She lowered her head, black waves of hair fanning out.
“After that I thought of ditching the gun. But I decided that wasn’t the answer. I needed to master it—master more of my life . . . and here’s the real confession: part of what attracted me to you was the fact that you got involved in crime cases. Someone in the same field as me who got it. I felt we were kindred spirits. I thought about you a lot. When you finally called me, I was thrilled.”
She touched my hand. Her nail tickled my palm. My erection was sudden, disembodied.
First with Robin, now this. Reacting to everything with the little head.
“Of course,” she said, “that was only part of it. Your being handsome and smart didn’t hurt.”
She looked up at me.
“I’m not telling you this to lord it over Robin, because she had problems with your work and I want to be the big, brave kindred spirit. It’s just the way it is.”
She gripped my fingers. “Does all this sound twisted?”
“No.”
“Does any of what I just said change things? I really don’t want it to. I’m so happy about what we’ve got going—I’m taking a risk, here. Letting you know who I really am.”
“Nothing’s changed,” I said. “I like what I know.”
“You’re sweet to say that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“The truth,” she said, rolling on her side and pressing herself against me. “That’ll do, for now.”
I dropped her at her office and was setting out for the meeting at Gino’s when Milo called.
“Canceled. Another body turned up. Similar to ours but different, because it wasn’t found near any artistic venue. Dumped outdoors, in the wetlands, near the Marina. Not buried but half-hidden by marsh plants. Some cyclists saw birds clustered, went to check. Significant decay, coroner estimates it’s been lying there two, three days.”
“Right after Erna got picked up,” I said. “Right around the time Kevin’s car was left near the airport. The Marina’s not far from the airport.”
“The dump site’s right on the way. Looks like Kevin gave himself a going-away present. The victim’s definitely an artistic type, sculptor named Armand Mehrabian. He’s based in New York, came out to audition for a big corporate project downtown. Works in rocks and bronze and running water—kinetic sculpture they call it. He was staying at the Loews in Santa Monica, had gone missing. Young, gifted, just starting to get noticed by the art world. Good shot at winning the corporate gig. He was gutted just like Baby Boy and had his neck yanked by a corrugated ligature. I told the coroner’s tech it was probably a low E guitar string. She was very impressed.”
“Marina dump site makes it Pacific’s case.”
“Two Ds I don’t know,” he said. “Schlesinger and Small. Petra says Small used to work Wilshire, she collaborated with him, he’s okay. We’re rescheduling the meeting for later so they can show up. We’re an equal opportunity organization, share the despair. Figure on tomorrow morning, so Schlesinger and Small have time to do a preliminary workup on Mehrabian. Not Gino’s, the Westside for their sakes. My Indian pals’, say 10 A.M. That work for you?”
“Like a charm.”
40
The same small back room at Café Moghul, the same smells of hot oil and curry.
Two more people huddled around the table made the space feel like a cell.
The Pacific detectives were men in their forties. Dick Schlesinger was big, dark, rangy, long-faced, and thoughtful, with a mink-colored mustache that crossed his face like a freeway. Marvin Small was smaller, chubby and blond-gray, his ode to facial hair a silver brush, prickly as a straw bed, bursting from under a boxer’s nose. He chuckled a lot, even when nothing was funny.
The woman in the sari brought chai and ice water and left, smiling at Milo.
Marvin Small said, “This joker, Drummond, anywhere else he could’ve rabbited other than Boston?”
Milo said, “Your guess is as good as ours.”
Dick Schlesinger shook his head. “Another whodunit.”
Petra said, “Had a few, lately?”
“Two others still on the burner. Little girl disappears from a supermarket where she’s shopping with her mom. We’re thinking one of the box boys, he’s got a molestation record. But no body, no evidence, and for a stupid guy, he’s being smart. We’re also working a shooting on Lincoln, one of the hookers who works the stretch between Rose and LAX. Whoever did it left her with a purse full of dope and cash, and this time we’ve got a pimp who actually seems to care. They had three kids together. A few city employees have been busted there recently, mostly Cal Trans losers and bus company folk heading home after the night shift, veering off for a quickie. We’re hoping it’s not the beginning of another serial. A municipal employee killer, at that.”