board of rosewood and shagreen similar to one I’d
seen recently in a Sotheby’s catalogue; that piece
had gone for more than Milo took home in a year.
Acrossfrom this assemblage was the business area:
rosewood conference table, bank of black file cabinets,
two computers, and a corner filled with photographic
equipment.
The Jamaican stood with his back to the door and
resumed his sentry pose. He worked at fashioning
his face into a war mask but a rosy flush incano
desced beneath the dusky surface of his skin.
“You can go, Leon,” the woman said. She had a
whiskey voice.
The Jamaican hesitated. She hardened her expression
and he left hastily.
She remained behind the deskand didn’t invite us
to sit. Milo sat anyway, stretching out his long legs
and yawning. I sat next to him.
“Leon told me you were vey rude,” said the
woman. She was about forty, chunky, with small
muddy eyes and short pudgy hands that drummed
the marble. Her hair was cut blunt and short. She
wore a tailored black business suit. The ruffled
bodice of her white crepe de chine blouse seemed
out of character.
“Gee,” said Milo, “I’m really sorry, Ms. Rambo. I
hope we didn’t hurt his feelings.”
The woman laughed, an adenoidal growl. “Leon’s
a prima donna. I keep him around for decoration.”
98 Jonathan Kellerman
She pulled out an extra-long black cigarette from-a
box f Shermans and lit it up. Blowing out a cloud
of smoke, she watched it rise to the ceiling. When it
had dissipated completely she spoke.
“The answers to your first three questions are:
One: They’re messengers, not hookers. Two: What
they do on their own time is their own business.
Three: Yes, he is my father and we talk on the
phone every month or so.”
“I’m not from Vice,” said Milo, “and I don’t give
a damn if your messengers end up giving fuck shows
for horny old men snarfing nose candy and playing
pocket pool.”
‘ ‘
“How tolerant of you,” she said coldly.
“I’m known for it. Live and let live.”
“What do you want then?”
He gave her his card.
“Homicide?” Her eyebrows rose but she remained
impassive. “Who bit it?”
“Maybe no one, maybe a whole bunch of people.
Right now it’s a suspicious disappearance. Family
from down near the border The sister worked for
you, Nona Swope.’
She dragged deeply and tha Sherman glowed.
“Ah, Nona. The red-haired beauty. She a suspect
or a victim?”
.”Tell me what you know about her,” said-Milo,
taking out his pad.
She removed a key from a desk drawer, stood,
smoothed her skirt, and went to the files. She was
surprisingly short–five one or two. “I guess I’m
supposed to play hard to get, right?” She inserted
the key in the file lock and twisted. A drawer slid
open. “Refuse to give you the information, scream
for my lawyer.”
“That’s Leon’s script.”
That amused her. “Leon’s a good guard dog. No,”
she said, taking out a folder, “I don’t care much if
you read about Nona. I’ve got nothing to hide. She’s
nothing to me.”
She settled back behind the desk and passed the
folder across to Milo. He opened R and I looked
over his shoulder. The first page was an application
form filled out in halting script.
The girl’s fullname was Annona Blossom Swope.
She’d listed a birthdate that made her just-twenty
and physical measurements that matched my memory
of her. Under residence she’d claimed a Sunset
Boulevard address–Western Pediatric Medical Cen-ter-with
no phone number to go along with it.
The eight-by-ten glossies-had been taken in the
office–I recognized the leather furniture–and
they’d framed her in a variety of poses, all sultry.
The photos were black-and-white and shortchanged
her bY their inability to capture her dramatic coloring.
Nevertheless, she had what professionals call
presence and it came through in these pictures.
We thumbed through the photos–Nona in a string
bikini rolled down over her pelvis, Brazilian style;
Nona braless in a sheer tank top and jeans, nipples
budding through the fabric; Nona making love to
an all-day sucker; Nona, feline, in a filmy negligee
with a fuck-you look in her dark eyes.