“Thank you,” I said, feeling surreal. “It’s midquarter break at the U, for another few weeks. Sometimes students travel.”
“No,” she said. “Lauren wouldn’t have gone anywhere without telling me. And not without luggage.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“You’re a good man, I always sensed that. You were a great influence on her, Doctor. You only saw her that couple of times, but it had an impact. She once told me she wished you were her father instead of Lyle.”
I tried Milo at home first, got no answer, just the tape with Rick Silver-man’s voice on it. I tried the West L.A. detectives’ room.
“Sturgis.”
“Morning, this is your wake-up call.”
“Got sunrise for that, boyo.”
“Putting in weekend overtime?”
“What’s a weekend?”
“Thought the murder rate was down,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said. “So now we’re all ball-and-chained to subarctic cold cases. What’s up?”
“I need a favor.” I told him about Lauren, letting him know she’d been a patient, knowing he’d understand what I could and couldn’t say.
“She’s how old?” he said.
“Twenty-five. Missing Persons told her mother the only option was filing a report.”
“Did she file?”
“I didn’t ask her,” I said.
“So she wants some strings pulled. . . . Problem is, Missing Persons is right. An adult case, without some evidence of disability or blood and guts or a stalking boyfriend—it comes down to routine for the first few weeks.”
“What if it were the mayor’s daughter?”
Long sigh. “What if I went down in a light plane off the coast of Cape Cod? I’d be lucky to get two drunks in a rowboat as a search party, let alone a Navy destroyer and a fleet of choppers. Okay, I’ll put in a call to MP. Anything else I should know about this girl?”
“She’s enrolled at the U, but it’s possible she got involved in something less than wholesome.”
“Oh?”
“Four years ago she was working as a stripper,” I said. “Private parties. She may still be stripping.”
“The mother told you this?”
“No, I learned it myself. Don’t ask how.”
Silence. “Okay. Spell her full name.”
I did and he said, “So we’re talking bad girl here?”
“I don’t know about that,” I snapped. “Just that she danced.”
He didn’t react to my anger. “Four years ago. What else?”
“She’s done one quarter at the U. Straight A’s, according to her mother.”
“Mama knows best?”
“Some mamas do.”
“What about this one?”
“Don’t know. Like I said, it’s been a long time, Milo.”
“Your own cold case.”
“Something like that.”
He promised to get back as soon as possible. I thanked him and hung up, took a longer than usual run, returned home sweat-drenched and faded, showered off, got dressed, went down to the pond and fed the koi without bothering to enjoy their colors. Returning to my office, I started to clear some custody reports.
I ended up thinking about Lauren. From stripping to straight A’s at the U. . . . I decided to call Jane Abbot, let her know I’d followed through. Maybe that would be the end of it.
This time a machine answered. A man’s voice, robotic, one of those canned recordings women use as a security device. I delivered my message, worked for a few more hours on the reports. Shortly after noon I drove into south Westwood, bought a take-out Italian sandwich and a beer at Wally’s, returned to Holmby Park, where I ate on a bench, trying not to look ominous among the nannies and the rich kids and the old people enjoying green grass as cars whizzed by. When I got back the message light on my answering machine was a blinking red reproach.
One call. Milo sounding even more tired: “Hey, Alex, getting back to you on Lauren Teague. Call whenever you’ve got a chance.”
I jabbed the phone. Another detective answered, and it took a few moments for Milo to come on the line.
“The mother did file a report. Yesterday. MP ran a background on Lauren.” He coughed. “She’s got a record, Alex. They haven’t informed the mother yet. Maybe they shouldn’t.”
“What kind of record?” I said.