The Middle Sister

by Jesse Miles

“Next to nothing.”

  Stevenson started to talk, but Rocky cut him off. “Look, Socrates, we know she told you something.”

  I said, “Cinnamon used to see Lillie at clubs and parties, and they went shopping a few times. She said Lillie was pretty wild in public, had a tendency to get into scuffles with other women. She hadn’t seen Lillie for three or four months. When Lillie’s death was in the news, she went to the funeral.”

  “Did you go to the funeral?”

  “Mrs. Manning wouldn’t have wanted me there. She blamed me for Lillie’s death.”

  Stevenson had moved around to my side, so he and Rocky could question me from different directions—somewhat like triangulated gunfire in an ambush. He said, “Salvo, how does Cinnamon Strauss relate to the death of Lillie Manning?”

  “I don’t know that it does.”

  “But you suspect that it does, or you wouldn’t be here now. What do you base your suspicions on?”

  “My suspicions are no more than hunches. I don’t report hunches to the police and ask them to investigate.”

  Rocky had produced a small notebook and made a few notations. “When your hunches start to develop into evidence, you will report straight to us, right?”

  “If I pull a rabbit out of the hat, you guys get the collar.”

  Stevenson said, “Let’s make this conversation a little more fun. Let’s say, just for the sake of discussion, Lillie was selling cocaine out of the Castellammare house. Could you accept that as a theory?”

  “I could go along with that. Her mother cut her allowance. Lillie was a big spender, and she would need a certain cash flow to support her decadent lifestyle. Being a dope dealer would be a way to bring in some quick cash. As a bonus, she could have had some perverse thought about tormenting her mother by being involved in the underworld. Also, she routinely partied with a doper crowd, which made a large group of affluent buyers available to her.”

  “Sounds like you already thought this through, Salvo, and you thought about it in some detail.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about my client’s dead daughter almost continuously for the last week.”

  Rocky said, “Assuming Lillie was selling coke, was there anything in the house that looked to you like it was out of order?”

  “There would have been more cash and dope, not just personal amounts.”

  “And what conclusion would that lead you to?”

  “Someone came along and took the loot.”

  Stevenson looked back over his shoulder and waved at a passing patrol car. “Salvo, you must have subscribed to one of the better how-to-be-a-detective Internet schools.”

  I said, “What makes you guys suspect Lillie was dealing?”

  Rocky dropped his notebook into a pocket. “We don’t suspect it, we know it. We checked the numbers on her cell phone and talked to some of the callers. Two of them waved red flags at us. A boy in a West Hollywood apartment went sullen on us, said if we had any questions, send him an email. Then there was this girl, a delicate little blonde Pepperdine student living in a beach house in Malibu with her white poodles and her red Jaguar convertible. She broke down in phases. When we showed up at the door and showed our badges, she invited us in. At first, she was real polite—much too polite. We let our jackets fall back, and she saw the artillery on our belts, and she went limp. Then Stevenson gave her his General Patton face and his you-can-trust-Uncle-Mark voice, and she started blubbering. She said Lillie Manning had come into some coke that was so good, everybody said it had to be straight from the Colombians. The in-crowd was buying it from Lillie and Rod on the party circuit. She wasn’t supposed to call Lillie’s cell phone number for a dope deal, but she lost the two special phone numbers Rod Damian gave her—one for Lillie, one for Rod.”

  Stevenson said, “Before we left, she promised us she would never do drugs again. Her response absolutely warmed our hearts. We didn’t even ask where she kept her personal dope supply. We let her keep it, so she could get fucked up as soon as we left.”

  I tried to turn the conversation in a different direction. “What did Rod Damian have to say for himself?”

  Rocky said, “We braced him fairly hard, and he gave us this generalized horseshit story about how he hadn’t seen Lillie for a few days, and he was just waiting for her to cool off and come back to the real world. When we tried to pin him down on the details of his timeline, he handed us the business card of a Century City mouthpiece and said talk to him. At this point, we pretty much knew Lillie was dealing, and Rod was helping her. We strongly suspect somebody came along and found her dead and grabbed some money and drugs. Could have been Rod, could have been someone else.”

  Stevenson eased up close to me. “Salvo, the only reason Detective Platt and I are here right now is because the fire department found a hot smoking stiff, and they called us. Then we see you here. It seems you know more than we do. We were hoping you could provide us with some education.”

  If I wanted to avoid another “interview” session down at the West LA police station, I was going to have to toss the detectives a bone. I said, “If Lillie and Rod were dealing, they would have used prepaid phones. They wouldn’t leave a record of their sales activities on their personal phones. The Pepperdine student told you Rod Damian had given her two special numbers to use for dope deals. That probably means Rod bought two phones—one for him, one for Lillie. Probably paid cash. I didn’t see any such device in the Castellammare house. There should have been at least one prepaid cell phone.”

  Stevenson hooked his thumbs over his belt and leaned forward. “Now tell us something we haven’t already figured out.”

  “When I got the case last Wednesday, Zara Manning and I went straight to Lillie’s condo. The caller ID on her landline showed a history of incoming calls from various businesses. Zara helped me review the calls, and none of them were interesting—at that point in time. But based on what you tell me about the Pepperdine student, one of those calls might be very interesting. It came from a store called Computer Scene, the kind of place that sells prepaid phones. Zara and I went there, and we failed to get access to any employee who might have been able to tell us why the store called Lillie. The store was crowded, and we said to hell with it and took off. If it turns out Rod or Lillie bought prepaid phones at Computer Scene, you might be able to subpoena the records and find who they were talking to. When you interview the dope customers, some of them are certain to squeal, and then you would have the leverage to put the squeeze on Rod.”

  Stevenson wrote something in his little notebook. “That might be a slight possibility. Maybe we’ll follow up on it.”

  Rocky gave me his don’t-fuck-with-Uncle-Rocky look. “We’re going to cut you loose for now, but there’s a little something you need to know, and the little something will tell you how seriously we see this fire. Cinnamon’s upper body was burned pretty badly, but there was a lot left below the knees. There were melted remains of nylon rope on Cinnamon’s ankles. This is just between you and us for now, but we want you to know how important this case is and the potential for danger. Detective Stevenson and I hope you have a very nice day.”

  32

  4

  Normally, I would have grabbed breakfast on the way to the office, but an arson murder is a heavy dose of villainy. I didn’t want to dwell on Cinnamon’s roasted corpse over a hot breakfast.

  At my office, I arranged all my case notes on the writing table and stared at them. During the previous week I had encountered an odd mix of suspicious characters. Their images swirled around my brain, but none of them halted, looked me in the eye, and blurted out a confession.

  I stared out my window at Tony’s Donuts. A tall young woman with long dark hair walked out the door carrying a two-dozen donut box. She reminded me of my star student Carmen Reyes, which reminded me of Carmen’s term paper on many-valued logic. That reminded me to get my head out of my ass and think logically. It also reminded me to go across the street and ge
t a blueberry muffin.

  Back at my desk, I scribbled out a list of suspects, fired up my desktop computer, and converted the list to a truth table that addressed the question, “Did any of these characters torch Cinnamon Strauss?” It would be more accurate to call it a hunch table.

  Chesley Alden Lamont, AKA Cal, might have been angry at Cinnamon for involving him in Lillie Manning’s death. He might have blamed her for his being beaten up by Marty Trask and his boys. But I couldn’t envision the little twerp doing anything more violent than swatting a mosquito. If he had tried to torch Cinnamon Strauss, she would have shoved the torch down his throat.

  Richard Halliday hated Cinnamon for swindling his elderly father, but he seemed too level-headed to indulge in a murderous vendetta. It was hard to believe he would risk himself, his fortune, and his family reputation. Halliday might have been amused at seeing Cinnamon in some sort of legal or financial difficulty, but he wasn’t the type who would take satisfaction in her death. Of course, you never know. At this point in time, I wasn’t inclined to spend much energy on Halliday. Maybe later, if nothing else panned out.

  Dewey Rubens was higher up the probability scale. For starters, Cinnamon Strauss had cost him his job at Latigo Alliance. Then she banged him for a while, dumped him, and moved in with Dr. Mirabeau. Then she went back to Dewey and dumped him again, this time for ninety-year-old Ross Halliday. That would be enough to make some men murderous, but Dewey Rubens was a big question mark. Sebastien Thurman had described the boy as all mouth. I needed to find Dewey, so I could get up close and personal and ask him a few pointed questions.

  Doctor Mirabeau had no fondness for Cinnamon. She had stolen a wad of money from him by falsely claiming her father was gravely ill. Mirabeau could afford to lose the money, but he had a big ego, and he was humiliated by Cinnamon’s playing him for a chump. It was unlikely Mirabeau himself would have dispatched Cinnamon in such a gruesome, spectacular manner, but he could have paid for the service. If I phoned Mirabeau, he probably wouldn’t take my call. I might try to catch him in person.

  Rod Damian had been counting on Lillie for his rise to stardom. She had been scheduled to receive the first installment of her massive inheritance in less than a year. When she died, Rod lost his girlfriend and his meal ticket. If he thought Cinnamon had been complicit in Lillie’s death, he could have fallen into a murderous mood. I was skeptical that Rod had the brains to pull off an arson murder and cover his tracks, but he had to be considered a suspect. I planned to visit him quite soon.

  Marty Trask had means, motive, opportunity, and a history of ruthlessness. He also had designs on Lillie and may have thought he was on the verge of hitting a home run with her. Her unexpected death, even for a tough guy like Marty, would have been quite a jolt. If he thought Cinnamon had been responsible for Lillie’s demise, he would be the guy with the smarts, the finesse, and the hired muscle to mete out justice. And he could have had the job done safely, from a distance. I left a message for him at his nightclub. The girl who answered the phone said she would forward the message to Mr. Trask.

  33

  4

  It was almost eleven o’clock when I idled past Rod Damian’s house. I understand why people like to live in the canyons. There are trees everywhere, cute little animals hiding in the foliage, and none of the city hubbub. When the fires and floods come rolling in, all that changes. Rod Damian’s world was about to change, but in a different way.

  His Porsche convertible was in front, top down. I swung around and parked behind it. Rod stepped out onto the front porch and shut the door behind him. He wore sunglasses, a Hawaiian shirt, and casual white pants. His mouth was set in a firm, straight line.

  I swung out of my car and gave his Porsche a closer look. The car was polished to a mirror-black sheen. Diffused light shone down through the cloud cover and softened everything. I looked up at Rod and said, “The black paint looks great in this light.”

  He snarled, “What the fuck do you want?”

  I stepped closer, still keeping my distance. “Rod, the last time I talked to you, your voice had relaxed, mellow tone. Now you sound like a nervous wreck.”

  “You’re not listening. I said what the fuck do you want?”

  “I want to know your activities on an hour-by-hour basis during the five days preceding the discovery of Lillie Manning’s body. Specifically, I want to know when you saw her last, and how her health was at that point in time. I’ll bet dollars to dog shit the police already hit you with those questions, and I’ll bet they didn’t buy your answers. I also want to know your whereabouts last night, when Cinnamon Strauss was being barbequed, and I want to know what you were doing during the hours the barbeque was being planned.”

  “You’re crazy. I never had anything to do with Cinnamon Strauss.”

  “The police will be here soon, and they will be asking you the same questions, only in more detail, and they will be asking much more forcefully.”

  “I don’t have anything to explain.”

  “I’ll help you out. You and Lillie were friends. Lillie and Cinnamon were friends. You and Cinnamon were not. In fact, you two didn’t like each other the least bit. The cops know that whole story, and they know a lot more than you think they know.

  “How in the fuck would you know what the cops know?”

  “I was at the fire scene this morning, talking to the West LA detectives. The next time they talk to you, which is going to be very soon, you are going to get your cage rattled good and hard. You don’t tell your story right, they will haul you in. Cops get very emotional when sensational murders are committed in their territory. They take it personally.”

  Some of my comments to Rod were speculative, but they were producing the desired results. He had been shifting his weight from one foot to the other and slowly clenching and unclenching his fists.

  He ran three fingers across his forehead, which was starting to glisten on this pleasantly cool winter day. “You’ve been reading too many detective stories.”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of detecting. You said you have nothing to do with Cinnamon. At the funeral Tuesday, you and Cinnamon were standing apart from the other mourners, having a serious conversation. Did you decide to kiss and make up?”

  “That was a funeral, moron. You have to be respectful at a funeral, you talk to people, and how would you know anything? You weren’t there.”

  “I was up the hill, watching with binoculars. You were wearing a black suit, maybe dark gray, with a white shirt and tie. Cinnamon was wearing a long dark dress, very modest, especially considering Cinnamon was in it. Zara was wearing a gray business suit, which I thought was both respectful and chic. In front of you and Cinnamon was a small group wearing colors that were too far off the palette for a funeral.”

  He took a deep breath and tried to increase his height. “None of that means shit. And let me tell you one more thing. You are going to get your ass off my property or you are going to jail.”

  I held both hands out flat, palms down, and made them quiver. “Excuse me for a moment while I calm my nerves. This is very unsettling for me, because I’m trying to seek the truth, and you’re trying to hide the truth.”

  He said, “No, that’s not the difference between you and me. Here’s the difference. You’re a cheap private detective trespassing on private property. I’m a property owner, standing here on my property, minding my own business.”

  “In the first place, I’m not cheap. I charge three hundred an hour. And you didn’t come close to capturing the difference between us. The basic difference between you and me is I’m a stand-up citizen, and you’re a freeloader.”

  His labored grin deformed his handsome face. He opened the front door and said, “You don’t understand the basic realities of life. The difference between you and me is I drive a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car, and you don’t.”

  He went inside and banged the door shut. I drove down to Westwood Village for lunch. During the drive, I contem
plated how Aristotle might integrate the socio-economic implications of automobile prices into his concept of the “golden mean.”

  34

  4

  While chowing down at Taco Teriyaki, I used my iPad to construct a six-pack of mug shots, one of which was Dewey Rubens. After lunch, I cruised the area where Cal’s friend Rita said Dewey Rubens could be found.

  I saw the same skinny boy on a skateboard at two different locations. I hadn’t seen many kids on skateboards recently; electric scooters were now the rage. He stared longingly at my car both times I drove past him. He was thirteen or fourteen, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. I stopped at the curb and got out, my iPad in hand.

  The boy said, “That’s a cool M4. I like the dark blue. You got the eighteen-inch wheels or nineteen?”

  “I go with eighteen. The low-profile tires on the nineteens are too much trouble to deal with.”

  The kid nodded knowingly. “Yeah, the potholes will break your wheels if you let the tire pressure go down.”

  I gave him my business card. “My name is Jack Salvo.”

  He read it quickly, looked me in the eye, and extended his hand. “My name is Alan.” He seemed well-bred.

  I said, “I’m looking for a man, and I think he lives around here.”

  “What did he do?”

  “I’ve been looking for a missing person, and I think this guy might help me answer some questions.” I angled the iPad to where he could see the six-pack. “Have you seen any of these men?”

  He stared at the display. “I’ve seen one of those guys, for sure. What’s it worth to you if I tell you which one?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  “Twenty dollars, my ass. It’s gotta be worth more than that. I’ve seen one of those guys a bunch of times.”

  “You know his name or where he lives?”

  “No, but I can get his girlfriend’s name. You get her name, I bet you can find out where she lives. She’s got to live around here somewhere. I want a hundred dollars for it.”