“Ooh, traffic,” he said. “Scawy-wawy invasion of safe space.”
I laughed. “She goes to the U., probably lives in or near Westwood, maybe close enough to walk to campus. Longer journeys, she can bike or Uber.”
“Jesus,” he said. “A generation of fetuses.”
“Hey,” I said, “if they sit at home sucking their thumbs the crime rate could eventually drop.”
“There goes my career. But not yours—don’t gloat.”
“In terms of her address, she could live in a dorm.”
“Good luck prying that out of the U. I googled, looking for anything. Her name came up once: Two years ago she won an essay contest in high school sponsored by the Calabasas Chamber of Commerce. Patriotism and capitalism as bosom buddies. Different narrative, back then.”
“Straight-arrow goes to college and turns all relativistic and postmodern.”
“Oh, those big words, Doctor. Anyway, what I’m left with is a mouthy kid who reworked herself. Can’t see how it relates to Kimby Red Dress.”
“Unless Kimby was a student, like I suggested, and they knew each other.”
“Backpack and books, yeah, I thought of that. That’s another reason I checked Amanda’s web presence. Best of all worlds, there’d be Instagram shots of both of them. Unfortunately.”
Long breathy exhalation. “It is weird, though, Amanda being so covert. Who feeds the online beast? Egomaniacs, bigots, and millennials. Or is there another trend I missed?”
I said, “A few kids are withdrawing but not many. From what we saw, Amanda might have a stake in being different. Or relationships are problematic for her so she’s withdrawn.”
“Relationships with other women?”
“Her family’s straitlaced. If her sexuality wouldn’t fit in, she’d definitely want to keep it from them. That could be another reason she was so hostile.”
“Amanda and Red Dress,” he said. “Red Dress shows up to the wedding peeved because her girlfriend didn’t invite her. Amanda needs to get her out of view, takes her upstairs to talk—she was a bridesmaid, she’d know about the bathroom. There’s a confrontation and Red Dress gets the worst of it. Yeah, it’s a great screenplay. Unfortunately logic doesn’t touch it. If Amanda was caught off-guard, why would she be equipped with a syringe full of dope and a guitar string? Plus, she’s small, hard to see her overpowering anyone. And she didn’t have any scratches on her, any indication she’d been in a struggle.”
I said, “Want me to play Devil’s advocate?”
“What, you need permission? No, I don’t. Yes, I do. Go.”
“There was no struggle because the shot in the back of Red Dress’s neck shocked her to the ground. Amanda had dope because she uses. Not necessarily a full-fledged junkie. She flirts with opioids—a little squirt here and there, lots of kids try it. That could explain her affect.”
No answer.
I said, “You don’t like it.”
“I’m not feeling it, Alex. Yeah, she could be involved on some level. But managing to get away from the wedding party long enough to do all that, come back looking none the worse, and go back to her book? Now onward to the bride’s family. Lots of litigation, there. The Rapfogels rent space in an office building, are tussling with their landlord—unpaid rent versus code violations. Even more interesting, five former employees are suing separately for back wages and ‘workplace violations.’?”
“Sexual harassment.”
“Bingo. All five claimants are female, I managed to contact two. Neither was thrilled to talk to me and both said Red Dress’s description didn’t ring a bell. But one woman made it clear Denny Rapfogel was a pig. Took a while to pry it out of her, finally she said, ‘You know. What’s going around?’ I say, ‘Sounds like a disease.’ She says, ‘Exactly. The scrotal flu.’ Then she hung up. Plenty of hostility potential, no? As in pissed-off husband or boyfriend. If Denny was the target, there’d be irony potential, too. You abused your wedding vows, asshole, now your little Baby won’t enjoy hers.”
I said, “That would fit getting rid of Denny. Killing an innocent woman doesn’t. Red Dress wasn’t an accidental victim. But now you’ve got me thinking. What if Amanda wasn’t her lover, Denny was. Married guy dangles a woman on the side, promises to leave his wife but never does. Her frustration boils over, she shows up looking sexy and ready to humiliate him. Same scenario, different cast.”
“He’s big enough to pull it off but we’ve still got the problem of preparation. Who brings a syringe and guitar string to his daughter’s wedding?”
“Someone who suspected what might happen,” I said.
More silence.
Finally, he said, “No, I don’t don’t like it. Maybe, let’s see what happens when I get more face-time with Denny…okay, last item: talked to Tomashev, the photographer. Still working on the images.”
“Speaking of which, how come there was no videographer?”
“There was supposed to be. A studio gofer Tomashev works with. It fell through because she insisted on a deposit but never got one.”
“Tight budget,” I said. “That and the Rapfogels’ unpaid rent says tough times. Another source of stress if Red Dress was tightening screws.”
“Red Fendi,” he said. “Alicia’s checking to see if it’s vintage. It is, she’ll do a boutique crawl. And yes, I’m assuming a woman will do better at high-end dress shops, don’t report me to the ACLU. Any suggestions beyond re-interviewing Amanda and the Rapfogels?”
“Maybe a follow-up with the bride and groom, because they could still be the primary targets. And pursue the strip-club angle. She worked The Aura, she likely had other gigs.”
“Already assigned it to Moe.”
“Time on for good behavior?”
He cracked up. “No address on Amanda so the Rapfogels come first. Think they’re ready for my charm and charisma?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Even so,” he said, “how about we toss in your therapeutic warmth, notable empathy, and all-around sensitivity?”
“Sure. When?”
“Now sounds about right. By the time you get here, I’ll have a plan.”
* * *
—
He was standing ten yards south of the station when I drove up. I cruised to the curb and he got in.
“What’s the plan?”
“Improv. No one answered at their agency but it’s ten minutes away, Wilshire near Barrington. I strike out, we had a nice breather.”
As I shifted into Drive, the front door to the station opened and Alicia Bogomil came out wearing baggy gray sweats and white sneakers. In contrast, her long, butterscotch hair was combed out and glowing and she’d put on makeup and dangling earrings that flashed as she walked. Sashayed.
She saw us, immediately adjusted her gait to cop-march, and came over to the Seville.
“Hi, Doc. Off to explore the world of fashion, Loo. I figured I’d go home and dress up a bit.” She plucked at the sweatshirt. White lettering exalted The Albuquerque Isotopes.
Milo said, “That a team or a chemistry lesson?”
“Minor-league baseball.” Another pluck. “I Lysoled the locker they gave me five times but it still stinks of whoever, and now so does this. I’m figuring decent duds and a little perfume might not get me kicked out.”
Milo said, “Hauting the couture? Go for it.”
“Great,” she said. “Nice seeing you, Doc. Think I’d look half decent in Fendi?”
Not waiting for a reply, she crossed to the staff parking lot. Back to loose limbs, hair swaying back and forth, in counterpoint to her rear end.
Milo said, “Good work ethic. She’s doing okay, so far.”
He read off the Rapfogels’ business address.
I did a three-pointer using the staff parking lot and drove north.
He said, “I was gonna call the Burdettes and ask for Amanda’s address, then I said maybe not. Overprotected youngest child, maybe with personality issues? Don’t want her parents on edge this early. Make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” I said. “And we could get the address from the U.”
“You heard what the unicop said. They don’t give out personal info.”
“I’m thinking Maxine Driver.”
“Ah,” he said. “Think she’d do it?”