He let out a long, low whoosh of resignation, then laughed. “Tony Duke and Dr. Ben. No way I’d have made that connection.”
“That’s exactly the point. I picked up some kind of sexual hang-up, and I’ll bet I was right. Dugger wears frayed shirts, distances himself from his father and everything his father stands for. But maybe it’s a case of protesting too much.”
“Running from his own quirks … So you’re back on Junior. What about Senior?”
“Who knows?” I said. “But at this point that visit to Newport doesn’t seem like a bad idea. Not that Dugger won’t be prepared—he just about invited you to drop by. But throw out Shawna’s name at a strategic moment and see how he reacts. And check out the staff—see if anyone looks antsy.”
“Shawna,” he said. “Who might’ve posed for Duke”
“Or someone she believed was working for Duke. What if Dugger only used his connections once in a while—to attract young, gorgeous blondes. Not a bad ploy at all, especially when he had a genuine link to back it up, could throw in a visit to the estate. And maybe he scammed Lauren too. Despite her years on the street, she could’ve been seduced by big bucks. Maybe those calls to Malibu were hooking up with Junior, his not wanting her to call him at either his home or Daddy’s. Someone as nondescript as Dugger could’ve used that phone booth without being noticed.”
“A rich kid,” he said. “Pretending to be regular folks . . . Okay, let’s do Newport tomorrow. I love Orange County—how can you not dig a place that names its airport after John Wayne?”
“Sure you want me along?” I said. “To Dugger I’m the bad cop.”
“Exactly.”
At nine A.M. Milo rolled onto my property. I had my keys out and headed toward the Seville.
“No,” he said, slapping the driver’s door of the unmarked, “we’ll take the Ferrari. I want this to look official. Hence the tie—excellent choice, by the way. Nice power stripes—Italian?”
I checked the label. “So it says.” I regarded the blue polyester ribbon riding his paunch. “Where’s yours from?”
“The Planet Vulgaro.” He tugged at the knot, licked his pinkie, pretended to slick his hair. “Spiffed and ready for action. What a team.”
As he drove past the gateposts I said, “You tell Dugger we were com-ing?”
He nodded. “Mr. Cooperative. Sounds a little depressed, though. I seem to have that effect on people.”
When we reached Sunset I said, “Leo Riley.”
“What about him?”
“How would you rate him on the ace detective scale?”
“Average. Why?”
“Adam Green had the feeling Riley was phoning in the investigation on Shawna, just biding his time till retirement. Then again, he’s kind of a mouthy kid and had nothing to offer Riley but guesses about an affair with a professor.”
“Leo … I called him a few days ago—he’s living out in Coachella. Because I did look up the Yeager file, and there’s not much in it. Left a message—he hasn’t called me back.”
“Not much in the file because there wasn’t much to know—or was Green right about Riley?”
“Maybe both,” he said. “No, Leo was no workaholic. . . . Still, there wasn’t much to go on. She told her roommate she was going to the library and never came back. Like I told you before, Leo figured it for a psycho sex thing, and I can’t say I argued with him. He even made some crack about it turning into a serial killer, and by that time he’d be playing golf in the desert and growing skin cancer. Let’s see what he says when he does call back. Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about Gretchen’s trip to Duke’s place. What do you think—collecting for services rendered?”
“Gretchen’s never been picky about what she sells.”
“Something else,” he said. “What Salander said—the whole deal about Lauren not wanting to be controlled by her mom. During the notification interview Jane Abbot did all the right things grief-wise. But basically she gave us nothing. Usually the family throws something at you—wild guesses, suspicions, useless stuff, sometimes a real lead. Jane cried a lot, but there was none of that from her. So I called her last night, left a message.” His eyes shifted toward me. “She still hasn’t gotten back to me. Which leads me to the fact that she hasn’t called me once since the notification. That is also not typical, Alex. Your usual middle-class homicide, I get bombarded with messages: what progress has been made, how soon’s the autopsy gonna be over, when can we claim the body, have a funeral. Generally, my problem is playing shrink and clerk and still trying to do my job. This lady—not only doesn’t she get in touch on her own, she doesn’t take the time to call back.'”