Flesh and Blood (41 page)

No stress from the automotive stalemate; the chrome clog was no worse than the neural traffic in my head. I was trying to figure out what to do with the rest of the day when I realized I'd inched toward Justin LeMoyne's house. As I passed the white bungalow, a flash of movement caught my eye.

The garage door closing. Just a foot of opening at the bottom as the wooden sheet slid into place. At the first side street I managed to hang a left across both lanes, hooked a three-point turn, pulled to the corner, and waited. Seven minutes later the garage door opened and a red Mercedes convertible, its top up, nosed out with its left turn signal blinking. Whoever was at the wheel was trying to swing across and head south.

Letting the Mercedes in wouldn't have ruined anyone's day, but human kindness was at an ebb and the red car just sat there for a long time, blinking. Finally, a gardener's truck relented, and the convertible was allowed to join the go-nowhere-fast club. Ten car lengths later, so was I.

Trying not to dwell on the ludicrousness of my tail job of Ben Dugger and Dr. Maccaferri, I tagged along, struggling to keep the Mercedes in view. No mean challenge, because the red car squeaked through the light at Sunset and left me in a queue of five cars. I kept my eye on its rectangular taillights. Right turn. By the time I followed suit, no sign of the red car, and I rolled along with all the other automatons, at a bracing fifteen miles per. Then brake lights flashed in series, and the congestion that anticipated the 405 freeway put the Mercedes back in my sights.

Thirty yards up, in the left-hand lane. I managed a few less-than-courteous lane changes, and when the Mercedes chose the Sepulveda alternate to the southbound freeway, I'd narrowed the gap and was able to make out the cloudy outline of a solitary driver through the convertible's plastic rear window.

He stayed on Sepulveda, crossed Wilshire and Santa Monica and Olympic, driving as quickly as traffic would permit. Past the spot where Lauren's body had been dumped. Across Pico and Venice, into Culver City, then a right turn at Washington, a quarter-mile zip, and a quick swing into the parking lot of a small hotel called the Palm Court.

North side of Washington, two-story mock colonial wedged between an ARCO station and a flower shop, auto club badge of approval tacked above the door. Clean, white clapboard facade that I couldn't help comparing to Jane and Mel Abbot's house. The parking lot was sun-grayed, one-third full. The Mercedes pulled to the far left side, well away from other vehicles, and came to a short stop.

A man got out and hurried toward the motel's glass doors. Forties, tall, slim, and sunken-chested, with long, stringy arms and kinky, graying hair. He wore a snug yellow polo shirt over pressed khakis, brown loafers, no socks, tiny eyeglasses. Carried a cardboard file case in his hands. Justin LeMoyne making a quick trip back home for paperwork? He shot a worried look over his shoulder as he shoved the doors and stepped in.

The phone booth at the ARCO station smelled of too-old burrito, but the dial tone was clear. I called Milo at the station, and before he could speak said, "Finally, something real."

"Yeah, they're both in there," he said, returning to the Seville and leaning in the driver's window. "Room two fifteen. They checked in yesterday under LeMoyne's name."

It had taken him a quarter hour to arrive. He'd left the unmarked on the opposite side of the lot, conferred for a couple of minutes with the desk clerk, emerged nodding.

"Cooperative fellow?" I said.

"Ethiopian fellow studying for the citizenship exam, very yessir, nosir. I promised not to bring in a SWAT army if he didn't fuss or notify LeMoyne and Salander. He seemed duly impressed by the badge— Why should he know that justifying a warrant, let alone a G.I. Joe ground assault, is about as likely as Ghaddafi marrying Streisand."

"Let's hear it for TV."

"And here I was thinking it was my commanding aura. He also volunteered that Salander just called down and asked where he could order a pizza. He directed them to Papa Pomodoro on Overland, told me they've got a guaranteed half hour delivery or it's a freebie. So I'm gonna knock on the door in five minutes, and just maybe they'll open it with pepperoni expectations."

"And when the real delivery boy shows up?" I said.

"We'll have a party— Thanks for noticing LeMoyne's car, Alex."

"Hard not to, I was right there."

"And they say no one in L.A.'s neighborly."

"If he checked in under his own name, LeMoyne wasn't exactly being cagey," I said. "Driving up to his house in broad daylight, staying this close to home? Doesn't smell like a frantic rabbit."

"Then what're they doing here? Vacationing in Culver City?"

"Maybe taking a breather," I said. "Giving Andy Salander time to figure out what to do with the information he got from Lauren."

"Or he was Lauren's partner in crime."

"No sign she shared the wealth. She was the one with the wardrobe and the investment portfolio. Salander barely scraped by on his bartender's salary. No, I think she took him in for company—nonsexual company—just like he said, and he became her confidant. Maybe she didn't even give him details, just told him enough for him to figure things out when people started dying. Reconciling with LeMoyne couldn't have come at a better time for him—allowed him to leave the apartment, move in with LeMoyne. He told LeMoyne of his suspicions, scared LeMoyne enough to bunk down here."

"And he didn't call me because ..."

"Because why should he, Milo? If he's a TV baby, how many times has he seen the old witness protection bungle story? Not to mention all those police corruption scenarios. Fictional or otherwise."

"Untrustworthy?" he said. "Moi?" He gazed at the hotel. "Or maybe the two of them are trying to figure out how to take over the blackmail scheme." He looked at his watch. "Okay, time to be Simon the Pie Man— Wait here, and if it's okay for you to come up, I'll let you know. If the delivery guy does show up, you can say the pizza's yours and pay him."

"Is the department going to reimburse me?"

He dipped in his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet.

"Put that back," I said. "Just kidding."

"Sure," he said, flashing teeth. "I can be trusted."

Seven minutes later a small, fine-featured black man in his late twenties stepped out of the Palm Court, sighted across the parking lot, spotted the Seville, and waved. I jogged over, and he held the door open. After ushering me into the skimpy, dim booth the hotel passed off as a lobby, he led me to a chipped, brown-metal elevator, cupped his hand over his mouth, and spoke so softly I had to lean toward him.

"Detective Sturger rogers you to ascend, sir."

"Thanks."

"Room two fifteen. You may take the elevator. Please."

The lift rattled dangerously, and the one-story ride took nearly a minute. The second floor was a single, low, pink-vinyl hallway crowded with gray-green doors fitted with cheap locks. The sand-colored carpeting beneath my footsteps was unpadded and grimy around the edges. Midway down the corridor, an ice machine gurgled. DO NOT DISTURB signs dangled from three knobs, and every few feet canned laughter oozed through the vinyl.

No sign on 215. I knocked and Milo's voice said, "Enter."

Blue room. Gold bamboo over turquoise paper, a queen-sized bedmade up carelessly with a navy spread, a black-painted desk and chair, a nineteen-inch TV bolted to the wall, rental movie-video game box riding on top. No closet, just open shelves next to the bathroom door, bare but for two six-packs of Budweiser and a collection of Chinese take-out cartons. A pair of older Vuitton suitcases had been shoved into a corner, sad as impoverished nobility.

Justin LeMoyne sat on the edge of the chair twirling an unlit cigarette between the fingers of one hand. His shoes were off, and the file case I'd seen him take from the car rested near his bare feet. In his lap was a black-bound script, and on the desk was a cell phone and a ThinkPad. Up close he looked older—early fifties—neck puffing and hollowing in all the wrong places, facial skin losing its grip on the bone. The kinky hair was worn down over his collar at the back, but a feathery, precise hairline in front said transplant. Behind the tiny glasses his eyes were dark, bright, uncertain.

Andy Salander was perched near the foot of the bed, dressed similarly to LeMoyne in khakis and a polo shirt—his, white with an olive collar. On the nightstand near his elbow was an open can of Bud. The ashtray on the opposite stand overflowed with butts, and the room reeked of tobacco and restless sleep.

Milo stood behind them, up against the beige chenille drape that dirtied the light leaking through the room's single window.

Salander said, "Hi there, Doctor," in a breakable voice.

LeMoyne gripped the script and pretended to study dialogue.

"Hi," I said.

"This is Justin," said Andy.

"Pleased to meet you, Justin." LeMoyne sniffed, thumbed pages.

"Mr. Salander and Mr. LeMoyne are on 'retreat,'" said Milo. "The question is from what."

"Last time I checked it was a free country," said LeMoyne, without looking up.

"Justin," said Salander.

The older man looked up. "Yes, Andrew?"

"I—we . . . Forget it."

"Excellent idea, Andrew."

"Oh, my," said Milo. "Such a simple question."

LeMoyne said, "Nothing's simple. And you have no right to invade our privacy." To Salander: "You didn't have to let him in, and there's absolutely no reason we should permit him to stay."

"I know, Justin, but. . ." To Milo: "He's right. Maybe you should go, Detective Sturgis."

"Now I'm hurt," said Milo.

"Knock it off," said LeMoyne. "The cute stuff chafes. We've already put up with the indignity of being frisked and having our belongings pawed through. If you have something to say, say it, then let us be."

Milo fingered the drapes, pulled them aside, turned and peered through the window. "Gas station view." He let the chenille drop. "If I lived in Beverly Glen, I wouldn't retreat here, Mr. LeMoyne."

"To each his own. You of all people should know that."

Salander winced.

Milo smiled. "The thing is, Andy, this whole free country thing— people recite it like a mantra, but we're really not all that free. The law imposes restrictions. I've got handcuffs in my pocket, and I can take them out, place them around your wrists, and take you to jail and be operating in a perfectly legal manner."

A tiny tremor scooted across Salander's lips.

LeMoyne kept turning pages. "He's trying to intimidate you, Andy." To Milo: "That's rubbish. On what grounds?"

"The thing is, Andy," said Milo, "there's a legal status called material witness that can reduce your freedom substantially. Same for 'suspect.'"

Salander blanched. "I didn't see anything, and I didn't do anything."

"That may be so, but my job is to suspect, not to adjudicate. And after a couple of days in custody—"

"Bullshit," said LeMoyne, starting to get up. "Stop scaring him."

"Please stay seated, sir."

"Bullshit," LeMoyne repeated, but he settled back down. "This is obscene. Oppressive. You of all people should—"

Milo turned his back on LeMoyne. "The thing that bothers me, Andy, is I specifically asked you to be available. Because you're the last person who saw Lauren Teague alive, and that makes you a definite material witness. From my perspective, the fact that you agreed to be available but reneged makes you an interesting person."

Long pause. Salander said, "I'm sorry—"

"Oh, Christ," said LeMoyne. "Stop talking, Andrew. Shut up—"

"You went back on your word, Andy. That and the fact that you're hiding out in this garden spot—"

"We are not hiding," said LeMoyne, picking up the phone. "I'm calling my lawyer. Ed Geisman. Geisman and Brandner."

"Be my guest," said Milo. "Of course, once that happens, I won't be able to control the ensuing publicity—agent and suspect apprehended in cheap hotel. I'm sure you can fill in the blanks." Half-turning back toward LeMoyne. "It was my impression that agents preferred to sell stories, not create them."

"Defame me and I'll sue you."

"If I defamed you, I'd deserve to be sued, sir. But release of accurate facts doesn't constitute defamation."

Salander said, "Justin, this is crazy, why are we fighting? I didn't do anything. All I want is— I don't care about the story."

"Quiet," snapped LeMoyne.

Milo smiled. Edged closer to the bed. "The story. So this is a story conference." He laughed. "You guys are taking a meeting."

"It's not like that," said Salander, wiping moist eyes.

"Stop blubbering," ordered LeMoyne. "It's unbecoming."

"I'm sorry, Justin—"

"Stop apologizing^

"Let me guess," said Milo, stepping between the men. "Insider's view of a blond beauty's murder. Are you thinking big screen or made for TV?"

"No," said Salander. "No, no, it's just— Justin said if we registered the idea with the Writers Guild we could be protected—it would be like life insurance."

"Ah," said Milo. "You think if someone comes gunning for you, the Writers Guild'11 ride to the rescue? Must be a new service they provide."

Salander began crying.

"You asshole," said LeMoyne. "You enjoy scaring him, don't you."

"He's already scared," said Milo. "Isn't that right, Andy?"

"Don't call him by his first name. It's demeaning. Call him 'mister.' Treat him with respect."

"I don't care what he calls me, Justin." Salander sniffed. "I just want to be safe."

"That's the problem," said LeMoyne.

"What is?" Panic in Salander's voice.

"You don't care. You always fall short in the caring department. As well as in the thinking-things-through department."

"Stop it, Justin—"

LeMoyne slammed the script shut. "This is bullshit. I've got appointments on hold, canceled meetings— Do what you want, Andy. It's your life, take it where you want to—"

"The thing is," said Milo, "I don't care if you register the story. Make a million bucks from Lauren's death, it's the American way. But not before you tell me what you know. Because if you hold out, that puts into play yet another restriction of your freedom: withholding evidence."