“Ten-to-one income ratio,” I said.
“Another kind of jealousy angle. What if she was going to leave him just as she struck it big? For another guy—your love-sex-betrayal thing, plus all that money sitting there. A temptation, right? And who’d be in a better position to know her habits? To poison the dog? Hope did have one thing right: More women are killed by so-called loved ones than by all the scumbags combined.”
“Seacrest went all these years without big bucks,” I said. “Has he turned into a high liver recently?”
“No, on the contrary, nothing’s changed about his life: He goes to work each day and comes home. Weekends he stays home. Says he reads and watches TV. Doesn’t even rent videos. But if she was cheating on him, no telling what that could do to an old-fashioned confirmed bachelor. Someone who studies romance—don’t forget that stab in the heart. The guy’s fifty-five, Alex. Maybe he had a midlife crisis. And like I said, I keep thinking he’s hiding something.”
“Why?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on, that’s the problem. He answers questions but volunteers no info. He never called Fellows and Paz once, to find out how their investigation was going. When I got assigned I phoned him right away and got the feeling I was taking up his precious time. Like he was off somewhere else.”
“Maybe he’s still in shock.”
“No, this was more like he had better things to do. If someone you loved got sliced up, how would you react? Tell you what, how about I give you a firsthand look? I’m planning to drop in on him tonight, late. Not that I’m out to exploit a pal—if you’ve got some serious time to invest on the case, I can actually”—he panted—“pay you.”
He drew a folded form out of his jacket pocket. “Surprise from Uncle Milo.”
Police ID badge and a consultant contract in triplicate, my name typed on the dotted line. The department was willing to engage me for no more than fifty hours at less than a quarter of my private hourly fee. Small print limited LAPD’s liability: If I tripped on a banana peel or got shot, they’d be sympathetic but stingy.
“It ain’t filthy lucre,” he said, “but by department standards it’s Supermarket Sweep.”
“How’d you pull this off?”
“Lied and told the loo I’d heard radical-feminist-butch-lesbian grumblings about the slow progress of the case. If we didn’t make it look like we were doing all we could, we might end up being called before the Police Commission. Told him radical-fem-butch-lesbo types liked shrinks, would take your involvement as proof of expanded sensitivity.”
“Very creative.”
“I asked him for a new computer, too, but you were cheaper. You on?”
“Fifty hours,” I said. “Does that include feeding you?”
“What do you think?”
Returning to the fridge, he came back with a slab of brownie.
“Despite your suspicions of Seacrest,” I said, “I still think you have to seriously consider a delusional stranger.”
“Why?”
“There’s a cold craziness to that wound pattern. Someone with a deep hatred for women. And we know from the way she set up the committee that Hope could be heavy-handed, so who knows who she offended? In real life or on the screen. Have you checked for murders with similar wound patterns?”
“I’ve gone through three years of Westside cuttings and nothing matches. Tomorrow I try Wilshire Division and whoever else I can finagle into remembering. I also sent out teletypes to other jurisdictions, but so did Paz and Fellows and that brought in nothing. So are you up for meeting Seacrest, tonight? That is, if you and the little woman don’t have plans—speaking of which, let me pop back and say hi to her and the pooch. I am neither sexist nor speciesist.”
CHAPTER
4
As we walked through the garden to the shop, Milo stopped to look at the fish in the pond, then trudged on. His back was bowed and his arms dangled heavily. I wondered when he’d last slept well.
Robin was at her bench shaping the rosewood sides of a flattop guitar. The new maple floors were spotless except for a pile of shavings swept into one corner. Spike had been sleeping at her feet and he looked up and cocked his broad, flat head.