Gone

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Rick,” he said. “His cravats cost more than my suits. When I’m feeling vindictive, I use it against him.”

  He played with the straw, tried to rip the plastic, failed, and jammed it back through the lid of his drink. “Just before I came to your place, I got an I.D. on the phone booth used for the whispering crap. Let’s have a look, it ain’t exactly a trek.”

  * * *

  Gas station at Las Posas and Ventura, a five-minute drive.

  Trucks and cars lined up at the pumps, hungry motorists streamed in and out of an adjacent Stop & Shop. The booth was off to the side, near the bathrooms. No police tape or indication anyone had dusted for prints.

  I remarked on that and he said, “Ventura PD came by at six a.m., lifted a whole bunch of latents. Even with AFIS it’ll be a while before that’s untangled.”

  We went into the food store where he showed the photos to the clerks. Head shakes, apathy. Back outside, he said, “Any ideas?”

  “Whoever stole the purse was careful enough to use the cell for the hang-ups then switch to the pay phone for the whispering. Or, we’re talking two people working as a team. Either way, the caller stuck around in Camarillo, so how about checking over there?” I pointed across Ventura to a mass of other eateries.

  “Sure, why not.”

  We made it through six restaurants before he said, “Enough. Maybe the absentminded Ms. Wasserman will recognize someone.”

  “You didn’t show any shots of Billy Dowd.”

  “Couldn’t come up with any,” he said. “Didn’t figure it mattered ’cause I don’t see Billy making his way out here by himself.”

  “Even if he managed to, the Barneys staff would’ve noticed him.”

  “Not cool enough. Just like junior high.”

  “Why’d you bother showing Peaty’s picture? He didn’t call Vasquez and tag himself as dangerous.”

  “I wanted to see if he’s ever been out here. Looks like none of our parties of interest have been.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Angeline Wasserman is here every month, ‘like clockwork.’ The staff knew her as absentminded so maybe someone else did. Someone stylish enough to blend in, like Dylan Meserve.”

  “No one recognized his picture, Alex.”

  “Maybe he knows something about special effects.”

  “He shops in disguise?”

  “A performance,” I said. “That could be the whole point.”

  * * *

  I took the 101 back to the city, making good time as Milo called in for messages. He had to introduce himself three times to whoever answered at the West L.A. station, hung up cursing.

  “New receptionist?”

  “Idiot nephew of a city councilman, still doesn’t know who I am. For the last three days I’ve gotten no messages, which is fine, except when I’m actually trying to solve a case. Turns out all my slips ended up in someone else’s box— a D named Sterling who’s out on vacation. Luckily it was all junk.”

  He punched Angeline Wasserman’s number. Barely had time to recite his name before he was listening nonstop. Finally, he broke through and set up an appointment to meet in an hour.

  “Design Center, she’s at a rug place, doing a ‘high-level multi-level Wilshire Corridor condo.’ The day she got ripped off she thinks some guy was checking her out in the outlet parking lot.”

  “Who?”

  “All I got was a guy in an SUV, she said she’d work on her recollection. Wanna hypnotize her?” He laughed. “She sounded excited.”

  “Just like Topher the designer. You didn’t know you were in a glam profession.”

  He showed his teeth to the rearview mirror, scraped an incisor. “Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. Time to scare small children and household pets.”

  * * *

  Manoosian Oriental Carpets was a cavernous space on the ground floor of the Design Center’s Blue Building, crammed with hundreds of hand-loomed treasures and smelling of dust and brown paper.

  Angeline Wasserman stood in the center of the gallery’s main room, red-haired, cheerfully anorexic, facially tucked so many times her eyes had migrated, fishlike, toward the sides of her head. Lime-green shantung pants fit her stick legs like Saran around chicken bones. Her orange cashmere jacket would’ve flared if she had hips. Bouncing like a Slinky toy among hemp-bound rolls of rugs, she smiled orders at two young Hispanic guys unfurling a waist-high stack of 20 x 20 Sarouks.

  As we approached her, she sang out, “I’ll do it!” and launched herself at the rugs. Tossing back dense flaps of woven wool, she passed instantaneous judgment on each. “No. No. Definitely no. Maybe. No. No. No on that one, too— we’ve got to do better, Darius.”

  The stocky, bearded fellow she addressed said, “How about some Kashans, Ms. W?”

  “If they’re better than these.”

  Darius waved to the young guys and they left.

  Angeline Wasserman noticed us, inspected a few more piles, finished, and patted her hair and said, “Hello, police people.”

  Milo thanked her for cooperating, showed her the photos.

  Her index finger tapped. “No. No. No. No. No. So, tell me, how come LAPD’s involved when it happened in Ventura?”

  “It might be related to an L.A. crime, ma’am.”

  Wasserman’s piscine eyes glowed. “Some sort of big-time crime ring? Figures.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Someone who recognizes a Badgley Mischka is clearly a pro.” She waved away the photos. “Think you’ll ever find my little beauty?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “In other words, no. Okay, that’s life, it was a year old, anyway. But should a miracle come down from above, the one thing I ask is that you only return it if it’s in perfect shape. If it’s not, just donate it to some police charity and let me know so I can write it off. Here today, gone tomorrow, right, Lieutenant?”

  “Good attitude, ma’am.”

  “My husband thinks I’m pathologically insouciant, but guess who looks forward to getting up in the morning and who doesn’t? Anyway, there wasn’t much cash in there, maybe eight, nine hundred dollars and I put a stop on the magic plastic.”

  “Had anyone tried to use the cards?”

  “Thank God, no. My AmEx Black’s limitless. The phone’s no big deal, either, it was time for an upgrade. Now, let me tell you about that guy who was checking me out. He was already there when I pulled into the lot, so he wasn’t stalking me or anything like that. What probably happened is he was casing the lot for a pigeon— that’s the right term, isn’t it?— and he saw me as a perfect little dove.”

  “Because of the purse.”

  “The purse, my clothes, my demeanor.” Bony hands traversed bony flanks. “I was dolled out, guys. Even when hunting le grande bargainne, I refuse to dress down.”

  “How was this person checking you out?” said Milo.

  “Looking at me. Right through his car window.”

  “His window was rolled up?”

  “All the way. And it was tinted, so I couldn’t get a good look. But I’m sure he had his eye on me.” Curled lashes danced. “I’m not flattering myself, Lieutenant. Believe me, he was looking.”

  “What do you remember about him?”

  “Caucasian. I couldn’t make out details but the way he was turned I had a full view of his face.” A red-nailed finger touched a collagen lip. “By Caucasian, I mean light skinned. I suppose he could’ve been a pale Latino or some kind of Asian. Not black, that I can tell you for sure.”

  “He stayed in the car the whole time?”

  “And continued to watch me. I just know he was following me with his eyes.”

  “Was the engine idling?”

  “Hmm...no, I don’t think so...no, definitely not.”

  “Everything you saw was through the glass.”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t just what I saw, it was what I felt. You know, that itchy tingle you get on the back of your neck when someone’s watching you?”
/>
  “Sure,” said Milo.

  “I’m glad you understand because my husband doesn’t. He’s convinced I’m flattering myself.”

  “Husbands,” said Milo, grinning.

  Wasserman’s return smile tested the outer limits of her skeletal face.

  “Could there have been more than one person in the car, Ms. Wasserman?”

  “I suppose so, but the feeling I got was one person.”

  “The feeling.”

  “There was just a...solitary flavor to him.” She touched a concave abdomen. “I trust this.”

  “Is there anything else you can say about him?”

  “At first, I just figured it for guy behavior— checking out the goods. After the Badge got stolen was when I started thinking he could’ve been up to no good. Was the phone used?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where’d they call? Outer Mongolia or some crazy place?”

  “L.A.”

  “Well,” said Angeline Wasserman, “that shows a lack of creativity. Maybe I was wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “Him being some high-level crime guy and not just a crook.”

  “High level because he knew what a Badge was,” said Milo.

  “The whole image— being at Barneys, driving a Rover.”

  “A Range Rover?”

  “A real pretty one, shiny and new-y.”

  “What color?”

  “Silver, mine’s anthracite. That’s why it didn’t bother me at first, his looking at me. Both of us with Rovers, parked near each other? Kind of a twinsie karma, you know?”

  CHAPTER 33

  A new stack of rugs arrived. Angeline Wasserman inspected a fringe. “These knots are tangled.”

  Milo muttered, “Story of my life.”

  If she heard him, she didn’t indicate. “Darius, are these the best you’ve got?”

  * * *

  Driving to Butler Avenue, I said, “AmEx Black, never used.”

  “I know, same as with the Gaidelases. But do you see them tooling around in a Range Rover that just happens to match Nora Dowd’s?”

  No need to answer.

  When we arrived at the station, Milo demanded his messages from the new receptionist, a terrified bald man in his forties named Tom, who said, “There’s nothing new, Lieutenant, I promise.”

  I followed Milo’s chuffy climb up the stairs. When we reached his office, he unpacked his attaché, placed the autopsy file next to his computer, and requested a BOLO on the Range Rover, all before sitting down.

  “How about this, Alex: Nora and Meserve have an 805 love nest and those brochures were a diversion. I’m thinking something on the beach because what’s a rich girl without a beach house? Could be right there in Camarillo, or farther north— Oxnard Harbor, Ventura, Carpinteria, Mussel Shoals, Santa Barbara, or points beyond.”

  I said, “Could be points south, too. Maybe Meserve didn’t know Latigo because he’d hiked there.”

  “Nora’s a Malibu gal,” he said. “Has a rural hideaway tucked in the mountains.”

  “Something registered to her individually, not part of the BNB partnership.”

  “Easy enough to find out what she pays property tax on.” He flipped the computer on. The screen flashed blue, then black, sparked a couple of times, and died. Several attempts to reboot were greeted by silence.

  He said, “Expelling profanities is a waste of oxygen. Let me borrow someone else’s terminal.”

  I used the time to leave another message for Robin. Read through Michaela’s autopsy findings again.

  Playing with veins and arteries.

  The PlayHouse.

  Nora tiring of theatrical abstractions. Meeting Dylan Meserve and discovering common interests.

  Embalming. Nora’s taste in pets.

  Milo returned.

  “Good news?” I said.

  “If failure’s your idea of success. The circuit that feeds all the computers is down, tech support was summoned hours ago. I’m going downtown to the assessor’s office to do it the old-fashioned way. If tax leeches communicate with their buds in other counties maybe I can get hooked up with Ventura and Santa Barbara. If not, I’m on the road again.”

  Humming the Willie Nelson song.

  “You’re taking this well.”

  “All part of my audition,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Mentally stable individual.” Grabbing his jacket, he opened the door and held it for me.

  I said, “Taxidermy.”

  “What?”

  “The coroner’s guess about embalming. Think Nora’s fluffy dog.”

  He sat back down. “Some horrific arts and crafts thing?”

  “I was thinking stage prop.”

  “For what?”

  “Grand Guignol.”

  He shut his eyes, knuckled a temple. “Your mind...” The eyes opened. “If Dowd and Meserve have an evil hobby, why wasn’t Michaela actually messed with?”

  “She was rejected,” I said. “Same for Tori Giacomo. Or not. Scattered bones make it impossible to know.”

  “Why?”

  I shook my head. “That level of pathology, the symbolism can be beyond anyone else’s comprehension.”

  “Two pretty girls wrong for the part,” he said. “The Gaidelases, on the other hand, have never been found. Meaning maybe their heads are hanging on a damn wall?”

  Another temple massage. “Okay, now that the images are firmly planted in my brain and I’m sure to have a lovely day, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I followed him up the hall. When we reached the stairwell, he said, “Snuff and stuff. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

  * * *

  On our way out, Tom the receptionist sang out, “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

  Milo’s reply was sotto voce and obscene. He left me standing on the sidewalk and continued to the staff parking lot.

  Seeing his irritation at the lost messages brought to mind the disgusted look on Albert Beamish’s face yesterday.

  Constitutional crankiness? Or had the old man, ever eager to spread dirt on the Dowds, poked around and actually learned something useful? Tried to tattle and got no callback?

  No sense overloading Milo’s circuits. I drove to Hancock Park.

  * * *

  Beamish’s doorbell was answered by a tiny Indonesian maid in a black uniform clutching a dust-clogged feather duster.

  “Mr. Beamish, please.”

  “No home.”

  “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “No home.”

  Walking over to Nora’s house, I took a close look at the barn doors of her garage. Bolted. I nudged the panels, felt some give, but my bare hands were unable to spread the doors wide enough. Milo had left it at that. I wasn’t bound by the rules of evidence.

  Fetching a crowbar from the trunk of the Seville, I carried it parallel to my leg, went back, and managed to pry the doors an inch apart.

  A stale gasoline smell blew out. No Range Rover or any other vehicle. At least Milo could be spared the bother of a warrant.

  My cell phone beeped. “Dr. Delaware? It’s Karen from your exchange. I’ve got a message from Dr. Gwynn that was marked priority. He asked if you can come by his office soon as you have a chance.”

  “Dr. Gwynn’s a she,” I said.

  “Oh...sorry. Louise wrote this one down, I’m new. Do you usually specify gender?”

  “Don’t worry about it. When was the call?”

  “Twenty minutes ago, just before I came on.”

  “Did Dr. Gwynn give a reason for wanting me over?”

  “It just says asap, Doctor. Want the number?”

  “I know it.”

  For Allison to reach out, it had to be something bad. Her grandmother. Another stroke? Worst-case scenario?

  Even so, why call me?

  Maybe because she had no one else.

  Her message tape picked up. I drove to Santa Monica.
<
br />   * * *

  Empty waiting room. The red light next to her name was unlit, meaning no session in progress. I pushed open the door to the inner offices, proceeded through a short hall to Allison’s corner suite. Knocked on her door and didn’t wait for an answer.