“Forget what I said about screenplays,” he said. “You write it, I’ll sell it.”
“The other thing,” I said, “is I was right about Dugger using his experiment to pick up women.” I told him about Cheryl being a confederate in the intimacy study. Dugger wining and dining her, only to pass her along to Tony Duke.
“The experiment,” he said. “Applied science. Dutiful son.”
“Young blondes,” I said. “Both father and son like young blondes. So, despite what Dugger claims, I’m not eliminating Shawna from whatever scenario turns out to be true.”
“Sex, money—take your pick, huh? Quite an amalgam.”
“I’m an equal opportunity theorizer. Lauren bought a weapon for self-protection, might’ve been carrying it the night she was murdered, but never used it. That would fit with her knowing the killer. Underestimating the threat. Lauren loved the money she got from hooking, but what really turned her on was the power. Dominance. If the killer was a John, or posing as one, she might have been deluded into thinking she was in charge. The killer dispatched her, dumped her, took her gun for future use. Setting up Jane’s death. Using Lauren’s gun on Jane, then planting it on Mel Abbot. A family gun, an obvious accident.”
“Creative,” he said. “Terrifyingly creative.”
“Any major flaws to the logic?”
No answer.
I said, “It would sure be good to get a look at Jane’s papers, see if she left behind anything provocative. What about Lyle Teague? He show up yet?”
“Suspect number one trillion?” he said. “No, I called the Castaic sheriffs and they promised to look for his truck. They haven’t called me yet, so I assume he’s still out there, hunting. Which is what I should be doing.”
“I’ve still got those photos of Dugger and Black Suit.”
“Oh yeah, those. Let me see how the time shakes out. I’ll have my people call your people.”
Forty minutes later he called. “Visited the Morris agency. Andy Salander’s on-again is probably a guy named Justin LeMoyne. Fits the description, and he called in sick yesterday, canceled all his appointments. And guess what: He’s your neighbor—lives right on Beverly Glen, maybe half a mile down. I’m on my way there now. Want to meet me and give me those photos? If Andy’s there, you can observe my masterful interrogation, psych the lad out.”
Robin would be sleeping for another half hour. I said, “Sure.”
Justin LeMoyne’s home was a petite, beautifully maintained white bungalow that had obviously once been the guesthouse of the Spanish colonial mansion on the neighboring property. A pair of Canary Island pines sentried the door, and wisteria vines twisted above the hand-painted tile address numerals. The front yard was planted with drought-tolerant specimens, obviously new. A single garage abutted the house. No car in the driveway.
Traffic on the Glen was a slow choke. I got there before Milo, parked and waited. No movement in or around the bungalow, but the same could be said for every house in the neighborhood. The only signs of life were the pained looks of the motorists caught in the crush, as they filed past miles of inanimate real estate. As if everyone were leaving L.A., in anticipation—or the wake—of the latest disaster.
Milo’s unmarked finally appeared, spewing exhaust, bumping over the grass parkway bordering LeMoyne’s driveway, and bounding over the curb. He drove up behind the Seville, exited while yanking the knot of his tie, and headed straight for the door. By the time I got there he was jabbing the bell. No answer. A hard knock elicited the same result.
“Hey,” he said, eyeing the traffic. “Let’s hear it for quality of life.” His skin was gray around the edges, and his eyes seemed to be fighting to stay open.
I offered the envelope containing the Black Suit snaps. He stuffed them in his jacket pocket. Another bell jab. Nothing. “Let’s try the neighbors.”
At the mansion a black-uniformed, fair-haired maid with a lumpy face answered, and Milo asked her about Justin LeMoyne.
“Oh, heem,” she said in a Slavic accent. The look of disdain was unmistakable.
“Problem neighbor, ma’am?”
“He ees, you know . . .” She proffered a limp wrist. “Flit-flit.”