“Would you consider a detour to Westwood?” I said. “Mindy Jacobus works at the Med Center in public relations. Adam Green feels she didn’t want to be helpful. Any statements from her in Riley’s file?”
“Just the library story.”
“Green checked out the library. No one remembers Shawna ever being there.”
He looked at his watch, gazed through the windshield at the clean stretch of freeway. Midday lull: just a few trucks and cars, and us in the fast lane, under a browning sky that mocked the virtues of progress.
“Nice little off-ramp in Westwood,” he said. “Why the hell not?”
Adam Green had described Mindy Jacobus as “no Shawna,” but she turned out to be a stunning young woman with flawless, lightly tanned skin and one of the healthiest heads of glowing black hair I’d ever seen. A tall, long-legged sylph in a pale blue knit dress and high-heeled white sandals, she strode out of the public relations office into a hallway that reeked of rubbing alcohol carrying a gold Cross pen, moving with a confidence that made her seem older than twenty.
More planes than curves; Tony Duke would probably have walked right past her, so maybe that was what Green had meant. But her stride was a hip-swiveling sashay that transcended lack of flesh.
“Yes?” she said with a publicist’s ready smile. Her ID tag read, M. JACOBUS-GRIEG. ASSISTANT PUBLICIST. Milo had given the front desk his name only, no tide. The smile wavered when she got a good look at him. No way could that face—that tie—mean philanthropy or any other brand of good news.
When he flashed the badge her confidence shut down completely, and she looked like an overdressed kid. “What’s this about?”
“Shawna Yeager, Ms. Jacobus—”
“How weird.”
We were in an administrative wing of the Med Center, far removed from clinical care, but the hospital smell—that alcohol stink—brought back memories of mass polio vaccinations in school auditoriums. My father accepting the needle with a smile, biceps tensing so hard the blood ran down his arm. I, five years old, fighting to squelch my tears as a white-capped nurse produced a frigid cotton swab. . . .
“Weird?” said Milo.
Mindy Jacobus-Grieg’s fine-boned hand clutched the pen tighter. Closing the door behind her, she moved several feet down the hall and settled a lean rump against pale green plaster. The decor was photos of med school deans and famous benefactors at black-tie galas. Some of the angels were showbiz types, and I searched for Tony Duke’s face but didn’t find it.
“Hearing Shawna’s name again,” she said. “It’s been over a year. Has something finally— Did you find her?”
“Not yet, ma’am.”
Ma’am made her flinch. “So why are you here?” “To follow up on the information you gave during the initial investigation.”
“Now? A year later?” “Yes, ma’am—”
“What could I tell you that I didn’t already say back then?” “Well,” said Milo, “we’re new on the case, just doing our best to see what we can learn. And you were the last person to see Shawna.” “Yes, I was.”
“Just before she left for the library.”
“That’s what she said.” She glanced down at her left hand. The third finger was circled by a gold wedding band and a one-carat diamond ring. She rubbed the stone—reminding herself she’d made progress since then?
Milo said, “Newlywed?”
“Last June. My husband’s a rheumatology resident. I dropped out temporarily to help pay some bills— Does Shawna’s mom know you’re back on the case?”
“Are you in contact with Shawna’s mom?”
“No,” she said. “Not any longer. I did stay in touch for a while—a few months. Agnes—Mrs. Yeager—moved to L.A., and I tried to help her get adjusted. But you know …”
“Sure,” said Milo. “Nice of you to help her.” A tiny pink tongue tip darted from between Mindy’s lips, then retracted. “She was pretty destroyed.”
“Any idea where she can be reached?”
“She’s not working at the Hilton anymore?”
“Beverly or Downtown?”
“Beverly,” said Mindy. “That’s not in the file? You must be missing a bunch of stuff. That other detective—the old one. He seemed a little . . . Is he your friend?”