“Thank you, Professor.”
“You are welcome.” De Maartens rocked back and forth, then stopped. “What exactly happened to Ms. Teague?”
“Someone shot her,” said Milo. “You can read it in the paper—” He flushed scarlet.
De Maartens laughed uproariously and ruffled the dog. “Perhaps Vincent here can read it to me. No, I am sure my wife will give me every detail. She devours everything she can about crime and misfortune because this city frightens her.”
When we were back in the car I said, “So much for that.”
Milo said, “I don’t see Lauren’s academic life as the thing here, anyway. It’s the people she didn’t talk about that I’m interested in. I’ll phone the psych department, though, get those students’ names.”
He made the call, copied down a list of nine students that I inspected as we drove away. Three males, six females.
“Everyone out for the quarter,” he mumbled, as we drove away. “Fun.”
“I’m your partner in futility.” I told him about following Benjamin Dugger. He was kind enough not to laugh.
“Old Volvo and delivering goodies to kids at the church, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Throw in the pro bono thing at the shelter in Chicago and he’s Mother Teresa in tweed. You’re right, guys like him aren’t what got Lauren into trouble. She lived in a whole other world.”
“Speaking of which,” he said. “I thought I’d drop in on Gretchen Stengel.”
“She’s out of prison?”
“Paroled half a year ago. Found herself a new line of work.”
“What’s that?”
“Similar to her old gig, but legal. Dressing the insecure.”
The boutique was on Robertson just south of Beverly, five doors north of a restaurant-of-the-moment where valets shuffled Ferraris and alfresco diners laughed too loudly as they sucked bottled water and smog.
Deja, View Couture with a Past
Eight-foot-wide storefront, the window draped in black jersey and occupied by a single, bald, faceless, chromium mannequin in a billowing scarlet gown. A bell push was required for entry, but Milo’s bulk didn’t stop whoever was in charge from buzzing us in.
Inside, the shop’s mirrored walls and black granite floor vibrated to David Bowie’s “Young Americans,” the bass tuned to migraine level. Nailed into the mirror were raw iron bolts from which garments dangled on chrome hangers. Velvet, crepe, leather, silk; wide color range, nothing above a size 8. A pair of orange Deco revival chairs designed by a sadist filled a tight oblong of center space. Copies of Vogue, Talk, and Buzz fanned across a trapezoid of glass posing as a table. No counter, no register. Seams in the rear wall were probably the dressing rooms. To the right was a door marked PRIVATE. The fermented-corn sweetness of good marijuana tinctured the air.
A dangerously thin girl in her twenties wearing a baby blue bodysuit and a rosewood-tinted Peter Pan do stood behind one of the orange chairs, hips thrust forward, eyes guarded. White stiletto-heeled sandals put her at eye level with Milo. Pink eyes and dilated pupils. No ashtray or roach, so maybe she’d swallowed. The bodysuit was sheer, and the undertones of her flesh beneath the fabric turned the blue pearly. She seemed to have too many ribs, and I found myself counting.
“Yes?” Husky voice, almost mannish.
“I need something in a size four,” said Milo.
“For . . . ?”
“My thumb.” He stepped closer. The girl recoiled and crossed her arms over her chest. The music kept pounding, and I looked for the speakers, finally spotted them: small white discs tucked into the corners.
Out came Milo’s badge. Rather than rattle the girl, it seemed to calm her. “And the punch line is . . . ?” she said.
“Is Gretchen Stengel here?”
The girl gave a languid wave. “Don’t see her.”
Milo reached out toward the iron rack and fondled a black pantsuit. “Couture with a past, huh?”
The girl didn’t move or speak.
He examined the label. “Lagerfeld . . . What kind of past does this one have?”
“It went to the Oscars two years ago.”
“Really. Did it win and make a speech thanking the little people?”
The girl snorted.
“So where’s Gretchen?”
“If you leave your name I’ll tell her you were here.”