My cell beeped. Robin. I switched to speaker.
She said, “Hi, sweetie. Sharon’s touring but took the time to call back, how’s that for a gracious virtuosa? She didn’t think giving out the information would be a problem seeing as we’re talking about a murder victim so she texted the head of dance and just got back to me. Your Ms. DaCosta has never attended Juilliard under that name or anything close to it. They did have a ballet teacher, pretty famous, Madame Beatrice Da Costa. The dance head wondered if someone was using her name—like a wannabe composer claiming to be a Mozart.”
“How long ago was Madame at the school?”
“She arrived in 1952, a year after the dance division was established. She was already old and died five years later. So if she’s some kind of a relative, there are multiple generations in between. My bet is Suzanne was just pretending, poor thing.”
“Okay, thanks for taking the time, hon.”
“If not for you, who?”
I told her I loved her and clicked off.
Milo said, “Hmph,” and headed back toward the freeway. Speeding up the way he often does when his head knots up with question marks.
As we neared the on-ramp, he said, “So I’ve got a phantom who reinvented herself aka just plain lied. Which explains why I haven’t been able to trace her before she got the driver’s license. Meaning the goddamn I.D. could be useless along with everything she told her roommates, the Valkyrie, and the bouncers.”
The heel of his hand pounded the steering wheel hard enough to make it hum. His other hand ran over his face, like washing without water.
“One step forward,” he said. “A hundred thousand backward.”
I waited awhile before saying, “Maybe we should concentrate on what we do know—rework it.”
“What, she liked to read?”
“She liked to read academic material. Hunkered down in a corner of the library by herself. In that regard, we’re not talking pretension, she had serious intellectual aspirations. If she wasn’t enrolled at some sort of college, she may have planned to be. And that brings us right back to the brainy lover.”
“Going to school to impress him.”
“Not the kind of thing you make up randomly. My bet is he’s real. Another thing that’s stuck with me: that body shaper. Again, why would a woman with an ideal build bother with that?”
“This is L.A., Alex. Twenty-year-olds get Botox.”
“Maybe so. But it could also be something she did for him.”
“The Brain has a thing for tight undergarments?”
“The Brain has a thing for control. If he played up her flaws, he’d gain more upper hand. Or it’s just a bondage fetish. Which is also about control.”
“Keeping her tight and unavailable.”
“Easier if you’re dealing with someone socially and intellectually beneath you. Her wearing the shaper to the wedding says she expected him to be there.”
“Which brings me back to Garrett, who sure was there. It’s starting to add up, Alex: Guy cuts out right after we talk to him about the Land of Pierogi and his parents get squirrelly about the same topic. Baby probably thinks she’s turned him into a spontaneous, lovey-dovey swain. Talk about ‘that’s amore.’?”
“True love,” I said. “Of himself.”
* * *
—
He phoned Moe Reed. Nothing on his end about the newlyweds’ hotel accommodations; same for Sean and Alicia.
Milo said, “Keep trying,” and clicked off. He put his weight on the accelerator.
At Reseda, I said, “I’m thinking to call Basia again.”
“About what?”
I told him.
He said, “You really see a connection?”
“Depends on what she tells me.”
* * *
—
Lopatinski was at her desk. “Hello, I was just about to call you—Milo, actually.”
“He’s right here, driving.”
“Hi, Milo.”
“Basia.”
“There will be an autopsy on Mr. Lotz within the next few days but I don’t expect it to reveal much. His bloods likely tell the story: heroin plus fentanyl plus diazepam. A lot of diazepam.”
I said, “A Valium appetizer followed by an opioid entrée? Or everything mixed together?”
“No way to tell, Alex.”
“Was there enough Valium to put him under before the hot-shot?”
“You’re wondering if it’s the same process as DaCosta: Immobilize then strike.”
“Exactly.”
“Unfortunately, with a long-term addict it’s hard to say what does what. They build up tolerances, the brain changes, they can handle dosages that would kill you and me. All I can tell you is the three drugs combined were far more than needed to stop his heart.”
Milo said, “Ever see a mixture like that before?”
“I have seen accidental overdoses in polydrug users but not a premixed cocktail. None of the other pathologists around here have seen it, either. I believe it makes homicide likely. For an addict, adding a tranq to a fix would be a needless expense and distraction. One more thing: Mr. Lotz’s insides haven’t been explored yet but his outsides do tell a story. Eight tattoos, six of them conforming to samples in our prison-gang photo file. Two are typical of the Scottish Clansters, they’re active in southern Ohio and Kentucky. Four are your basic neo-Nazi garbage.”
“Nasty stuff.”
“A good candidate for someone looking to hire out for a nasty job.”
I thought: living beneath all those students.
Milo said, “What about the other two tattoos?”
“Mother in a heart with an arrow through it and a cartoon wolf.”
“The world of fine art.”
“I prefer Monet. Anything that I should know from you?”
Milo said, “Not yet.”
I said, “Did you have time to check Cassandra Booker’s file?”
“Not yet but it’s unlikely anything in the autopsy’s going to add clarity.”
“I’m not interested in her organs, just what she was wearing when she came in.”
I told her why.
She said, “Something a psychologist would think of…I’ll take a look and text you.”
* * *
—
Five minutes later, I was reading her message aloud to Milo.
“Pale-blue cotton dress, size six, Miss Bluebell label; blue-and-green-checked sneakers, size seven and a half, Vans; white cotton panties, size S, Young and Free label.”
The best saved for last. Basia’s sense of drama: “White mid-thigh tights, size S, Tone-Upp label.”
I looked up the company. One product: “invisible body shapers.”
Milo didn’t respond.
I said, “Not impressed?”
“Unpleasantly impressed, life just got more complicated. If my damn head explodes, duck.”
* * *
—
Dealing with my best friend can be like doing therapy. What you don’t say matters more than what you do so I kept my mouth shut.
We’d just merged onto the 405 South before he spoke again, droning at a low volume.
“The kid’s from Iowa. So what, I talk to the parents? It’s telephonic, talk about hampering my charm. Even if I could fly out there and meet them face-to-face, what the hell would I say? The daughter who destroyed your lives by ending hers—accidentally—was maybe spurred on to shoot herself up, or better yet murdered by some power-hungry psychopath who’d already had his way with her and convinced her to wear Lycra? Not that I know this for a fact or have anything resembling evidence in that regard, Mr. and Mrs Booker. It’s just one of those detective feelings. So I thought I’d share.”
I said nothing.
He said, “You’re the shrink. Can it be done with greater sensitivity?”
“Not that I can see.”
“So I just stash this morsel away.”
I said, “I’d look for a link between Suzanne and Cassy.”
“A habitually lying stripper and a nineteen-year-old Iowa girl? Only link I can see is The Brain somehow knew both of them and right now, he’s arm in arm with his honey sucking on a cone of gelato.”
“I’ll keep trying with Maxine, see if she can learn more about the DIY program, even confirm a relationship between Cassy and Amanda. You were talking about surveilling Amanda. Maybe now would be a good time.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Definitely.”
CHAPTER