“Where’d you find out about them?”
“The phone book. They’re all in the Yellow Pages.”
“What was the girl’s name?”
“I don’t—Hailey, I think.”
“You think?”
“We didn’t exactly talk much.”
“Both times it was Hailey?”
“No, just the second time.”
“Describe her.”
“Mexican, short, long black hair. Not bad face. Good bo . . . nice-looking.”
“How old?”
“Maybe twenty-five.”
“How much did she charge?”
“Fifty.”
“How’d you pay her?”
“Cash.”
“What time did you call Starr Escorts?”
“Around ten.”
“And what time did Hailey arrive?”
“Maybe ten-thirty, eleven.”
“How long did she stay?”
“Half hour. Maybe longer. After—she watched some TV with me, we had the last two beers.”
“Then?”
“Then she left and I went to sleep. Next day I turn on the news and they’re talking about her—Devane. Saying somebody offed her and I’m thinking, whoa, while she was getting killed, I was . . .” He looked at his father, sat up straighter. “Right around the time she was dying I was having a good time. Freaky, but kind of . . . like some kind of revenge, know what I mean?”
“Christ,” said Senior. “Can we end this?”
“So I’m covered, right? Alibied?” the boy asked Milo. “She was killed around midnight and I was getting—with Hailey, so I couldn’t do it, right?”
He took a deep breath and let the air out. “I’m glad it’s out. Big deal, Dad. I didn’t kill anybody. Aren’t you happy?”
“I’m overjoyed,” said Senior.
“Starr Escorts,” said Milo.
“Look it up in the book. I’ll take a fucking lie-detector test, if you want.”
“Shut your mouth!” said his father. “No more gutter talk!” He turned quickly to Milo: “Are you happy, now? Have you squeezed enough blood out of the rock? Why don’t you just leave us alone and go out and catch some gang members?”
Milo looked at the boy. “What about Mandy Wright?”
Genuine confusion on the stolid face. “Who?”
“Christ,” said Senior. “Lay off!”
“Ken,” said Bateman.
“Ken,” Senior repeated, as if the sound of his own name disgusted him. Pointing his hand to the door, he said, “Out. All of you. This is still my office and I want privacy.”
CHAPTER
21
Back at the unmarked, I said, “Believe him?”
“The hooker thing,” he said, “is exactly what a dumb, lonely kid would do. And he probably isn’t smart enough to plan. If I can find the massage girl and she alibis him and I don’t get the feeling Daddy’s paid her off, there’s another one off the list.”
“And he seemed genuinely unfamiliar with Mandy’s name.”
He pulled out a cigarillo and looked at it. A warm breeze was drifting from the San Gabriels and the palm trees planted close to the building were doing a line dance.
“So, bye-bye, committee. Hope was probably killed because of something in her private life—those bruises on her arm are bringing me back to Seacrest. And/or Cruvic, ’cause he was probably fooling around with her. Problem is, I can’t get close to either of them . . . and I can’t get a clear picture of Hope. Just polarized opinions—she was Womanhood’s Great Savior, or she was a man-hating manipulator. Nothing about her . . . core.”
“One of the problems,” I said, “is that there’s no family other than Seacrest. No one to talk about her development—her childhood, what she was like outside of her professional role.”
“All I know about her childhood is she grew up in that aggie town—Higginsville. Parents dead, no sibs. And if she’s got distant relatives, they must be damned distant, because after the murder, no one ever stepped forward.”
He got in the car.
“Still,” I said, “no family doesn’t mean no family history. I could go up to Higginsville, ask around. In a small town, someone might remember her.”
“Sure,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I’ll call the local police and let them know you’re coming, see if they can get you access to records. When do you want to go?”
“No reason it can’t be tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Dress for the heat, we’re talking farmland. Don’t they grow artichokes up there, or something?”
That night, Robin and I went out to dinner. By eight, she was soaking in a bath and I was stretched out on a sofa in my office rereading the conduct-committee transcripts. Uncharacteristically, Spike had chosen to stay with me. Probably the lingering smell of steak. Now, his big, knobby head rested in my lap and he snored. The rhythm was soporific and the bitter dialogue began to blur.