“Well, let me ask you this, Professor, are you doing any other research that might be of interest to our clients?”
“No, sorry. But I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone wanting the attention. Especially out in California. Bye—”
“What about Professor Dugger? Would he be doing anything else that might be interesting?”
“As in sex? Is that what you’re getting at?”
“Well,” I said, “you know how it is.”
“I sure do. In terms of Ben Dugger’s recent work, I have no idea what he’s been up to. It’s been a while since we worked together.”
Matter-of-fact, no rancor.
“Maybe I’ll give him a shot,” I said. “I’ve got him in Newport Beach and Brentwood.” I read off the addresses. “This firm he’s got— Motivational Associates. What are they into, advertising?”
“Market research.” She laughed again. “Something funny, Professor?”
“You’re out for the sex angle—like every other reporter. If that’s what you want from Ben Dugger, don’t count on it.” “Why’s that, Professor?” “That’s … all I have to say. Bye, now.”
“Some kind of hang-up?” said Milo. “Sounds more like he’s a prude.”
“There’s something there,” I said.
“She didn’t imply anything nasty.”
“No,” I admitted. “She was lighthearted. Like it was some kind of in-joke.”
“So maybe the guy’s a Catholic priest or something.”
“That wasn’t in his bio.”
He grunted over the phone. It was nearly noon. He’d taken two hours to return my call. Andrew Salander had verified that Lauren had owned a Toshiba laptop. After that Milo’d been tied up at the morgue, watching Lauren’s autopsy. The coroner had found no evidence of sexual assault— of any recent intercourse. No illness, surgery, scarring, or drug use. The preliminary finding was that the first bullet fired into Lauren’s brain stem—a 9 mm—had shut off her life functions nearly instantly. Until that second, a healthy girl.
“So she probably didn’t suffer,” he said. “I called her mom and told her she definitely didn’t. Woman sounds as if she’s been hollowed out and left to dry. . . . So de Maartens is an uppity putz and Dugger doesn’t like to talk about sex.”
“Dugger may also have money.” I gave him the logic on that.
“If I had to choose, I’d say press the Dutch guy ’cause he got hostile. If you’re up to that, fine.”
“If I show up at his door, he’ll slam it. I told him the police would probably be stopping by.”
“Promises, promises. I’ll try to get to it eventually. So far, no record of any cab or limo making a pickup in the vicinity of Lauren’s apartment. Her broker in Seattle knows her only as a voice over the phone. She cold-called him a few years ago, said she had money to invest. Which is a switch, usually it’s the salesmen who call, so needless to say he didn’t argue. He said Lauren did her homework about the market, knew whatshe wanted but was willing to listen to advice. Overall impression: smart. He was surprised to learn she was only twenty-five, figured her for a good ten years older.”
“What did he say she wanted?”
“Blue-chip funds, and she was patient enough to hold. He figured her for a high-income lawyer or some other executive type. I put two uniforms on the door-to-door, a couple of people think they remember her vaguely from the neighborhood—jogging, driving around in her convertible—but no one saw her getting picked up. Not the day she disappeared or any other time. I got hold of six months’ worth of phone records. She actually used the horn very little. Talked to her mom every couple of weeks—the last call was two days before she disappeared. Nothing to Lyle—no surprise. The only things that did look interesting were five calls over the last two months to the same number in Malibu. Turns out to be a pay phone in Point Dume.”
“Lauren told Salander she went to Malibu for rest and recreation. Is the phone near a motel?”
“No. Shopping center at Kanan-Dume Road.”
“Have you found any cell phone account for her, or an answering service?”
“Not so far.”
“Don’t you find that surprising, if she was making dates?”