by Jesse Miles
From the closet, Arden said, “How about the long dress you got on sale right after Christmas? The Valentino with the long sleeves.”
Zara said, “That’s a definite maybe. In fact, I’ll do just that.” She turned to me. “Now if you’ll excuse us, you can go upstairs and entertain yourself while we figure out what we’re going to wear for lunch. Just make yourself comfortable.”
I looked at Atlas and Rex. “You guys want a snack?”
They understood English, and they practically pushed me up the stairs. After I fed them and washed the dog slobber off my hands in the kitchen sink, I went to the living room and made my usual assessment. The decor reminded me of Greta Manning’s living room, except most of the outside light came in through a big skylight, the colors were a little brighter, and the overall look was less spartan. My favorite piece of furniture was a triple glass-door bookcase. I vowed for the eighty-fifth time to replace the bookcases in my home office with glass-door cases. I hate dusty books, and I hate dusting books.
Zara’s office was next door. One wall was covered with framed photographs, mostly of the Manning family. Bobby and Greta Manning’s wedding photo showed a strikingly attractive couple, even if the age difference bordered on robbing the cradle. My favorite photo was of Arden and Zara standing side by side. I guessed their ages at five and sixteen. Arden stood on a table to more or less equalize their height. Zara’s bright smile was further enhanced by the braces on her teeth. Arden leaned into her big sister, smiling crazily and holding two upward fingers in a V behind Zara’s head.
The camera loved Zara’s angular features. She was more photogenic than Arden, but in person Zara looked almost—but not quite—too severe. Arden had a warm, cherubic look that didn’t entirely come through in the photos. Lillie was dramatically good-looking in her photos, but her default facial expression was a cunning, tight-mouthed smirk. In my only opportunity to see Lillie in person, she wasn’t at her best.
I went back to the living room and reviewed the books. When Zara and Arden came up the stairs, I was leaning back in a dark-red leather chair, with my feet on the matching ottoman, holding a book of Greta Garbo photos.
I peered over the top of the book. “Quiz time. In which film was Greta Garbo’s character named Zara?”
Zara said, “As You Desire Me, with Melvyn Douglas.”
I said, “In which film was Garbo’s character named Arden?”
Arden said, “A silent film, The Single Standard. Her boyfriend in the movie was Nils Asther. He was cuter than Melvyn Douglas.”
As we went out the door, Zara punched the code into the security system. In the spirit of Sherlock Holmes, I watched over her shoulder and made a mental note of the five-digit code.
Zara drove us to Casa Humberto in her Bentley. During the drive, she and Arden giggled and argued over the comparative attributes and strengths of their boyfriends Nils Asther and Melvyn Douglas. I sat in the back seat and kept my mouth shut.
The main topic of discussion during lunch was higher education. I told the Manning sisters how I was kicked off the Coast College football team after I threw my helmet at the coach. Zara told how she was nearly kicked out of her PhD program when she threatened to punch one of her male instructors in the nose.
Arden said, “I certainly can’t match those stories, but I have a question for Professor Salvo. I have room for two electives in my undergraduate program. Which two philosophy classes would you recommend?”
“First, a logic class, then an introductory philosophy class. They will put wrinkles in your brain, if you go at them seriously, and they will improve your writing skills.” On my iPhone, I brought up the USC website. “Let’s take a look at the class schedule and see exactly what they offer.”
Zara and I reviewed the classes. I knew some of the professors’ reputations, and Zara had taken a class from an ethics professor I had known during my undergraduate years. Zara and I made recommendations, and Arden took notes.
On the drive back to Zara’s house, she went out of her way to cruise the full length of Adelaide Drive in Santa Monica. She drove slowly, with the top down. An enormous view stretched around us: Santa Monica Mountains, Santa Monica Canyon, and some of the most attractive vintage homes in Southern California.
She stopped at the curb, unlocked her seatbelt, and twisted around toward me. “I love the way we are enveloped by this vast, sweeping view of Santa Monica Canyon.” She pointed past my shoulder, to the west. “And it all frames that modest little ocean view. It’s just perfect. I routinely drive the scenic route to my destination, rather than the most direct route.”
Zara clicked her seat belt and headed back toward her house. The lunch date had been perfectly harmonious and perfectly civilized. When things are too perfect, it makes me feel uneasy.
28
4
On the way back to my office, I deposited my twenty-thousand-dollar check at the bank and took out a thousand in cash. I was feeling quite well-off, so I drove to Staples and bought a shopping cart full of office supplies.
Two hours later, I was seated at my desk with my shirt sleeves rolled up, my hands and wrists thoroughly washed, congratulating myself for having cleaned and reorganized my supply cabinet and desk drawers.
I was strapping on my wristwatch when a black Jaguar sedan stopped across the street. A flashy redhead jumped out and fed the meter. She wore black-and-gray striped pants, stiletto heels, and a colorful T-shirt. She looked both ways for traffic and ran across the street. I thought she might stumble on her five-inch heels, but she ran in an effortless stride, with her weight balanced, straight to my office.
She pushed through the door and stood tapping a red leather clutch bag against her thigh. “My name is Cinnamon Strauss. Are you the Mr. Jackson K. Salvo who left his business card at my front door?”
I stood up and gestured toward the guest sofa. “Most people call me Jack. Make yourself comfortable, Miss Strauss, or is it Ms.?”
There was a musical lilt in her voice. “It’s Miss, in scarlet letters.”
Instead of going straight to the sofa, she walked up to The Tree of Life canvas print on the wall. “If you’re going to have just one serious piece of art in your office, this isn’t a bad choice. You can’t go wrong with Klimt.”
She strode back to the guest sofa, landed softly, and crossed her legs. Her tight T-shirt was patterned in a dramatic stack of bold horizontal stripes. Miss Strauss could have taught Pythagoras a few things about geometry.
Before I sat down, I said, “Can I get you anything, as long as it’s black coffee?”
“Thank you, but I just have one cup in the morning, as an eye-opener. What kind of work do you do as a private investigator?”
“Mostly I find lost people, gather evidence for civil cases, investigate crimes the police don’t want to bother with. Every now and then an unusual case comes along that’s hard to categorize. I also do occasional personal protection work.”
“I’ll keep your personal protection services in mind. There are times when I could use a bodyguard at my art exhibits. How can I help you today?”
“One week ago, I was hired by Greta Manning to find her daughter Lillie. I’m sure you heard the bad news.”
She nodded solemnly. “It was quite a shock.”
“Do you know anything about Lillie’s last days or who she was spending time with?”
“The last time I ran into Lillie was three or four months ago. I haven’t actually socialized with her for a couple of years. She had a wide circle of friends, and she was always on the move, meeting new people, going to new places. I don’t think I’m going to be able to help you, but I’ll try. Fire away.”
“So you wouldn’t say you were good friends?”
“Actually, I didn’t spend much time with her. For the most part, except for a couple of shopping excursions, we just happened to be at the same place at the same time, and we seemed to get along well. She was younger than me, ran with a fast-moving crowd. She got bore
d easily, and she was always doing something new. And wherever Lillie went, a crowd of men and boys always seemed to be following her.”
“Did you ever see any trouble between Lillie and other people?”
“The question should be: did she ever not get into a conflict with someone else? I only saw her throw a punch on one occasion, but I heard there were many more such events. The typical pattern was when an older, more conservative woman would give Lillie a dirty look or make a comment on her appearance. Lillie would never let it pass. In the incident I saw, we were in a clothing store on Melrose, and a woman stared at Lillie the wrong way and said something and got punched in the mouth. I had to drag Lillie out of the store.”
“Did the police show up?”
“The woman was calling the police on her cell phone when I was pushing Lillie out the door, but we made a clean getaway.” Cinnamon smiled mischievously.
I said, “Sounds like Lillie was a laugh a minute.”
“Being around Lillie was never boring.”
“Do you know Marty Trask?”
Her face tightened. “I’ve seen him in his club ShangriLA and other places around town, and I’ve bumped into him at parties. He also owns a men’s clothing store on Robertson called Azzure. He’s got some of the best tailors in town. For what it’s worth, I’ve heard he’s not someone you want to offend. The guys who work for him are thuggish-looking, and he’s supposed to be pretty tough himself. I prefer to be in a more cheerful setting.”
“Did you ever hear of Lillie spending any time with Marty?”
“I wouldn’t know about her having any sort of relationship with Marty, but she used to go to ShangriLA and the other top clubs, and she was always on the party circuit. I can’t imagine that she would not have met Marty Trask somewhere along the line.”
“Did you know Rod Damian very well?”
She uncrossed her legs, leaned forward, and gave me a serious look. “Rod Damian was an attachment to Lillie Manning the same way a brush is an attachment to a vacuum cleaner. If it weren’t for Lillie Manning, Rod would be working as a physical trainer at a second-rate gym, persuading second-rate women to buy him gifts. Before he inherited his house in Beverly Glen, he lived in a dump in the Valley with three roommates, so he could afford to drive his Porsche.”
“Sounds like a pillar of society.”
“It gets worse. I know a librarian at UCLA. She told me Rod used to routinely hang around the college libraries and pick up girls who were maybe eight or nine on a scale of ten. She said Rod had a knack for spotting the vulnerable ones. He’s devilishly good-looking, and he had no problem picking up girls. Typically, he would impress the girl with his Porsche and his house and have fun with her for a week or so, then dump her. He pulled the same routine over and over. The only reason I knew him was because he was always hanging onto Lillie.”
Up to this point in the conversation, Cinnamon’s attitude had been cordial and cooperative, but I hadn’t learned anything. It was time to start leaning on her.
I said, “Have you seen Rod Damian recently?”
She crossed her arms in front of her, in a protective position. “I saw him at the funeral yesterday. We said hi-how-are-you, not much more.”
That wasn’t what I saw at the funeral. I saw Cinnamon and Rod having a serious discussion.
She sank back into the sofa. Cool and comfortable. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’ve never had more than a few polite words for Rod, and the politeness was insincere.”
I was impressed by Cinnamon’s skill as a liar. “Do you know a man named Chesley Alden Lamont, also known as Cal?”
“Sure, Cal is a photographer specializing in celebrity photos, but he does everything from portraits to parties. He’s a gifted photographer. Somewhat of a social gadfly, has a knack for always being in the right place at the right time, knowing who’s cool, who’s not. People think he’s gay, but he’s not. He has trouble keeping a girlfriend. He’s a little odd, but odd in a good way. He’s super intelligent.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Actually, I ran into him last week. I hadn’t seen him for a long time.”
I didn’t bother asking if she had conducted an illegal drug transaction with Cal during their meeting at the Brentwood Whole Foods the previous Friday morning, or if she had paid a visit to Lillie Manning three days before that, or if Lillie happened to be cold and stiff when Cinnamon last encountered her. Instead, I said, “What’s so special about Dewey Rubens?”
Her mouth opened just enough to get the words out. “Special? Compared to who?”
“Compared to me, for example.”
She cocked her head a few degrees and gave me a smile that straddled the fence between amusement and pity. “Dewey is young, dumb, and full of youthful enthusiasm. You, on the other hand, are older and wiser, and full of yourself. Now that we have that out of the way, let’s make sure we understand something. The personal relationships between me and my numerous acquaintances—both past and present—are really none of your business. I am horrified by Lillie Manning’s death, and I would like to help you, but there are limits.”
“What kind of limits?”
“Limits relating to basic manners, such as not being too forward with strangers, which I would put in the same category as spitting on the sidewalk.”
“You’re right. I need to work on my conversational skills. Do you know where I can find Dewey Rubens?”
“How could he possibly be connected to Lillie Manning?”
“I don’t have any solid theories on that, but I want to ask him what he’s been doing for the past week or so. I know he’s very attached to his green Ford Mustang. I’m wondering if he’s gone for any scenic drives up the Pacific Coast Highway recently.”
Cinnamon’s eyes widened, as though a third eye had just appeared on my forehead. She took a deep breath and spoke in an unnaturally mellow tone. “I could track him down for you, but I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have exhausted my reservoir of patience, Mr. Salvo.”
“There’s no need to be formal. I said you can call me Jack.”
In one fluid motion she rose to her feet. She took three velvety steps, stopped at the door, and faced me directly. “It’s time for me to hit the road, Jack.”
I stood up. “The way you move, I get the impression you could jump up and plant one of those stiletto heels in my face.”
“In my younger days, that would have been no problem. Now, I would have to spend a few minutes stretching out first, to make sure I put the heel directly between your eyes.” She kept her eyes locked on mine, slowly tapping her clutch bag against her thigh.
Since the cat was halfway out of the bag, the only option was to land on her harder. I sat against the edge of my desk, folded my arms, and got comfortable. “What I can’t figure is why Dewey would continue to follow you around after you keep giving him the heave-ho for more lucrative arrangements. Like when you were routinely entertaining him at your apartment on Darlington Avenue, and then Ross Halliday came along, and you jettisoned Dewey. I wonder how he took it when you shoved him aside for a ninety-year-old. Of course, age isn’t the only number in the equation. You scored a house out of the deal. And a year before that, you dumped Dewey on his ass when you moved in with Dr. Mirabeau the Whiplash King. And by the way, I was wondering exactly what amount you squeezed out of Mirabeau when you gave him that line about your father having a stroke. And before that, there was the Latigo Alliance spectacle, which got Dewey canned. I’m also wondering how Dewey would take it if he learned he had been complicit in obtaining a nice haul of hot goods during a recent visit to Castellammare, only he didn’t get his fair share.”
Her face never changed during my monologue. She waited for me to finish, then slipped out the door and jogged across the street to Tony’s Donuts. Two or three minutes later, she came out holding a small paper bag. She drove away slowly, munching on a maple bar. Cinnamon
Strauss would be a tough nut to crack.
I needed to talk to Dewey Rubens. The most direct path to Dewey might be through Cal Lamont, the guy who was supposed to know all the latest gossip.
29
4
The curtains in Chesley Alden Lamont’s studio apartment were missing, and the front door was wide open. A fiberglass ladder stood in the center of the room. Wires from a recently removed ceiling light dangled overhead. The place was vacant, except for the cheap furniture that came with the rent.
The news of Lillie’s death must have given Cal a severe case of the jitters. He probably had a lot of questions. Why did Rod Damian and those other guys rough him up? Why did they want him to set up Cinnamon Strauss? Did they suspect him in Lillie Manning’s death? Did they suspect Cinnamon? Were the police going to show up next?
Whistling and splashing sounds came from the bathroom at the back of the apartment. I moved that direction and saw a young Hispanic man sponging water from the bottom of the toilet tank into the sink. The tank lid was leaning against the wall. Hand tools and parts from a toilet repair kit were laid out on the floor. That would keep him busy for a few minutes.
A five-gallon can of interior semi-gloss paint and an electric sander sat on the kitchen counter. On the floor were two large, open trash bags. The bags were partially filled with garbage, discarded clothes, and various pieces of paper. I poked through the trash and determined the paper included computer printouts, magazines, electronic equipment catalogs, and pieces of mail.
I stepped back into the main room. The man in the bathroom was now banging tools around and muttering to himself. I wanted to search the closet and linen cabinets, but they were adjacent to the bathroom work project. The bookcase was empty, as were the desk drawers—not even a pencil or a stray rubber band. Nothing under the bed. There’s never anything under the bed, just as there’s never anything of interest inside a mattress when you take the trouble to cut it open.