*
We went straight to her bedroom, got undressed, shared a chaste, closed-mouth kiss, slipped easily into sleep. I woke up three times in the middle of the night, twice to think discouraging thoughts and once because I felt myself being jostled. I forced my eyes open, saw Allison hovering over me, breasts dangling, grasping a corner of the comforter and looking none too awake herself.
I said something that would’ve been “Huh?” had my tongue been working.
“You were . . . covered up,” she said, groggily. “I didn’t see you moving, wanted to . . . check.”
“M’fine.”
“Guh . . . night.”
*
Morning light seared my eyelids. I left Allison sleeping, went into her kitchen, took in the paper, searched for a picture of the dead girl, didn’t find it. Allison had morning patients and would be up soon, so I got to work on breakfast.
Moments later, she shuffled in sniffing the air, wearing an oversized khaki T-shirt and fluffy slippers, face creased by bed wrinkles, hair topknotted carelessly.
“Eggs,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Y’sleep okay?”
“Perfectly.”
“Me too.” She yawned. “Did I snore?”
“No,” I lied.
“Sank like a stone,” she said. “Boom.”
No memory of waking up to make sure I was okay. She’d cared about me in her dreams.
*
I was back home for fifteen minutes when Milo phoned from his car. His breathing was harsh, as if he’d run uphill. “I tried reaching you at nine.”
“Spent the night at Allison’s.”
“Good for you,” he said. “What’s your schedule like today?”
“Open. I might have a first name on the blond girl. Crystal or Christa.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“Kayla Bartell. It’s a bit of a story—”
“Tell me when I get there, I’m already at Sepulveda and Wilshire. The pooch still bunking with you?”
“No, he’s gone.”
“Okay, then, I’ll eat this beef jerky myself.”
*
He entered the house wearing a sad gray suit, mud brown shirt, gray poly tie, and chewing on the thickest rope of dehydrated meat I’d ever seen.
“What is that?” I said. “Python jerky?”
“Buffalo, low-fat, low-salt. Special deal at Trader Joe’s.” His hair was flat, and his eyes were red. We went into the kitchen.
“Tell me the story.”
I recounted my talk with Kayla.
He said, “Little klepto, huh? And you played bad cop. Nice work.”
“It was probably illegal.”
“It was a chat between two adults.” He twisted the knot of his tie. “Got any coffee left?”
“Didn’t make any.”
“No prob, I’m wired, anyway . . . Christa or Crystal. Why’d Kayla peg her for a stripper?”
“Because Gavin said she was a dancer,” I said.
“Well,” he said, “name a girl Crystal and what’s more likely? That she’ll get a Ph.D. in biomechanics, or end up shaking her tail for tips?” He removed his jacket and tossed it over a chair. Since he’d arrived, the air was turbulent.
“Kayla also said she looked like a doper.”
“The coroner found nothing in her system. What about the Times?”
“They run on their own schedule,” I said. “Why’d you ask about mine?”
He took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Typed list.
1. 1999 Ford Explorer. Bennett A. Hacker, 48, Franklin Avenue, Hollywood.
2. 1995 Lincoln sedan. Raymond R. Degussa, 41, post office box in Venice.
3. 2001 Mercedes Benz sedan, Albin Larsen, 56, Santa Monica.
4. 1995 Mercedes Benz sedan, Jerome A. Quick, 48, Beverly Hills.
“DMV data from Gavin’s list,” he said.
“Gavin copied down his father’s license number?”
“Weird, no? Could it be a brain damage thing? Do you guys have a name for it?”
“Overinclusiveness . . . But something else jumps out at me. Quick’s car is listed last. You’d think spotting his father’s car would have caught Gavin’s attention first.”
“Unless he listed the cars in order of arrival, and Daddy arrived last.”
“Good point,” I said. “So what are you thinking, some sort of meeting?”
He nodded. “Quick and Albin Larsen and the other two. The big question is why was Gavin surveilling Daddy? It smells to me like Daddy was up to no good, and that’s why he cleaned out Gavin’s room—getting rid of any evidence his kid mighta come up with. Then he left town—his kid’s just been murdered, and he’s off traveling again, leaving the wife alone, doing business. It smells ripe, Alex. The mistake ol’ Jerry made was not clearing out Gavin’s clothes.”