I said, “John sounds grumpy.”
“That’s because John’s a rational human being—hold on.” His cell chirped an excerpt from Handel’s Water Music. “It’s Reed.” Click. “What’s up, kiddo?”
“Struck out everywhere else but a bartender at The Booty Shop on Sunset says she used to dance there a couple of years ago. Not as Kim or Kimberly. He knew her as Sooze.”
“Short for Susie?”
“When I suggested that to him, he got all puzzled, like I was talking in Afghani or something.”
“Einstein.”
“Old guy, probably been pickling himself for decades with well booze.”
Milo said, “I’m not gonna ask your definition of old. Geezer was sure it’s her.”
“Says he is. And he described her the same way the bouncer did: lazy dancer, kept to herself. The backpack, too. She’s the only one he’s ever seen who did that, apparently dancers really do go for big designer purses. I asked him why he thought she acted different. He said she probably wanted to be different. I said maybe she’s shy. He said, ‘Shy people don’t flash their pussies at perverts.’ I kept that out of my notes.”
“Does the place keep better employment records than The Aura?”
“Don’t know, L.T., still trying to find out who owns it. Geezer gave me the name of what turned out to be a shell corporation, address near the docks in Wilmington that’s now a parking lot. The manager’s due in soon. I can wait around for her unless you need me somewhere else.”
“Wait, kid. Have a Shirley Temple on me.”
Reed chuckled. “You know me and sugar.”
“Your loss,” said Milo. “Female manager, huh?”
“How’s that for cracking the glass ceiling?”
* * *
—
Just as Milo pocketed the phone, it chirped again. Radical shift to something atonal—Schoenberg or the like.
John Nguyen said, “Finally, you ask me a no-brainer. With a joint account, you get permission from either account holder, it’s legally obtained evidence.”
“Even if the two of them end up in a nasty divorce.”
“Do it before the divorce.”
“Even with—”
“You want to debate? That’s the law.”
“Great. You okay, John?”
“I’m fantastic.” Sounding anything but.
“What happened to the old voicemail?”
“New boss,” said Nguyen. “Don’t ask ’cause I won’t tell, telling’s what got me in the shit in the first place. Did you know baseball represents white male privilege and is an inappropriate intrusion on work-related communication? Bet you didn’t. Bet you do whatever the hell you want over in Blue Land.”
“You’re white?” said Milo.
“When they want me to be I am.”
Click.
Milo’s lips fluttered, emitting a raspberry.
I said, “Good news on the phone.”
“If it’s in Corinne’s name and she agrees. But probably a waste of time. What’s the chance Denny would be stupid enough to phone his girlfriend when his wife has access to his call record?”
“Doesn’t sound as if he’s ever been discreet. Maybe part of the thrill is throwing it in her face.”
“Okay, I’ll try to get her permission. Maybe I’ll stalk the office later this afternoon, get lucky and catch her by herself. Meanwhile, we’ve got another sighting of Red Dress but with a different name.”
I said, “She’s been working in L.A. for at least two years, has to have some kind of residence.”
“It’s a big county,” he said, wheeling back and stretching his legs. “Kimby, Sooze. Backpack. Maybe you’re right about her being a student. Or the barkeep’s right and she was just putting on airs to stand out.”
He looked at his phone again. “Nothing from Alicia on the dress, yet. Which I knew without checking because I already checked twenty seconds ago. What’s the treatment for OCD?”
“It’s anxiety-reducing behavior,” I said.
“So?”
“Sometimes success does the trick.”
He pretended to study the phone again. “Maybe if I stare at it long enough, something wonderful will take place.”
“That happens,” I said, “write a book and make millions.”
CHAPTER
12
No word from Milo until Thursday, just after four p.m.
“Couldn’t catch Corinne, office was locked. Headquarters for Rapfogel marital bliss is in Sherman Oaks. Couldn’t see driving out there on the off-chance, so I left an ambiguous message on her cell, still waiting for a callback. Consistent with all that joy, the manager at The Booty Shop called in sick so Moe couldn’t talk to her. Some of the dancers showed up, though, and he talked to them, the kid owes me. No one who works there now knew Sooze/Kim/whoever. The only remotely possible bright spot is the manager lives close to the station, I’m gonna try a drop-in. You free? Or just reasonable?”
* * *
—
Consuela Elena Baca lived in an aquamarine stucco ranch house near L.A.’s southern border with Culver City. Neatly kept place, aloe and yucca and verbena in place of a slavering lawn, a copper-colored nineties Jaguar convertible in the driveway.
Decals on the house’s front window touted the services of a security company. The door button elicited Westminster Abbey chimes.
From within, a nasal female voice: “Who is it?”
“Police, Ms. Baca.”
“Not the alarm again!”
The door cracked but remained chained. Eyes so pale they verged on colorless took us in.
“Your I.D., please.”
Milo gave her a look at his badge. Not his card; no sense beginning a conversation with “Homicide.”
She undid the chain and appraised us again.
Tall woman in her forties wearing a clingy black rayon robe over something beige and lacy. Red nose, bloodshot eyes, white-blond hair bunched up atop her head.
“Yes, I’m Consuela.” Sniffle, throat clear. A wadded tissue in her hand dabbed the nose. A droplet formed at the bottom of one nostril. She said, “Ugh,” and caught it before it dropped.
“Listen, I really can’t be paying any more false-alarm fines. It did not go off. Not once during the past twenty-four hours and I’m sure because I’ve been here all that time. Got this crud of a virus, okay? Haven’t left the house. So whatever problem you think there is, it’s not mine.”
Name notwithstanding, Consuela Elena Baca looked proto-Nordic, with milky skin, a high-bridged uptilted nose, and a firm, square chin. Leggy and full-breasted, close to six feet tall in fuzzy slippers.
Milo said, “This isn’t about the alarm, ma’am.”
“Then what?”
“May we come in?”
Consuela Baca thought. “Sure, but at your own risk. There’s a gazillion obnoxious little germs floating around.”
“We’ll chance it,” said Milo.
“Brave cops, huh?”
“Protect and serve.”
She smiled. Coughed. Muttered “oops” and covered her mouth, bent over and coughed some more. When she stopped, her face was grave. “Is someone dangerous lurking around the neighborhood?”
“Not at all, ma’am. We’re here to get some help.”
“I can help you?” said Consuela Baca. A half shrug brought on more coughing. “Why not? There’s been times you’ve helped me. At work, I run a nightclub. Though it’s inconsistent, sometimes you guys really know how to take your time—what the eff, c’mon in.”
* * *
—
We followed her into a square white living room. A black sofa faced a red sofa. Both were shaped like dog bones. In between sat a chrome-and-glass table on a rug that looked stitched from white rags. On the table, a box of lotion-enhanced tissues. On the floor, a black plastic wastebasket overflowing with used paper.
Two walls were hung with half a dozen black-and-white photos, all featuring the moody chiaroscuro of prewar French camera work. Three depicted jazz combos playing in dim, smoky rooms. Spotlight on the leaders: Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Benny Goodman.
The remaining trio of images starred Consuela Elena Baca, naked, in her twenties. Darker shade of blond, a complex hairdo full of flips, shags, and layers, long smooth body adored by the camera.
She motioned us to the red sofa. Directly opposite her photo-memoir.
Ill but still able to choreograph.