“Meaning?”
“Meaning is there anything more I should know about her?”
“No,” I said. “I barely knew her. Barely knew Lauren.”
He gave a cold smile. “And look where that got you.”
“The price of fame.”
“Yeah— Alex, I guess what I’m saying is there’s something about Jane—like maybe she knows something she isn’t letting on. The Duke angle’s nice and juicy, but what if this all traces back in some way to Lau-ren’s family—Jane, that asshole dad, whatever. I did some checking on oP Lyle. Couple of DUI’s, but that’s it. Still, you know better than anyone, this was not one happy family. Is there anything I should be looking at?”
I thought about that as Sunset sloped upward and the 405 on-ramp appeared. Milo pushed down harder on the accelerator, and the unmarked kicked, shuddered, and jammed into high gear.
“Maybe Jane hasn’t called back because she’s gone into seclusion,” I said.
“With Mel? Where? They both check into some rest home? So that’s my answer, huh? Don’t waste my time in the Valley.”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Fair enough.” His hands were white around the wheel as he sped onto the freeway, narrowly passing a Jaguar sedan and eliciting angry honks. “Fuck you too,” he told the rearview mirror. “Alex, let’s say there is no big family issue. But what if Lauren got hold of juicy info on Dug-ger or Duke or whoever and passed it along to Jane? Maybe Jane reacted strongly—told her to keep her mouth shut, whatever, and that was the control thing Lauren talked about to Salander.”
“Lauren had been out of the house for years,” I said. “Had just reconnected with Jane. Their relationship was still thawing. That doesn’t mesh with her confiding something explosive, but maybe. When times get rough sometimes the chicks return to roost.”
“So maybe Jane hasn’t been in touch with me because she’s scared. Has an idea what led to Lauren’s death and is worried it could be dangerous for her too. That would be enough to get her to hold back on a lead to Lauren’s murder— I know, I know, now it’s me who’s hypothesizing. But when I’m finished with Dugger, I definitely want another try at her.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
He grinned fiercely. “Makes no sense evidence-wise, but thanks for theemotional validation. I’m flopping around like a fish on the pier— I know you like Dugger, but he just doesn’t bother me. I don’t pick up any guilt vibe. Sure, he reacted strongly to the news of Lauren’s death, but my immediate impression was it was just that: news. Okay, he was sweating, and maybe he and Lauren were doing the dirty— Let’s see if any of those Newport restaurants remember serious smooching. But still, he doesn’t give off any of that fear-hormone stink. He’s depressed, not spooked. . . . What the hell, he could be a primary psychopath—hog-tied her, shot her, dumped her, and ate a candy bar afterward, and I’m being played like a cheap harmonica. Have you seen anything that points to that level of disturbance? I mean, you should’ve heard the ex-wife—ready to beatify the guy.”
“Psychopaths don’t get anxious, but they do get depressed. Let’s take a closer look at him today.”
Milo frowned, rubbed his face. “Sure. What the hell, at least we’ll get another trip to the beach.”
Just before LAX the freeway clogged. We rolled slowly toward El Segundo, and when the clog gave way Milo said, “What do you think Tony Duke’s worth—couple of hundred million?”
“The magazine’s not what it used to be,” I said, “but sure, that wouldn’t surprise me. Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking. Big stakes if something Dugger did do placed the old man in jeopardy. As in sexual violence. ‘Cause Duke’s image is good, clean licentiousness, right?”
A few miles later: “Think about it, Alex: John Wayne Airport. . . . The guy spent World War II on the Warner’s lot and he’s a combat hero. . . . Welcome to the land of illusion.”
“Maybe that’s why Dugger likes it here.”
Newport Beach sits forty miles south of L.A. Milo violated as many traffic laws as he could think of, but the LAX slowdown turned the trip into a full hour. Exiting at the 55 south, he stayed on the highway as it became Newport Boulevard, sped past miles of basic SoCal strip mall and some spanking new shopping centers with all the charm of theme parks on Prozac. The first evidence of maritime influence—boat brokers—appeared as we switched to Balboa, and soon I was seeing lots of anchor motifs, restaurants claiming FRESH FISH! and HAPPY HOUR! and people dressed for the beach. A silvery winter sky said the sand would be gray and cool, but there was no shortage of bare skin. I opened the window. Ten degrees warmer than L.A. Salt smell, clean and fresh. Between this and Santa Monica, Ben Dugger’s lungs would have to be pink and pretty.