Flesh and Blood (20 page)

"Did she like women?"

Michelle laughed. "As in, Eat-me, girlfriend? Nah. We did doubles, playacted all the time, but basically Lauren wasn't into it. Switched off— what you said: detached."

"Why'd she quit Gretchen?" said Milo.

"She told me she saved up enough money, and I believed her. When she came by to tell me, she looked great, was carrying this little computer—"

"Laptop?"

"Yeah, she said it was for school. And she had real great clothes on— better than usual. I mean, Lauren was always into clothes. Gretchen made us buy our own shit, and Lauren always knew where to get the good stuff cheap—she used to do some modeling down at the Fashion Mart, knew all the bargains. But this time she was wearing the real thing— Thierry Mugler pantsuit, black, like poured over her. And a pair of Jimmy Choo pumps. Back then I was living in a real dump, over in Highland Park, told her, Girl, you are taking your life in your hands coming around like that, dressed like that. She said she could handle herself, showed me . . ."

She trailed off, smoked some more.

"Showed you what?" said Milo.

"Protection."

"She was carrying?" said Milo.

"Yeah, this little shooter—silver thing, kind of pretty, that fit in her purse along with the spray. I said, Whoa, what's that—school supplies? She said, A girl can't be too careful."

"Did she seem afraid of anything?"

"Nah, she was real casual about it. Not that that means much. Lauren was never much of a talker—you just didn't push it with her."

"So she came by to tell you she'd quit."

"That and she gave me some money. That was the first time she brought me money—"

"Seven hundred?"

"Something like that—maybe five. It was usually between five and seven."

"How often did she help you out?"

"Every few months. Sometimes she'd just slip it under the door and I'd find it when I woke up. She never made me feel like scum for taking it. She had a way of— She had class, should've been born rich."

"Did Lauren ever say anything else that could help us find her killer?" said Milo. "Anyone who might've had it in for her?"

"Nah, it was all school with her. School this, school that. She was jazzed because she was meeting a different class of people, professors, whatever." Two eye blinks. "She was real high on that—intellectuals, professors. Really got off on hanging around with smart people."

"She ever mention any names of professors?"

"No."

"She ever talk about doing any work with professors?"

She gazed at the floor. Rolled the dog over and scratched its abdomen. "I'm thinking— Nah, I don't think so—why?"

"She told people she had a research job."

"Oh." Another eye blink. "Well, she never told me."

"Nothing like that, at all?"

"Uh-uh." Dropping the cigarette on the floor, she ground it out, created a smoldering black wound on the linoleum, held out her hand. "I been putting out for you, how about returning the favor, stud?"

Milo pulled out his wallet and gave her two twenties.

She rubbed the bills between her fingers. "I used to do a whole lot less to get a whole lot more, but this doesn't suck—you're a sport."

"Nothing about her job, huh?"

"Nothing . . . I'm getting tired."

Milo handed her another twenty. She brushed the edge of the bill against the dog's groin.

He said, "The money Lauren saved up. Was that all from working with Gretchen?"

"Probably. Like I said, she saved. The rest of us, the minute we had a dollar, it was gone, but Lauren was this little Scroogie thing, counting every buck."

Milo turned to me.

I said, "Did Lauren talk about her family?"

"She used to in the beginning, but then she stopped. She hated her father, wouldn't say a word about him. Called her mom weak but okay. Said she'd married some old guy, was living in a nice house. Lauren was happy for her, said she'd screwed up plenty but was finally getting it together."

"Screwed up how?" I said.

"Life, I guess. Screwing up. Like everyone does."

"Did she ever talk about her mother trying to control her?"

She produced another cigarette. Waited for Milo to light it.

"Not that I remember—from what she said her mom sounded like a wimp, not a bitch." She put the cigarette to her lips, inhaled, held her breath. When she opened her mouth again, no smoke emerged.

"So she hated her father," I said.

"He walked out on them, married some stupid cow, had a couple more kids. Little kids. She said they were cute but she didn't know if she'd ever connect with them, because her dad was an asshole and the cow was stupid and she didn't know if she wanted to invest any time in it. She was always talking like that. Everything was an investment—your face, your body, your brain. You had to think of it like money in the bank, not give anything away for free."

Another deep inhalation. She coughed. Smoked rapidly, burning the cigarette nearly down to the filter. "She was smart, Lauren was. She shouldn't be dead. Everyone else should be, but not her."

"Everyone else?" I said.

"The world. Whoever killed her should fry in hell and then get eaten by rats." Crooked smile. "Maybe I'll be down there by then and I can train the rats."

"A gun and a computer," I said as we left the building. The angry young men two doors up hadn't gotten any more lighthearted, and this time Milo stared at them until their heads turned. "Like Michelle said, not exactly school supplies."

"Lauren told Michelle she was out of the game, but she'd stayed in it," he said. "No one talks about her being jumpy or afraid. Not Andy or Michelle or her mother. So maybe the gun was to protect what was in the computer."

"Data," I said. "Secrets. And something else: Despite the gun and Lau-ren's street smarts, someone managed to hog-tie her and shoot her in the head. Maybe she got caught off guard because the killer was someone she never imagined would hurt her. Someone she knew and trusted. As in big-bucks steady customer who'd been generous for years. Notblackmail—fee for service. But then the customer decided to end the relationship, realized the potential for blackmail existed, and took preven-tative measures."

We got in the car. He sat behind the wheel, staring at the dash.

"For all we know," I said, "Lauren was killed with her own gun. Mi-chelle said a little silver shooter. Plenty of small nine-millimeters around. Someone she trusted and allowed to get close to her purse."

Still no answer.

"Maybe I'm making too much out of it," I said, "but you know how we always talk about the eyes giving it away—how people shift their gaze when they're lying or holding back. Michelle started blinking and fidgeting when the subject of professors came up."

"Yeah, I noticed that. When she talked about Lauren enjoying hanging out with 'intellectuals.' So maybe Lauren did tell her about some big-time John with a Ph.D. ... So why wouldn't Michelle say so?"

"Maybe she thinks there's a chance to profit from it."

"Blackmail a killer?" he said. "Not too bright."

"Michelle's no paragon of judgment. And Lauren's death means no more money under the door."

He looked up at the peach building. "Or maybe she's just used to holding back. Whores live by that creed. . . . I'll try her again in a couple of days, see if I can pry out the name of some rich intellectual."

"Ben Bugger's resume—the easy way he slid into owning his own company, offices in Newport Beach and Brentwood—says money. And those lapses in his education are interesting."

"Volvo and a frayed shirt says big spender?"

"Maybe he's selective about what he spends on. Lauren did write down his number. And Monique Lindquist's comment about his not talking about sex still has me wondering. During the ride down the elevator in his building, he was in fine spirits. Humming. Literally. Walking with a bounce and enjoying lunch in the park. So either he doesn't know Lauren's dead, or he does and he doesn't care. Maybe it's not high priority, but somewhere along the line I'd take a closer look at him."

"High priority," he said. "Right now, I've got nothing else going." He tapped the MDT. "Let's see what our computers say about this intellectual.'"

15

THE CRIME FILES had nothing to say about Benjamin Dugger. DMV spit out his address.

The beach. An icy, white high-rise on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, one of those no-nonsense things knocked into place in the fifties and filled with moderate-income retirees until someone figured out that heart-stopping views of the Pacific and sweet air weren't bad things after all. Now units started at a half million.

The nineties upgrade included new paint and windows, palm trees transplanted from the desert, and locked-door security. We stood out in front. Milo had punched the buzzer three times so far.

He peered through. "Doorman's right there, yapping with some woman, pretending he doesn't see or hear." He cursed. "Give me hookers over petty bureaucrats any day."

Echo Park to Santa Monica had been a rush-hour crawl across the city, and it was nearly five P.M. Ocean Avenue teemed with tourists, and restaurants ranging from quick grease to wait-at-the-bar haute were jammed. Across the street salt-cured planks and a cheery white arch marked the entry to the Santa Monica Pier, newly rehabbed. The Ferris wheel was still dormant. Evening lights started to switch on. Old Asian men carrying rods and reels exited the wharf, and kids holding hands entered. The ocean at dusk was polished silver.

Just a short ride up the coast was Malibu, where Lauren had suppos-edly escaped for rest and recreation. Where she'd called a pay phone at Kanan-Dume.

"Come on" said Milo. He buzzed again, tapped his foot, clenched his hands. "Bastard actually turned his back." He toed the doorframe. Pounded on the glass. "Finally."

The door opened. The doorman wore a bright green uniform and matching hat. Around sixty and a head shorter than me, with a squat, waxy face scored with frown lines and the squint of someone weaned on No.

He inspected the glass in the door, wagged a finger. "Now look here, you coulda broke—"

Milo advanced on him so quickly that for a moment I thought he'd bowl the little man down.

Green Suit stumbled backward. His uniform was pressed to a shine, festooned with gold braids and tarnished brass buttons. A gold plastic badge said GERALD.

"Police business." The badge flashed an inch from Gerald's eyes.

"Now, what kind of business are we talking about here?"

"Our business." Milo moved around him, swung the door out of his grasp, and stepped in. Gerald hurried in after Milo. I caught the door and brought up the rear.

The lobby was a chilly vault rilled with a clean, salty smell and the giddy glissando of Hawaiian guitar music. Dim, despite mirrored walls. Plush carpeting blunted our footsteps. A grouping of aqua leather chairs blocked our way to the doorman's station. We stepped around, headed for the elevators. Gerald the doorman huffed to keep up.

"Wait a minute."

"We waited enough."

"I was on the phone, sir."

We continued to the directory. B. Bugger: 1053. Top floor. The penthouse. The money trail ...

Gerald said, "We're a high-security—"

"Is Dr. Dugger in?"

"I must call up first."

"Is he in?"

"Until I call, I couldn't say—"

"Don't call. Just tell me. Now." A big finger wagged in Gerald's face."But—"

"Don't argue."

"He's in."

As we boarded the lift the doors closed on the doorman's frog-eyed outrage.

"Yeah, I know," said Milo. "Just doing his job. Well, tough shit—he's the one chosen by God as today's scapegoat."

Three apartments on the penthouse level, all with high, gray double doors. Dugger's was one of the pair that faced the beach. Dugger answered Milo's knock within seconds, a rolled magazine in his hand, reading glasses hanging from a chain around his neck.

His clothes were a variant of yesterday's rumpled casual: white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, beige Dockers, crepe-soled brown loafers. The magazine was U.S. News.

"Dr. Dugger?" said Milo, flashing the badge.

"Yes—what's going on?"

I was standing behind Milo, and Dugger hadn't looked at me closely.

"I'd like to ask a few questions."

"The police? Of me?"

"Yes, sir. May we come in?"

Dugger stood there, perplexed. Through the doors I caught an eyeful of floor-to-ceiling glass, black granite flooring, endless ocean. What I could see of the furniture looked medium-priced and insipid.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he said.

"It's about Lauren Teague."

"Lauren? What about her?"

Milo told him.

Dugger went ghostly white and swayed. For a moment I thought he'd faint, and I got ready to catch him. But he stayed on his feet and tugged at his collar and pressed a palm to one cheek, as if stanching a wound.

"Oh, no."

"I'm afraid so, Doctor. Did you know her well?"

"She worked for me. This is ... hideous. My God. Come in."

The penthouse was lots of wide-open space. A step-down conversation pit increased the size of the glass wall, magnified the view. No terrace onthe other side of the glass, just air and infinity. One of the few walls was covered with metal shelving, filled with journals and books. No food smells from the open kitchen. No woman's touch or sign of domesticity. The first time I'd seen Dugger I hadn't taken a look at his hands. Now I did. No ring.

He sat down, hung his head, dropped it into his hands. When he looked up his eyes aimed for Milo; he still hadn't focused on me. "For God's sake, what happened?"

"Someone shot her and dumped her in an alley, Doctor. Do you have any idea who would do something like that?"

"No, of course not. Unbelievable." Dugger's chest rose and fell. Breathing fast. He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"What kind of work did she do for you, sir?"

"She was a research aide on a project I'm conducting. I'm an experimental psychologist."

"What kind of project, Doctor?"

Dugger's hand flapped distractedly. "I run a small market research firm. We do mostly contract work with ad agencies—focus groups, limited-topic opinion surveys, that kind of thing. . . . Poor Lauren. When did it happen?"