“Good thinking, kid. Let’s hold off for the time being. Where are you?”
“Back at my desk. I watched the place for a couple hours but it’s tough, no parking on either side of Wilshire and I couldn’t exactly slide the heap in with Bentleys and Mercedeses. So I just kept circling and passing. No sight of her since, sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for, getting that address is a big step.”
“Hopefully it’s not her rich grandma’s crib.”
“There was no grandma at the wedding.”
“Oh, yeah. So maybe it was some kind of tryst. Though it’s hard to see her having a thing with the kind of guy who’d live there. Not only is she weird, she’s dowdy. Today she rode her bike in this ugly, flimsy gray dress, it’s billowing and blowing up like an umbrella, her legs are spread open from here to Arizona and she’s totally unaware. If she wasn’t wearing a shaper, she’d have given Westwood quite a show.”
“A shaper.”
“It’s a girl thing, Loo. Tights you put on under other clothes, they end above the knees and take care of bulges you don’t want to advertise. Not that this one has any bulges. Skinny and straight up and down as a boy. Why’d she wear a shaper? Maybe she’s got a twisted body image, maybe it’s for biking. Or like I said, she’s just weird.”
“Maybe,” said Milo. “Okay, take the rest of the day off.”
“Why?”
“Your watch on her went way past the call, even with the overtime I’m gonna write up. This is good work, I want you rested.”
“Really?” said Bogomil. Softer voice. “That’s totally nice. Maybe I found my niche.”
* * *
—
He hung up, pocketed his phone, stared out the windshield. “Don’t say it.”
I said, “Say what?” But I knew what he was getting at.
He ticked a finger. “A, unless Garrett has millions no one knows about, he doesn’t have a place in a Corridor high-rise. B, he’s in Italy so it can’t be him Amanda just went to see. Let alone wearing a body shaper for.”
My mind raced, what-ifs tumbling in. I kept silent.
He drummed the dashboard, produced a panatela that he quickly replaced with a chocolate lollipop. “Sugarless, got it at the dentist.”
I smiled.
“Hey. I didn’t mean no talk for the rest of the day. I wanted a Trappist monk for a buddy, I’d write the ad differently.”
That broke me up. When I recovered, I said, “The Corridor’s fine for luxury housing but you’d still need somewhere to shop and recreate.”
“So?”
“The nearest place for that is the Village. If The Brain spends time there, he’d have ample opportunity to come across the building on Strathmore, maybe meet a vulnerable young female. And/or a vulnerable addict like Lotz. Alternatively, he learned about the building from Susie Koster through her relationship with Peter Kramer.”
He kept working on the lollipop, jaw tightening, eyes compressing.
I said, “That doesn’t work for you?”
“It works. Go on.”
“What makes you think there’s more?”
He grinned.
“Okay,” I said, “third possibility is that The Brain is rich enough to keep two places—Wilshire for his main crib and Strathmore for finding his prey. Or sticking with the affluence angle, he’s familiar with the building because he’s got a financial interest in it.”
“A honcho at Academo.”
“Not necessarily. When outfits like Academo build, they don’t put up all of the money, they go to outside investors and syndicates. The Brain being a serious investor would explain Pena getting squirrelly.”
He held up a hand in mock self-defense. “I ask for a breeze and get a hurricane. Okay, so we could be looking for an intellectual type with big bucks, maybe with a link to Poland. How about we take a look at Wilshire, we get lucky some prancing Slavic popinjay in a monocle will just happen to strut out to his Rolls.”
CHAPTER
38
Traffic back to the city was less obliging. Fifty-three minutes after leaving Dorothy Koster’s North Hollywood hideaway, we were coasting the eastbound lanes on Wilshire just past Westwood Boulevard.
A red light at Selby gave us the chance to idle in front of the address given by Alicia. Towering above a copper-roofed porte cochere paved in gray slate was a sharp-edged obelisk clad in pink granite and trimmed with more copper. Glass doors offered a coy hint of crystal chandelier. Twenty-four stories, generous windows offering views to everywhere.
Three maroon-clad valets hustled to accommodate a queue of vehicles. As Bogomil had promised, high-end horsepower: Porsche, Mercedes, Mercedes, Bentley, Range Rover, Mercedes. Every set of wheels black or white.
Milo found a parking spot three blocks north of Wilshire and we headed back to the tower. Not much foot traffic on the Corridor and walking in L.A. can generate suspicion if you don’t look like you belong. Milo had on one of his fossilized gray suits, a white wash-’n’-wear shirt, and a skinny brown tie. Respectable enough if you didn’t get too close. I’d thrown a blue blazer over a gray polo and jeans, which could mean anything from tourist to movie mogul.
As we neared the building, another white Mercedes pulled in. Moments later, engine hum was drowned out by a roar of anger.
We slowed our stride, ready to spy while looking apathetic.
The choler was coming from a middle-aged woman in total pink Chanel. Including inflated lips. Her target was one of the valets, a thin red-haired kid no older than twenty. The other two valets, older men, stood by as Red weathered the blast, grinding his jaws.
The gist of the rage was Chanel’s conviction that “five minutes, thirty-eight seconds, I’ve been timing,” was too long to wait for her car to come up from the sub-lot.
The kid looked at his feet. Chanel’s botulin eyes managed to move a smidge. “That’s it? You have nothing to say? You’re a fucking idiot!”
One of the older valets, beefy and gray-haired, hurried over. “Ma’am, so sorry.”
“That’s not enough! I want to hear it from him! It’s him I gave my keys.” The immobile orbs tugged themselves down to a diamond-bracelet watch. “Six minutes, forty-eight seconds!”
The kid hung his head.
“Pea-brain—what, you don’t understand English?”
The older man said, “I’ll get your car. Jeremy, take a break.”
Chanel said, “A break from what? He’s not doing anything.”
“Jeremy.” Waving his fingers. “Ma’am, I’m getting your car right now.”
“Not the Escalade, the Mercedes.”
* * *
—
Jeremy shuffled off, exiting the porte cochere and walking west.
Milo looked at Chanel, stamping her foot and patting blond meringue hair. “Classy.”
I said, “She did us a favor.”
“How?”
“I’ll explain while we walk.”
* * *
—
We followed Jeremy’s slouch up Wilshire, hanging half a block behind. Nowadays, a lot of people seem incapable of moving their feet without consulting their phones. Jeremy jammed his hands in his pockets and kept up a slow but steady pace.
When he crossed Malcolm Avenue, we closed the gap and Milo said, “Jeremy?”
The kid stopped, turned slowly, head protruding like that of a turtle inspecting a fly egg. Milo walked up to him, card out. Jeremy scanned but didn’t react.
“Lieutenant,” he said, sounding amused. Up close, his skin was pallid where buttermilk freckles didn’t intrude. Pinkish eyelashes lowered and rose, exposing stolid, hazel eyes. “My dad’s checking up on me?”
A smile full of braces.
Milo said, “Your dad?”
“Captain Karl Jacobs.”
“Pacific Division.”
Jeremy’s grin was all-knowing. “What, he thinks I’m screwing up?” Shrug. “Maybe I am. Maybe it’s breathing toxic fumes from the cars, like poison in my brain, or something. Still, shouldn’t detectives be chasing crime or something?”
I said, “Why would you think you’re screwing up?”
“I just got my ass reamed by some rich lady.”
“We saw. Not your fault she’s a total bitch.”