CHAPTER
32
Milo’s exhaustion saturated his phone voice.
“Task-force blues?” I said.
“Nothing-accomplished blues. The coroner gave us zero on Nicolette Verdugo. Our copycat’s being obsessive-compulsive.”
“What about the feces on the corpse?”
“The feces,” he said, “are of the canine variety. Another one of those charming details we’re withholding from the media.”
“Do any of the Bogettes have a dog?”
“They have a goddamn pack of dogs, but try getting hold of a single turd. They’re holed up at some dirt ranch out past Pacoima, belongs to one of Shwandt’s death penalty lawyers. Mangy mutts and cats and horses behind chain link and barbed wire.”
“A commune? At least having them all in one place should make surveillance easier.”
“Not really. There’s no real cover. Too much open space. Girls come out the front door wearing skimpies and flipping us off. The investigation has not progressed apace, sir. How’s Lucy?”
“Haven’t seen her today, she’s out driving with Ken. And someone else took a drive last night.” I repeated what the boys had told me about Doris leaving with Tom Shea.
“They also said she loves to gamble. So if there was some sort of payoff, that could explain why the Sheas live well and she doesn’t.”
“You said she didn’t seem to like the Sheas. Now Tom picks her up?”
“If she’s taking a temporary vacation because my questions shook things up, Tom and Gwen could be looking over shoulders, too. They might help her split ’cause it’s in their best interests.”
“Could be your questions combined with our chat with Mo Barnard. She lives right up the hill from the restaurant. If she dropped in for dinner and let on that Karen’s file was being opened . . . wonder if the Sheas’ll rabbit, too.”
“They already left once. Though now they’ve got community ties. It’s possible they view Doris as a loose cannon and feel once she’s gone they can handle the pressure. All her ties are out of town: two sons in the army, both master sergeants, one in Germany, one near Seattle. I don’t know if they go by Reingold. She could be with either one of them or somewhere in Nevada, playing. She told me she liked it, was thinking of moving there.”
“Early retirement, huh? Okay, when I get a chance, I’ll look into her. Nothing new on Trafficant, by the way. I can’t hit every jail, but so far he hasn’t shown up in any of the major ones.”
“I learned a little more about him today. Managed to locate one of the Sanctum Fellows, a sculptor named Christopher Graydon-Jones. He’s become a biggie at an insurance company in Santa Monica. We had drinks. He remembers Trafficant as a knife-wielding bully and Lowell’s pet. Trafficant and Lowell used to get drunk together and take walks in the forest. And the third man in the dream may be a writer named Denton Mellors. Only critic to give Lowell’s last book a good review. He had a mustache—though it doesn’t match the one Lucy describes in the dreams—and he idolized Lowell. He and Trafficant were a clique at the retreat. So my money’s on him as Hairy Lip and Trafficant as the man with his back turned. Graydon-Jones said something else that supports that: Lowell looked up to Trafficant. It wasn’t a standard student-teacher thing. Last session I had with Lucy, she described the third man as talking roughly to Lowell. Ordering him to roll the girl into the grave. From what I heard today, Trafficant could’ve done that and gotten away with it. What do you think?”
“I think,” he said, “that you’ve got threads. Getting closer to a weave. But with all these people gone, so many years passed, it may not happen. Then again, who’m I to criticize? I spent today praying for wisdom in dog shit.”
Denton Mellors had been a graduate student at Columbia, but it was too late to call the university. On the chance that he’d returned to New York, I tried Information in all the New York boroughs and New Jersey but found nothing. Then I wondered if he’d stayed in L.A. and gotten a writing job on a newspaper or magazine or in film. Before I could get any further with that, my service called.