Gretchen Stengel had put it perfectly: Men paid to have it on their terms. And challenging the rules—or trying to leave the playing field— just wouldn’t do.
Lauren had never been anything but a pawn, but her bravado—I do great with tips—said she’d fooled herself into thinking she was a queen.
The way she’d died—trussed, shot in the back of the head—spelled out cold execution. The killer making it clear that he was in charge.
The hallmarks of a professional job because the killer wanted to make it look professional. Or was he the type of man who kept his hands clean and hired professionals?
Just another business deal. . . . Superficially, it was hard to see Benjamin Dugger—he of the frayed collar, delivering goodies to children— engaging in something like that. But if the man had sexual hang-ups and money, just because he affected a professorial stance didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of the worst kind of cruelty.
Either way, someone had been there to teach Lauren a final, horrible lesson: Self-delusion was the mother’s milk of prostitution, and fantasies of control were no protection against the worst kind of sore loser.
I made the call to the West L.A. station at five P.M. Milo was away from his desk, and a detective named Princippe told me he’d gone out on a call.
“Any idea where?”
“Nope.”
I left my name, hung up, and went out for a run. When I got back the sun had set and Milo hadn’t called back. I showered and changed, and Robin phoned a few minutes later, telling me she’d gone out to Saugus to look at a rumored store of seasoned Tyrolean violin maple that had turned out to be wormed and worthless—and oak to boot.
“Now I’m stuck on the freeway,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“Guess it’s not a bad day compared to other people’s.”
“Like who?”
“You don’t know?”
“Good point,” I said.
“You all right, hon?”
“I’m fine. Want to go out or should I fix dinner?”
“Sure.”
I laughed. “Which?”
“Either. Just feed me.”
“That seems reasonable,” I said.
“You’re not getting into anything iffy, are you?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Good question.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” she said. But there was something other than affection in her voice.
I was grilling steaks and feeling quite useful when the phone rang again and Milo said, “What’s up?”
“Anything new on Dugger?”
“Talked to his ex-wife,” he said, sounding rushed. “Located her in Baltimore—English professor at Hopkins. And guess what: She loves the guy. Not romantically. As a person. ‘Ben’s a terrific person.” No serious personality defects that she was willing to divulge.”
“Why’d they divorce?”
“‘We grew in separate directions.'”
“Sexually?” I said.
“I didn’t ask, Professor Freud,” he said with exaggerated patience. “It wasn’t appropriate. Bottom line: She was amused that the police would be interested in him.”
“He probably alerted her to the fact that you’d be calling.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t think he did. She sounded genuinely surprised. Anyway, something else just came up. Citywide homicide sheets came in this afternoon, and a downtown case caught my eye. Two bodies left in an alley near Alameda late last night or during the early morning, the industrial area east of downtown. Man and a woman, shot in the head, then doused with lighter fluid and torched. The woman had only one arm. The right one. At first they thought it was burned off, but the bodies hadn’t burned long enough to do that.”
“Michelle.”
He kept reciting: “Coroner says an old amputation, they’re trying to roll prints off what’s left of the right hand, but whatever skin hasn’t been broiled is sloughed and messed up and it doesn’t look promising. Hopefully, she’s got a dentist.”
“The day after we talked to her.”
“Same thing vis-a-vis prints on the male, but they did find some scorched blond hairs. White male, six foot or so.”
“The junkie she lived with,” I said. “Lance.”
“I asked Ramparts Narcotics to pull up users named Lance. Hopefully I’ll have something soon.”
“You’re talking as if there’s a doubt,” I said.
Silence. “It’s them, and now I’m wondering if my visit signed their death warrant.” Using the singular. Shouldering the blame.