Milo had talked to him, too, months ago, but he recalled the interview only vaguely.
The troublemaker in black evoked nothing from him but a shrug.
“This is concerning Richard,” said Lew.
“Richard was a nice kid,” said Angelo.
Milo said, “Is there anything else you can tell us about him?”
“Nice kid,” Angelo repeated. “Said he was gonna be a movie star-gotta get back, everyone’s bitching about not enough mushrooms in the sauce.”
“I’ll talk to the kitchen,” said Lew.
“Good idea.” Angelo left.
Lew said, “Sorry ’bout that, his wife’s sick. Give me your card and I’ll call you when I have a chance to look at those books.”
Driving back to the city, I said, “Maybe the meeting at the Oak Barrel was Richard’s audition. Richard answers the casting ad, Wark says let me meet you where you work.
See you in your natural habitat. Like a hunter sighting prey. It would also eliminate the need for Wark to have a formal casting location.”
“Pretty gullible of Richard.”
“He wanted to be a star.”
He sighed. “Curly wig, straight wig-this is starting to feel nasty. Now all we have to do is find Mr. W, have a nice little chat.”
“You’ve got a car now. A yellow Corvette isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”
“DMV doesn’t list colors, only make, model, and year. Still, it’s a start, if the
‘Vette wasn’t stolen. Or never registered… Big fenders-probably a seventies model.” He sat up a bit. “A ‘Vette could also explain why Richard was stashed in his own car.’ Vettes don’t have trunks.”
“Someone else to think about,” I said. “The blond girlfriend. She fits the second-driver theory. She waits nearby until Wark’s ditched Richard’s VW, picks Wark up, they drive away. Untraceable. No reason to connect the two of them with
Richard.”
“Every producer needs a bimbo, right? Her I don’t even have a fake name for.” Taking out a cigar, he opened the window, coughed, and thought better of it. He closed his eyes, and his fleshy features settled into what might have passed for stupor. I stayed on Riverside, going west. By Cold-water Canyon, he still hadn’t spoken. But his eyes opened and he looked troubled.
“Something doesn’t fit?” I said.
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s the movie angle. All these years sweeping the stables and I finally break into showbiz.”
I didn’t hear from him in the morning and Robin and I went for breakfast down by the beach in Santa Monica. By eleven, she was back in the shop with Spike and I was taking a call from the obnoxious Encino attorney. I listened to one paragraph of oily spiel, then told him I wasn’t interested in working with him. He sounded hurt, then he turned nasty, finally slammed down the phone, which provided a bit of good cheer.
Two seconds later, my service phoned. “While you were on the line, Doctor, a Mrs.
Racano called from Fort Myers Beach, Florida.”
Florida made me think of the Crimmins boating accident.
Then the name clicked in: Dr. Harry Racano, Claire’s major professor. I’d called
Case Western two days ago, asking about him. I copied down the number and phoned. A crisp-voiced woman answered.
“Mrs. Racano?”
“This is Eileen.”
“It’s Dr. Alex Delaware from Los Angeles. Thanks for calling.”
“Yes,” she said guardedly. “Mary Ellen at Case told me you called about Claire
Argent. What in God’s name happened to her?”
“She was abducted and murdered,” I said. “So far, no one knows why. I was asked to consult on the case.”
“Why did you think Harry could help you?”
“We’re trying to learn whatever we can about Claire. Your husband’s name showed up on one of her papers. Faculty advisers can get to know their students pretty well.”
“Harry was Claire’s dissertation chairman. They were both interested in alcoholism.
We had Claire at the house from time to time. Sweet girl. Very quiet. I can’t believe she’s been murdered.”
Talking faster. Anxious about something?
“Claire worked on alcoholism here,” I said, “but a few months before she was killed, she quit her job somewhat abruptly and took a position at Starkweather Hospital.
It’s a state facility for the criminally insane.”