“What I mean is she ate before the wedding because she had no intention of enjoying the catering. Add that to no booze or self-administered dope in her system and the all-work-no-play scenario firms up.”
My phone pinged a text.
Robin answering my question.
I sent her a Thanks, hon, and relayed the info to Milo: “At the low estimate, the gauge fits a wound guitar D-string, at the upper end, a light A-string.”
He said, “So look for a killer with a Gibson. Hey, that would be a pretty good slogan.”
* * *
—
I got home by four p.m. An hour later, Maxine Driver called me.
“Got Ms. Burdette’s schedule such as it is, and guess what, an address.”
She read off numbers on Strathmore Drive.
Walking distance from campus. “Thanks, Maxine. How’d you get it?”
“Don’t ask,” she said. “In terms of the schedule, there’s not much. She takes one real class, chem for non-science-majors. The rest is independent study with no set time, her DIY is Multiverse Cultural Aspects of Civilization. Part of a program the administration tried a couple of years ago but discontinued. Brainy little tots recommended by their high school counselors allowed the freedom to explore their inner whatevers.”
“Why’d they drop it?”
“Word has it one of the kids committed suicide but I can’t confirm and the official reason was attrition. As in too many of the geniacs dropped out. Not just from the program, from the U. I guess it makes sense, Alex. You’re a precocious squirt, grow up hearing you’re a god from helicopter parents who overstructure your life with one class after another. Then you leave home and all of a sudden you’re expected to create your own structure. Poo-eh widdle tings pwobly withered.”
“Not Amanda,” I said. “She comes across assertive. To be charitable.”
“Doesn’t she. Survival of the rudest. That would explain politics.”
* * *
—
I texted the address to Milo.
He phoned. “A student who lives near school. All that to get what DMV could’ve given me if she was normal—’scuse me, conventional. Thanks, so far it’s the only scrap of good news. The pathologist is at some sort of convention and apparently San Diego’s another planet. The big bad is Corinne’s phone stalk of Denny turned up six months of his bills misfiled in another drawer, so he wasn’t hiding anything. She recognized every number except twelve, took it upon herself to play amateur detective. Nine were legit prospective clients Denny was calling back. None of them ended up signing with the agency, which Corinne attributes to his ‘Neanderthal conversational skills.’ Another was a florist—‘probably one of the times he was shitty to me.’ The last was a condolence call to a cousin of his in Arizona who’d just lost a mother to cancer. ‘Even though he never had the decency to phone all the time she was sick.’?”
“True love,” I said. “So she’s probably telling the truth. Unless she’s overacting because she’s covering for him.”
“I think she’s righteous, Alex. She was clearly bummed about not digging up any dirt and when I hung up she was wondering about a secret phone account and saying she’d try to figure out who Marissa was.”
“The game’s not over. Denny could be using burners.”
“If nothing else pans out, we’ll do a loose surveillance on him. Meanwhile I’m learning about fashion. One of the boutiques Alicia visited didn’t recognize Suzy/Kim but they were able to educate her about the dress: Three seasons ago an adorably pert actress wore it to the Golden Globes. Three years isn’t that long, it coulda been bought new or online. I’m having her devote another half day to high-end places then switching her to stripper-equippers.”
“Moe’s being punished?”
“No, he’s still got the gig but these places are all over town, with traffic it’ll take forever. I’m figuring maybe tomorrow to visit the bride and groom…how’d Maxine score the info on Amanda?”
“Confidential source.”
“She loves the intrigue.”
“That she does.” I told him about the disbanded program.
He said, “Suicide. Yeah, that would quash parental enthusiasm. But all Westside suicides go through us and I read every list. Kid at the U. doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Wouldn’t the campus police handle it?”
“They’d be the primary if it happened in a dorm or some other campus facility and didn’t end up complicated. But we’re supposed to hear, anyway. So maybe Maxine’s source isn’t that golden. Not that it matters. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here still waiting for an image dump from snail-imitator and part-time photographer Bradley Tomashev. He says six-hundred-plus images. I’m ready to get my squint on.”
I said, “Feel free to email a copy. Two sets of eyes and all that.”
“Appreciate the offer,” he said. “I’ll prove it by accepting.”
* * *
—
An hour later, nothing new in my inbox.
I took Blanche for her brief afternoon walk, gave her fresh water, and waited as she lapped daintily. When she was through, we walked to Robin’s studio. The Martin had been shipped and she’d moved on, a thick slab of spalted maple resting on her workbench. Her apron was flecked with snowy sawdust.
I said, “Beef. It could be what’s for dinner.”
“Perfect. All the heavy lifting, I could use the iron.” She hefted the slab.
“Strat clone?”
“Les Paul clone, meaning more wood. This thing already weighs a ton, I was just about to shape it. Maybe ninety minutes?”
“Marinade is patient.”
She offered her mouth for a kiss, gave Blanche a pat on the head, and began scrutinizing the wood.
In her own world, a beautiful place.
* * *
—
Back in the kitchen, Blanche promptly fell asleep on the floor.
I dry-rubbed a couple of rib eyes, which opened her eyes for a second.
“Not yet, Julia Child.” She drifted back to dream-world.
After shucking two ears of corn, I made a no-frills romaine salad and rechecked my phone for the wedding photos.
Three new emails: a pair of lousy-syntax, huckster spams (“These stock is bounds to explode!”) and a query from a judge regarding a recent custody report. The answers to the jurist’s questions seemed self-evident but I responded as if they deserved contemplation. Then I ran a search on recent campus suicides at the U.
Not a word.
No surprise; colleges are known for keeping a lid on bad news. In the case of a young person’s self-destruction, little chance of protest from the family.
I logged onto the L.A. Times homicide file, paged back to thirty months prior, and began scrolling forward.
The usual gang killings and domestics until a case that fit twenty-three months ago: Cassandra Michelette Booker, “a 19 year old white female,” had died in Westwood twenty-five months ago, cause of death pending.
Googling cassandra booker’s death pulled up nothing. So did substituting suicide or murder for death and pairing the deceased girl’s name with amanda burdette. But cassandra michelette booker produced a five-year-old squib in The Des Moines Register.
Rotary Club award ceremony, three high school students earning trophies for essays on “Civic Responsibility: The Truest Freedom of All.” Cassandra “Cassy” Michele Booker, a sixteen-year-old junior at Sandpoint High School, had scored second place.
An accompanying photo featured a pair of middle-aged, suit-and-tie Rotarians—a banker and an insurance broker—flanking three adolescents.
Two of the winners were boys, tall, bespectacled, and beaming. Between them stood Cassy Booker, small and thin and round-shouldered, blond hair plaited into pigtails.
Her long, pallid face hosted a tentative, off-center smile, as if she doubted her own merit.
Once you’d seen Amanda Burdette, the physical resemblance was inescapable.
Petite and fair wasn’t an unusual look. But Amanda had also won an essay competition.