I poured him a cup, brought it over with heavy cream.
“You’re pretty good at this,” he said. “You sure you never wanted to be an actor?”
“What’s the happy occasion?”
“New info on Denny Rapfogel. Remember how I told you NCIC and the department had nothing on him? I decided to give it another try, found out his Social and got all his previous addresses. California boy all the way, he’s originally from Fresno, moved to Clovis when he was a teenager. Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, he was known to local law enforcement. DUIs, drunk and disorderly, couple of burglaries from commercial establishments, receiving stolen property. Looks like no punishment beyond a bit of local jail time, then probation, which he served without violation.”
I said, “Wild oats eluding the Feds.”
“You know how it is, cities don’t always report. Anyway, Mr. R was a certified bad boy.”
“Nothing since then?”
“Unfortunately not. Maybe he changed his ways, maybe he just got careful. To me the bottom line is he’s shown himself capable of antisocial behavior. It feels like a few more bricks in the foundation, no?”
Long-ago youthful crimes were a long way from calculated murder. It felt like a reach.
I nodded.
“There’s more,” he said. “I watched his and Corinne’s house from seven p.m. on. Nice two-story, south of the boulevard—what’re you putting in there?”
“Onions, tomatoes, spinach, Jack cheese, leftover steak.”
“Ahh, you’re a prince—no, you’re better, you’re one of those Venice guys who ruled city-states—a doge…I like my eggs easy, Lord Alessandro.”
He swigged coffee, ran a hand over his hair. Bent low and stage-whispered to Blanche, “When the doge isn’t looking I’ll slip you something.”
I said, “Surveillance paid off?”
“You be the judge. Both of them got home soon after I arrived. Same office but separate cars. Which tells us something about that thing you talk about—their psychodynamics. Around eight thirty, Corinne leaves wearing exercise clothes and a gym bag. A few minutes after that, Denny comes out in a black suit and T-shirt. He goes to his car while talking on the phone. Cheap-looking flipper, could be that burner we wondered about. Conversation over, he gives a big smile, gets in, and drives off.”
“None of that wedding grumpiness.”
“Just the opposite, little bounce in his step. He drives higher up in the hills, stops at a cute little cottagey house a quarter of a mile away. Hillside lot, one those aerobic driveways. Gated, but you can see through and there’s outdoor lighting. He punches in a code, the gate opens, he speeds up to the front of the house and parks. By the time he’s out of his car, a redhead in white short-shorts and tank top is outside greeting him.”
He laughed. “If you call a long, soulful kiss and a crotch tweak a greeting—those eggs aren’t getting too firm?”
I emptied the pan onto his plate.
He filled his mouth. Chewed like an industrial combine and swallowed. “Tastes like rib eye.”
“Good call.”
“That, Doge Mio, is the essence of friendship. Okay, so Denny and the redhead head to her house. She puts her hand on his ass. They’re both bouncing now, like a couple of bungee jumpers. He stays in there for an hour and a quarter, leaves by himself, cruises down to Ventura, drives to a bar in Studio City. I took a risk and peeked. He’s by himself with a beer. I go back to the car, he comes out twenty minutes later and goes home. Corinne’s car is back. I watched for a while to see if any sparks would fly but nothing.”
I said, “Maybe he drank to put booze on his breath as a cover. I’ve been downing shots by my lonesome, honey.”
“You’re a devious lad. Anyway, lights go out around eleven, I leave. But here’s the interesting part. While I’m sitting out there, I’m running a check on the girlfriend’s house and it’s owned by a woman named Sliva Cardell.”
“Relative of Leanza.”
“Close relative, Leanza’s mommy as verified by Leanza’s Facebook. Her and three brothers, no daddy of note. On Sliva’s page, there are old bikini shots that she posts as if they’re current. Googling her name pulls up real estate ads—she’s a broker.”
“Was she at the wedding?”
“Yup, her car shows up in the list from the parking lot and when I got home I found her in a few of the wedding photos. Including the one with Red Dress.”
He took another bite, wiped his hands, drew out his phone, and began typing.
I said, “Two girlfriends in one frame. Any eye contact between them?”
“Nope, my luck doesn’t extend that far. Sliva’s closer to the front, like she’s waiting to get to the bar and tank up. She’s putting on a little show for a bunch of younger guys surrounding her. Blue dress, super low-cut, bending and offering them a view of her maternal instincts.”
He pulled up an image on his phone, enlarged a section, and pointed. “This is Saucy Sliva.”
Still too small for me to catch subtle details. But nothing subtle about bright-orange hair cut in a short glossy cap, an electric-blue off-the-shoulder, low-cut piece of satin, and cleavage that could hide a paperback book.
Strong-shouldered woman, thick arms, white flash of smile. “Analysis?”
I said, “Obviously, Denny goes for the mousy type.”
Milo’s eyebrows shot up as he barked laughter. Chewing frantically, he pounded his chest, swallowed with a gulp, coughed, drank coffee. “Don’t do that while I’m eating.”
I thought: That limits me.
I said: “The doge obeys rules?”
“Everyone obeys rules. I can’t see any obvious link between shtupping a bridesmaid’s mom and Red Dress. Except what it confirms about Denny. This is a guy ruled by his gonads who’s been known to break the law. Like I said, brick by brick.”
He finished the omelet, examined the toast. “Whole wheat, fine, why not?”
I poured myself my fourth cup of coffee and sat down across from him. “I still think the method exhibits rage or sadism. Using dope to be able to look into her eyes. But there’d be another advantage to knocking her out first. Physical strength wouldn’t be a factor.”
“A woman.”
“There seem to be a few of them in Mr. Rapfogel’s life.”
“Hell hath no fury,” he said, pushing away the toast.
I said, “The obvious angry woman is Corinne but she’d be the last person to trash her daughter’s wedding and she’d be too conspicuous to slip away. Sliva, on the other hand, wouldn’t be missed. Does she look as sturdy in real life as in the pictures?”
“She’s no bikini model but she ain’t flabby, so sure, sturdy enough. Especially with a fentanyl backup.”
He pulled up Sliva Cardell’s image again. “Not much fabric to damage, here. And yeah, those arms are pretty substantial, no?”
He logged onto a Facebook page. Sliva in her thirties wearing a flesh-colored thong bikini that created a first impression of nudity. Voluptuous and hard-bodied, topped by shagged yellow hair that approached the crack of her buttocks. “Definitely not a wimp. So what, getting rid of the competition?”
I said, “The motivation seems lacking. We’re talking cold brutality in order to win a broke guy never known to be faithful. Unless she’s got some serious pathology going on.”
“Last night, she looked pretty enthusiastic about ol’ Denny. Maybe a younger, hotter rival tipped the scales. As far as kinks in her psyche, no past criminal record and I can’t exactly show up and ask to interview her.”
“Can you put a separate watch on her?”
“Depends if any of the baby D’s are available and that’s looking weak because all of a sudden, there’s flak from above.” He cleared his throat. “Apparently, I’ve been co-opting staff for non-essential assignments.” Laughing. “Like I actually read the memo.”
He phoned Reed. Voicemail. Same for Binchy and Bogomil.
I said, “The kids leave, they don’t write, they don’t call.”