was an odd man who'd paid good money to Lauren and Cheryl and who knew how many other beautiful blondes to sit in a cold little room and entice men.

  Hiring female flesh, compiling data that hadn't been published or put to any apparent use.

  Hidden cameras, grids in the floor . . . voyeurism masquerading as science. Dugger had eschewed the flash and spark of Tony Duke's lifestyle for . . . what?

  I thought of how easily Dugger had relinquished Cheryl to Tony Duke the moment the old man had made his interests known. The personal trip to LAX to pick up Maccaferri— a job easily accomplished by a factotum.

  Maybe Dugger was a strong adherent to the Fifth Commandment. But perhaps, now that his father was seriously ill, there was a more practical reason to be attentive.

  Back to the money: millions of dollars’ worth of motivation.

  Tony Duke's death was more than theoretical now. One day— perhaps sooner rather than later— Duke Enterprises would be divvied up. Ben Dugger's lifestyle was far from lavish, but his market research seemed to generate very little income, and someone had to pay for the ocean-view high-rise, offices in Newport and Brentwood.

  And now he was closing down Newport and shifting operations to Brentwood.

  Same reason: sticking close to Dad during the final days.

  Dependent upon Dad's good graces. But with his sister at the helm of Duke Enterprises, was he in danger of being cut off? Knowing how Ben and Anita got along would help answer that, and the only indication I had was the fact that there'd been no mention of Ben's attendance at Anita's wedding.

  Then there was the matter of the two other sibs: Sage and Baxter. And Kent Irving, of the pink shirt and Hollywood wink.

  All in all, high risk for conflict. For the type of endgame litigation that meant big winners and catastrophic losers. Big-time rage.

  Cheryl aka Sylvana was no genius, but she had to be aware of the financial ramifications. That could explain her anxiety about being branded a bad mom. Yet that hadn't stopped her from dozing off on the beach. Or giving me her private number.

  Poor judgment . . . pliable.

  Unlike Lauren, toughened by years on the street. Big tips.

  I thought back to Jane Abbot's first call to me. Panicked about Lauren's disappearance, even though Lauren had been on her own for years, had traveled in the past.

  Because the two of them had finally started to reconnect and Lauren had confided in her. Maybe even bragged about her lucrative dodge.

  Perhaps Jane had tried to talk Lauren out of the blackmail scheme— the control issue Lauren had complained about to Andrew Salander.

  Lauren refusing. Signing her death warrant, and that of her onetime partner/friend Michelle. And her mother.

  Milo was chasing down Salander's whereabouts, and maybe that would lead to something. But I couldn't help thinking that any solution lay crouching behind the walls of the Duke estate. High walls, electric gates, closed-circuit TV, cable car that shimmied up and down the cliff side. All of it emitting a clear message:

  Keep out, Stupid.

  And, for the life of me, I saw no way in.

  32

  L.A.'S FIRST COMMANDMENT: When in doubt, drive.

  Years ago— ages ago— when I arrived in the city as a college freshman, the first thing that hit me was: The streets are asphalt rivers. In high school I'd played guitar in a wedding band and filed paper at an architect's office in order to scrape up enough cash for a puke-colored, emphysemic Chevy Nova that my father, a Ford man, despised. (Quoth Harry Delaware: “It's crap, but at least you earned it— nothing you don't earn is worth half a crap.”) That Bondoed, duct-taped chariot whisked me from Missouri to California and, when it reached my dorm, promptly sputtered and died. For most of the first year I was left to the mercies of L.A.'s afterthought bus system— house imprisonment. The following summer a series of late-night jobs had earned me a moribund Plymouth Valiant, chronic insomnia, and the habit of stumbling out of bed before dawn, cruising dark, empty boulevards, and wondering about my future.

  Now I sleep later, but the urge to escape on wheels has never died. It's a different L.A. from my college days, traffic all bunched up and angry and irrevocable, less and less open space until you get up in the Santa Monica Mountains or out on some old stretch of blacktop made redundant by the freeways, but I still love to drive for the sake of driving. It's a trait I share with a certain subsample of psychopaths, but so what— introspection can be a sucker game.

  After Milo hung up I sat at my desk listening to the empty house. Wondering if Robin's increasing absences had to do with more than her work. Wondering how I could've been so wrong about Rene Maccaferri (“He sure doesn't look like a brain surgeon”) and what else I'd screwed up. I got into the Seville. Tony Duke sick, maybe seriously so, amid Malibu splendor. I switched on the tape deck, listened to the Fabulous Thunderbirds being tough enough at way too high a decibel level. Tooling up the glen to Mulholland, turning east into the Hollywood Hills, playing with turns and twists, zoned out, wanting to empty my head.

  Without intending to, I ended up in the heart of Hollywood and back at Sunset Boulevard. No more relaxed, still plagued with supposition. About Lauren's pathway from rebellious kid to garment center hooker to . . . whatever she'd been when the bullet had bounced around in her brain.

  I remembered the paper she'd written for Gene Dalby's social psych class. “Iconography in the Fashion Industry.”

  Women as Meat.

  Bitter about the trade-offs she'd made? Had that played a part in fueling a blackmail scheme, or had she just been greedy?

  It took a long time to crawl through Beverly Hills and the eastern fringe of Bel Air— two of the “Three B's” to which Shawna Yeager had aspired— and when I reached the glen I got caught in the jam and crawled, feeling strangely at home, like a member of some vast, inertial conspiracy.

  No stress from the automotive stalemate; the chrome clog was no worse than the neural traffic in my head. I was trying to figure out what to do with the rest of the day when I realized I'd inched toward Justin LeMoyne's house. As I passed the white bungalow, a flash of movement caught my eye.

  The garage door closing. Just a foot of opening at the bottom as the wooden sheet slid into place. At the first side street I managed to hang a left across both lanes, hooked a three-point turn, pulled to the corner, and waited. Seven minutes later the garage door opened and a red Mercedes convertible, its top up, nosed out with its left turn signal blinking. Whoever was at the wheel was trying to swing across and head south.

  Letting the Mercedes in wouldn't have ruined anyone's day, but human kindness was at an ebb and the red car just sat there for a long time, blinking. Finally, a gardener's truck relented, and the convertible was allowed to join the go-nowhere-fast club. Ten car lengths later, so was I.

  Trying not to dwell on the ludicrousness of my tail job of Ben Dugger and Dr. Maccaferri, I tagged along, struggling to keep the Mercedes in view. No mean challenge, because the red car squeaked through the light at Sunset and left me in a queue of five cars. I kept my eye on its rectangular taillights. Right turn. By the time I followed suit, no sign of the red car, and I rolled along with all the other automatons, at a bracing fifteen miles per. Then brake lights flashed in se
ries, and the congestion that anticipated the 405 freeway put the Mercedes back in my sights.

  Thirty yards up, in the left-hand lane. I managed a few less-than-courteous lane changes, and when the Mercedes chose the Sepulveda alternate to the southbound freeway, I'd narrowed the gap and was able to make out the cloudy outline of a solitary driver through the convertible's plastic rear window.

  He stayed on Sepulveda, crossed Wilshire and Santa Monica and Olympic, driving as quickly as traffic would permit. Past the spot where Lauren's body had been dumped. Across Pico and Venice, into Culver City, then a right turn at Washington, a quarter-mile zip, and a quick swing into the parking lot of a small hotel called the Palm Court.