Flesh and Blood (13 page)

"You were sick?" said Milo.

Teague touched the scar clump. "I used to have my own electrical business, was doing a job out in Calabasas. Someone fucked up, I ended up duking it out with a mass of rebar. I was in a coma for a week, had dou-ble vision for months. I still get headaches." Glancing at the beer cans. "I sued, tied myself up for years, the lawyers took most of it. Then she tells me she's pregnant." Cocking his head toward the bedroom. "I was on painkillers, halfway groggy most of the time, and Lauren calling out of nowhere, whining about the police overreacting."

Defiance spiked his voice. Even in death Lauren pushed his buttons.

"How'd she make her bail?" said Milo.

"How should I know?" Teague shook his head, picked something out of his beard. "I could've thrown her out the first Christmas, but I wanted to be decent. She might not've considered herself my daughter. But I was too mature to let that get to me."

"She said she didn't consider herself your daughter?"

Teague laughed. "That's just one of the things she unloaded on me. Big truckload of shit, and I just sat there, being cool. That's the way I always was with her—when she was a kid. She'd open up a big mouth and I'd just shine her on."

Long silence.

Teague said, "Lauren and I, we never— She was always a handful. From day one she always tried to make me feel . . . like an idiot. Everything I said and did was insensitive. And stupid." He placed his palm over his heart. "Lauren was— Sometimes there're people you just can't get along with, no matter what the hell you do. I was hoping maybe one day she'd grow up, understand, maybe she'd start being . . . polite."

He shook his head. Moisture in his eyes, for the first time. "Least I got two others. . . . They love me, those two. No shit outta their mouths— You really have no idea who did it?"

"Not yet," said Milo. "Why?"

"No why. I was just thinking it couldn't be any big mystery. Look for a low life, pal. 'Cause Lauren chose a low-life lifestyle. Fancy clothes and all. Last time she was here, bragging about enrolling in college, I had my doubts."

"About what?"

"About her being a student. I figured it was another one of her cons." To me: "She lied since she got out of diapers—whether you saw it or not, that's the truth. When she was four, five years old she'd point to red, tell you it was blue, just about convince you. To me, she didn't look like a student, never seen a student dress like that, flash all that jewelry."

"Expensive stuff," said Milo.

"To my eye, but what the hell do I know—I don't shop on Rodeo. Her mother liked all that crap too, used to lean hard on my checkbook. I had a good business back then, but who wants to blow it on that crap?" He pitched forward. Smiled. "She married an old guy. My ex. Senile old bag of shit. She's soaking him for his dough, waiting for him to croak— Did you tell her about Lauren yet?"

"Just came from her place, sir."

Teague's smile died. Suspicion slitted his eyes. "She probably told you I was an asshole."

"We didn't discuss you," said Milo. "Only Lauren. And by the way, Lauren was enrolled at the U."

"Yeah? Well, look where that got her." Teague sat back in the recliner. The footrest shot out, and he stretched his legs. The soles of his feet were black and callused. He breathed in, let the air out. Beneath his rib cage his belly swelled. "I know you think I'm an asshole. 'Cause I'm not faking out that everything was cool between me and Lauren. But at least I'm honest. Okay, so Lauren was in school. But that doesn't mean she wasn't still hanging around with low life. You won't hear that from my ex—she's living in a dreamworld, Lauren was some angel— How'd she take it?"

"Hard," said Milo. "Any contact between you and your ex?"

"Same as Lauren. Every so often, she used to call, throw it in my face."

"When was the last time?"

Teague thought. "Years ago." His smile was reborn. "It's not like she's gonna come visit the kids. That pisses her off—my having kids. She and I tried real hard to have a bunch and all we could squeeze out was Lauren. Clear to see it was her problem— Anyway, check out Lauren's lifestyle, that's my suggestion. She was living the life, riding high on the wave. But it wasn't for free."

"Few things are," said Milo.

"Wrong," said Teague. "Nothing is."

11

"A PRINCE AMONG men," said Milo.

I was driving east on Ventura Boulevard. Blackened storefronts, bare sidewalks, a breeze had kicked up, and scraps of litter danced above the cement. Warm breeze. Unseasonal winter.

"He hated her, didn't he, Alex?"

"You consider him a suspect?" I said.

"Can't eliminate him. Am I the only one who picked up nuances of paranoia?"

"Unhappy man," I said. "Lots of anger. But he didn't try to soft-pedal. Doesn't that imply nothing to hide?"

"Or he's trying to be clever, pull some kind of stupid double bluff. What a family. The more I learn, the sorrier I feel for Lauren."

I knew what was taking place: Lauren's corpse had begun as business as usual, inanimate as the mountain of forms he was forced to fill out on every case. Enlarging her humanity brought out his empathy. It's happened to him on most of the cases we've worked together.

I said, "You didn't ask him where he was the night Lauren was killed."

"I don't know when she was killed—waiting till the coroner gives me an estimate. Also, there was no sense threatening him right off. If nothing else slam-dunks, he'll get a recontact. Maybe I can pay him a morning visit, see what he's like when he's not beered up."

"And the shotgun's not within arm's reach."

"Yeah, that was fun, wasn't it? Loose cannon like that having access to a double-barrel. Just what the Founding Fathers had in mind. . . . Wifey number two seemed quite the sheep. Think he slaps her around?"

"He dominates her."

"I wonder if Lyle and Jane had violent stuff going on when they were hitched—Jane kept saying he was mean. Maybe something else Lauren was exposed to. That never came out when you treated her?"

"She complained about them but never mentioned violence. But the treatment wasn't much."

"Two sessions." He rubbed his face. "Twenty-five years old and what did she have to show for it besides a nifty wardrobe? . . . People and their garbage. Some jobs you and I've got."

"Hey," I said. "Sure beats being rich and relaxed."

He laughed. "You won't catch me admitting this again, but your gig just might be tougher than mine."

"Why's that?"

"I know what people are. You try to change 'em."

As I turned onto Laurel Canyon, he phoned the officer at Lauren's apartment, found out Andrew Salander hadn't returned.

I said, "He works the night shift."

"You up for The Cloisters?"

"Sure," I said. "One of my favorite spots."

He laughed again. "Yeah, I'll bet. Ever been to a gay bar?"

"You took me to one," I said.

"I don't remember that. When?"

"Years ago," I said. "Tiny little place over in Studio City. Disco music, serious drinking, lots of guys who didn't look at all like you. Past Universal City—back of an auto body shop."

"Oh yeah," he said. "The Fender. Closed down a long time ago— I actually took you there?"

"Right after our first case together—the Handler murder. The way I figured it, some friendship rapport was developing and you were still nervous."

"About what?"

"Being gay. You'd already made the grand confession. I didn't get overtly repulsed, but you probably figured I needed more testing."

"Oh, come on," he said. "Testing you for what?"

"Tolerance. Could I really handle it."

"Why am I not remembering any of this?"

"Advanced middle age," I said. "I can describe the room precisely: aluminum ceiling, black walls, Donna Summer on tape loop, guys going off in pairs."

"Whoa," he said. Then nothing.

A few miles later he said, "You weren't overtly repulsed. Meaning?"

"Meaning, sure, it threw me. I grew up with sissies getting beat up on the school yard and 'fag' as acceptable speech. I never pounded on anyone, but I never stepped in to stop it either. When I started working, my practice emphasized traumatized kids, and homosexuality never came up much. You were the first gay person I'd ever known socially. You and Rick are still the only gay people I know in depth. And sometimes I'm not sure about you."

He smiled. "Aluminum ceilings . . . guys who didn't look like me, huh? So who'd they look like?"

"More like Andrew Salander."

"There you go," he said. "I am the great individualist."

The Cloisters was on Hacienda just north of Santa Monica, notched unobtrusively into the gray side wall of a two-story building. It was nearly three A.M., but unlike the postnuclear silence of the Valley, the streets here were alive, lit by a steady stream of headlights, sidewalk cafes still serving a garrulous clientele, the pavement crowded with pedestrians—mostly, but not exclusively, male. West Hollywood was one of the first L.A. neighborhoods to earn itself a nightlife. Now people emerge for after-dark strolls in Beverly Hills, Melrose, Westwood. One day, Los Angeles may grow up and become a real city.

I found a parking space half a block up, and we walked to the front door. No bouncer on duty and we stepped right in. I'd allowed myself the luxury of prediction and expected the place to be stone walls, refectory windows, gothic gloom. It turned out to be off-white plaster, recessed lighting dimmed to soft-and-easy, a mahogany-and-black-granite bar with a brass rail and beige suede stools, a few booths along the opposite wall. Light classical music eased from unseen speakers, and the conversation from the fifteen or so men inside was low and relaxed. Casually but well-dressed men in their thirties and forties. Shrimp and meatball bar snacks, toothpicks sporting colored cellophane frizz. But for the fact that there were only men, it could've been an upscale lounge in any slick suburb.

Andrew Salander was easy to spot, working alone behind the bar, wiping down the granite, refilling glasses, attending gregariously to half a dozen patrons. His dress duds were a pale blue button-down shirt under a white-and-blue-striped apron. We were right in his face when he noticed us—first me, then Milo, back to me, back to Milo. One of the drinkers saw the scared-animal heat in his eyes and turned toward us with hostile curiosity. Milo leaned on the bar and nodded at him, and the man returned to his Scotch.

"Mr. Sturgis?" said Salander.

"Hi, Andy. Anyone to cover for you?"

"Uh . . . Tom's on break— Hold on, I'll get him." Salander ran through a rear door with a tall young man dressed in a similar shirt and apron, holding a cigarette. Tom stubbed out his light and put on a smile, and Salander came around through Dutch doors at the other end of the bar.

"Please tell me this isn't business," he said to Milo. "Please."

Milo eased him toward the door. Waited to say "Sorry," until we were outside.

Salander wept. "It can't be— I can't believe it, why would anyone hurt her?"

"I was hoping you might be able to help me with that, Andy."

"I can't—Dr. Delaware already knows that. I already told him everything I knew—didn't I, Doctor?"

I said, "Is there anything else you might remember?"

"What? You think I was holding back?"

"Back when we thought Lauren was coming back, I can see your not wanting to violate her privacy. But now ..."

"That's true, I was being discreet. But there's still nothing else I can tell you."

"Lauren gave you no hint of where she was going?" said Milo.

"No. It wasn't that weird—her taking off. I already told the doctor she'd done it other times."

"For a day or two."

"Yes."

"This was a week."

"I know, but..." said Salander. "I wish I could help."

"Those short trips," said Milo. "Did you ever have any reason to think they were for anything other than rest and relaxation?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did Lauren ever mention another reason for traveling?"

"No. Why?"

"Okay, Andy, let's backtrack to the last time you saw her."

"Last Sunday—a week ago," said Salander. "I didn't sleep well, got up around noon and Lo was in the kitchen."

"How was she dressed?"

"Slacks, silk blouse—casual elegant, as always. She rarely wore jeans."

"Did you guys talk?"

"Not much—just small talk. We had a light lunch before she left. Eggs and toast—I can eat breakfast any time of day. She left shortly after—I'd say one, one-thirty."

"But she didn't say where."

"I assumed the U."

"Her research job."

"That's what I figured."

"On a Sunday?"

"She'd worked other Sundays, Detective Sturgis."

"But this time she didn't take her car."

"How would I know that unless I followed her downstairs?"

"And you didn't."

"No, of course not—"

"When did you notice she'd left the car?"

"When I went to get my own car."

"Which was?" said Milo.

"Later that evening, when I left for work—around seven-thirty."

"And what did you think when you saw Lauren's car?"

"I didn't—didn't think much, one way or the other."

"Was that typical, Andy? Lauren not taking her car?"

"Not really. I just— It wasn't on my mind. I can't say I even consciously noticed it. When I got home she wasn't there, but that wasn't unusual either. She was often gone by morning. We were on different biorhythms—sometimes days would pass before we bumped into each other. I started to get a little concerned by Wednesday or so, but you know. . . . She was an adult. I figured she had a reason for doing the things she did. Was I wrong?"

"About her having reasons?"

"About not doing something sooner. I mean, what could I have done?"

Milo didn't reply.

Salander said, "I just wish— I feel sick— This is unbelievable."

"Back to Sunday, Andy. What did you do after Lauren left?"

"Um, tried to go back to sleep, couldn't, got up and went shopping over at the Beverly Center. I thought I'd buy some shirts, but I didn't find anything, so I saw a movie—Happy, Texas. Hilarious. Have you seen it?"