Flesh And Blood by Jonathan Kellerman

Still no answer.

“Maybe I’m making too much out of it,” I said, “but you know how we always talk about the eyes giving it away—how people shift their gaze when they’re lying or holding back. Michelle started blinking and fidgeting when the subject of professors came up.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. When she talked about Lauren enjoying hanging out with ‘intellectuals.’ So maybe Lauren did tell her about some big-time John with a Ph.D. … So why wouldn’t Michelle say so?”

“Maybe she thinks there’s a chance to profit from it.”

“Blackmail a killer?” he said. “Not too bright.”

“Michelle’s no paragon of judgment. And Lauren’s death means no more money under the door.”

He looked up at the peach building. “Or maybe she’s just used to holding back. Whores live by that creed. . . . I’ll try her again in a couple of days, see if I can pry out the name of some rich intellectual.”

“Ben Bugger’s resume—the easy way he slid into owning his own company, offices in Newport Beach and Brentwood—says money. And those lapses in his education are interesting.”

“Volvo and a frayed shirt says big spender?”

“Maybe he’s selective about what he spends on. Lauren did write down his number. And Monique Lindquist’s comment about his not talking about sex still has me wondering. During the ride down the elevator in his building, he was in fine spirits. Humming. Literally. Walking with a bounce and enjoying lunch in the park. So either he doesn’t know Lauren’s dead, or he does and he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s not high priority, but somewhere along the line I’d take a closer look at him.”

“High priority,” he said. “Right now, I’ve got nothing else going.” He tapped the MDT. “Let’s see what our computers say about this intellectual.'”

15

THE CRIME FILES had nothing to say about Benjamin Dugger. DMV spit out his address.

The beach. An icy, white high-rise on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, one of those no-nonsense things knocked into place in the fifties and filled with moderate-income retirees until someone figured out that heart-stopping views of the Pacific and sweet air weren’t bad things after all. Now units started at a half million.

The nineties upgrade included new paint and windows, palm trees transplanted from the desert, and locked-door security. We stood out in front. Milo had punched the buzzer three times so far.

He peered through. “Doorman’s right there, yapping with some woman, pretending he doesn’t see or hear.” He cursed. “Give me hookers over petty bureaucrats any day.”

Echo Park to Santa Monica had been a rush-hour crawl across the city, and it was nearly five P.M. Ocean Avenue teemed with tourists, and restaurants ranging from quick grease to wait-at-the-bar haute were jammed. Across the street salt-cured planks and a cheery white arch marked the entry to the Santa Monica Pier, newly rehabbed. The Ferris wheel was still dormant. Evening lights started to switch on. Old Asian men carrying rods and reels exited the wharf, and kids holding hands entered. The ocean at dusk was polished silver.

Just a short ride up the coast was Malibu, where Lauren had suppos-edly escaped for rest and recreation. Where she’d called a pay phone at Kanan-Dume.

“Come on” said Milo. He buzzed again, tapped his foot, clenched his hands. “Bastard actually turned his back.” He toed the doorframe. Pounded on the glass. “Finally.”

The door opened. The doorman wore a bright green uniform and matching hat. Around sixty and a head shorter than me, with a squat, waxy face scored with frown lines and the squint of someone weaned on No.

He inspected the glass in the door, wagged a finger. “Now look here, you coulda broke—”

Milo advanced on him so quickly that for a moment I thought he’d bowl the little man down.

Green Suit stumbled backward. His uniform was pressed to a shine, festooned with gold braids and tarnished brass buttons. A gold plastic badge said GERALD.

“Police business.” The badge flashed an inch from Gerald’s eyes.

“Now, what kind of business are we talking about here?”

“Our business.” Milo moved around him, swung the door out of his grasp, and stepped in. Gerald hurried in after Milo. I caught the door and brought up the rear.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *