She smiled. “Or as Thelma put it, ‘The girl was old enough to vote but all she wanted to do was have fun.’ ”
“Vicki was twenty-one.”
“Just.”
“Does your mom remember anything else?”
“Wish I could ask her, she’s gone, too,” said Owen. “Those quotes are just stuff that came up. Everyone’s gone except Thelma. Sometimes I think she’s just too ornery to stop breathing.”
She shrugged. “I guess if I could clear up what happened to Vicki, I’d feel a little bit heroic.”
Milo and I nodded.
“Also,” she said, “all that’s left of the family besides Thelma—and she won’t last long—is me and my daughter. The bad part of being the only child of the youngest child.”
I said, “What was Vicki’s family like?”
“Conventional, religious, no one before had just upped and left.”
“But she did stay in contact.”
“In the beginning. Thelma claims Vicki sent her a couple of postcards. ‘Dashed’ them off. Hollywood cards—the sign, Grauman’s Chinese.”
I said, “Proof of sinfulness to Thelma?”
Bella Owen laughed. “You got it. She was always fire and brimstone but Suzette’s suicide made it worse.”
Milo said, “We’ve tried to find information on Vicki and haven’t been successful. What I can tell you is she has no criminal record.”
Bella Owen’s hands relaxed. “That’s good to hear. I like to think the best of everyone so I’d like her to be just a bored girl looking for some fun—is that the Chai Zen Frothy you’re drinking? Mind if I get some? I’ve worked on some pretty tight backs all morning and it totally dehydrated me.”
Milo said, “On me,” and got to his feet.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”
Before the sentence was complete, he was at the counter ordering and paying.
Bella Owen looked at me. “Is that typical?”
“He’s a generous person.”
“Well, that’s a nice quality in a guy. And pretty darn rare, especially the young ones who always seem to leave their wallets home by accident. I keep telling my daughter to be pickier. Then again, she knows from her father that I’m no expert.”
Milo returned with the drink. Taller glass than his.
She said, “Oh, my, you got me the Molto, I’ll never finish it.”
“Give it the old college try.”
Giggling, she sipped through a paper straw, following the gradual drop in fluid level with vivid blue eyes that seemed to gain wattage with each millimeter.
When the glass was down by a quarter, she removed the straw, now bent and soggy. “I know it’s a good cause but these things are totally useless.”
Her phone buzzed on the table.
She snatched it up. “Hi, Auntie…you have? That’s amazing…yes, of course I believed you. Did you have trouble sending it…no, of course not, it was super-fast, sorry. That’s great, Auntie, thanks so much…I’m not saying I approve of everything anyone does including her, but…sure, I’ll tell them. Thanks again, Auntie, enjoy your snack.”
Once the connection was cut, she puffed her lips in exhalation. “Apparently the picture is proof that Victoria was ‘wanton and wild.’ She wants you to know the family did not approve…let’s take a look…okay, here it is.”
Bigger frown. Long sigh. “Sorry. Vicki’s not your girl.”
Milo said, “Let’s have a look anyway.”
Owen handed him the phone. On the screen was a color shot of a blonde in a minimal white bikini posed on an unidentifiable empty beach. Careful positioning, sharp contours, and dramatic use of light suggested a professional job.
The woman leaned on her elbows in a way that thrust her chest upward. Sleek tan skin sheathed a slim but curvy body and a quartet of coltish limbs.
Pinpoints of condensed moisture topped smooth shoulders. The illusion of passion sweat courtesy a spritz from a water bottle? Or she really had been perspiring.
If so, it wasn’t due to tension. Languid posture, clear confident eyes, and slightly parted lips revealing a hint of white teeth said this was someone who loved the camera.
Bella Owen said, “It actually is pretty racy. I can’t believe she sent this to Thelma.”
I said, “Maybe she was asserting herself to Thelma.”
“Hmm, yes, you could be right. Standing up for herself. I like that. But Thelma held on to it.”
“Maybe there’s more to Thelma than you know.”
“Hah. Anyway.”
Milo held on to the phone. Staring, processing. The moment I’d seen the model’s face my gut had tightened and from the way his jaw was working, so had his.
Not the woman we were seeking, but a familiar face.
The cheekbones.
* * *
—
Bella Owen drank a bit more before pushing her cup away. Glanced at her phone. “Need to get back, guys. Sorry it didn’t work out. Would’ve been nice.”
I said, “If you don’t mind, could you call your aunt and ask if anything’s written on the back of the photo?”
“Why? She’s not your girl.”
“She’s missing and who knows, something could come up during the investigation.”
Milo’s eyes had slid toward me. Owen didn’t notice.
“Oh. Okay, I’ll try her now.” Rapid number punches. “Auntie, sorry to bother you again…that’s why I said I’m sorry, Auntie…I understand, nutrition’s important, but so is learning about Vicki so if you still have the picture, could you see if anything’s written on the back? Yes, at their request. No problem, I’ll wait…yes, I know it’s my choice.”
Sighing and rolling her eyes, she switched to speaker.
Milo whispered, “You deserve combat pay.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
A minute passed before a constricted voice said, “Only going to say this once so pay attention, Marabella. Sterling Lawrence Studio Nine Fifty-Three Gower Street Hollywood big C small A.”
Click.
Milo had been scrawling rapidly. “Got it.”
“A professional studio,” said Bella Owen. “Vicki was a model. Or hoping to be one. Or maybe an actress.” Her eyes misted. “All that dreaming and look what happened. She’s dead, isn’t she, Lieutenant?”
“No way to know.”
“All these years?”
Milo said, “It’s not looking great but we do get surprised.”
Bella Owen said, “Appreciate your honesty. I never really knew Vicki, I just…I need to forget about it and go back to living life.”
Quick hand squeeze for each of us before she walked away.
CHAPTER
30
Milo said, “Oh, do we get surprised. Let’s walk a bit.”
We strode the strip-mall walkway, passing all kinds of opportunities to ingest calories and a gym where you could burn them off. Spandex and unspoken intensity abounded. People trying so hard to defy the passage of time.
He said, “Well, that was a game changer.” Out came the Azalea Club photo from his case. “Three blondes, probably all murdered, and the Sultan dies in his bed confessing. You ever actually see that in psychopaths? Sudden burst of guilt?”
“So far not the ones who premeditate murder. But like I said, terminal illness can mess with the nervous system.”
“Biology, not morality?”
“I wouldn’t count on morality.”
“Hunh. Sometimes I think you’re more cynical than I am. Anyway, the creepiness level has just ratcheted higher and who knows where it’ll end. Maybe I will ask Val for permission to bring in the radar.”
“Think she’d agree?”
“She came to us about the confession.”
�
�True but she’s ambivalent, and too much disruption could tip her over. Also, the house isn’t only hers, her brothers are co-owners. If she felt the need to call them, it could go bad pretty fast.”
“What, then?”
“When’s your appointment with Nancy Strattine?”
“Hour and a half, Oxnard.”
“I’d wait to hear what she has to say. Meanwhile we can try to learn about the photo studio and Vicki Barlow. Sterling Lawrence and others like him could be where Des Barres sourced his women.”
“Fine art covering for pimping.”
“Lawrence could’ve had a steady supply, Des Barres and men like him provided the demand.”
“What’s that called, symbiosis?”
“If you’re being charitable.”
“If not?”
“Flesh peddling.”
“Okay, let’s get back to my wheels and see if ol’ Sterling has a past.”
* * *
—
He used the computer in the Impala and confirmed that the photography studio no longer existed. The 900 block of Gower was residential. The exact address was a big-box apartment complex that looked to be around ten years old.
NCIC had nothing criminal on Lawrence. A Find A Grave search pulled up a headstone for Sterling Adrian Lawrence at Hollywood Memorial. Smallish and simple, black granite. An old-fashioned camera with bellows engraved at the top.
The photographer had died fourteen years ago, age seventy-eight. That made finding a record at the coroner’s office a decent shot.
He found it. Like Swoboda, just a summary: heart attack.
He said, “So much for that. Now what?”
“You could try Harlow Hesse.”
“Why?”
“He’s old, likes to talk, seems to know everyone.”
“Fun times. Why not.”
* * *
—
A woman, probably one of the maid-quartet, answered. “Hesse residence, who may I ask is calling?”
“Lieutenant Sturgis. We met with Mr. Hesse a few days ago and have a question.”
“Oh,” she said. “He went down for a nap but let me see.”
Moments later, a familiar bellow shot through the tiny speaker: “Didn’t you see me in the kitchen, Sheila? Of course I’m up…hello, Lieutenant, auld lang syne, how can I help you.”
“A name came up during the investigation, sir. A photographer named Sterling—”
“Lawrence. Great guy, hope you’re not going to tell me he did something nasty.”
“Not at all.”
“What, then?”
“We found a portrait he took of our missing girl and wondered what you could tell us about him.”
“First off,” said Hesse, “he’s dead, so forget talking to him. Chain-smoker, loved steak, no surprise. I tried to tell him to moderate at least the cigs but he was puffing away since the army. So was the picture classy? I’m betting yes because Ster was a classy guy, extremely artistic, took his time with the lighting. A real artist, none of that cheesecake crap, none of those phony shutterbug clubs attracting perverts. He had a classy setup, worked out of this big Craftsman he owned in Hollywood. Great place, the neighborhood got a little iffy but Ster stayed…Sycamore Avenue maybe? Cherokee?”
“Gower.”
“That’s it, Gower. Don’t know who owns it now.” A beat. “Ster had no heirs.”
“The building’s long gone,” said Milo.
“What’s there now?”
“Big apartment complex.”
“All the class of a shipping carton?”
“Something like that.”
“Figures,” said Hesse. “Like Joni used to say—she’s got a great place in Bel Air, by the way—they paved paradise and discombobulated everything classy.”
“The photo we have was shot on a beach.”
“So?”
“So I guess Sterling traveled away from his studio.”
“Same question. What’s the diff?”
“Good point,” said Milo. “What else can you tell us about him?”
A beat. Throat clearing. “You know, Lieutenant, I enjoyed talking to you, you seem like a really dedicated guy. You and the shrink, both of you seemed like good people. And I’m a civic-minded citizen so obviously I want to do anything I can to help with whatever it is you think you need help with. But if you’re barking up Ster Lawrence’s tree, don’t. Great guy, had a tough life. Military brat, crazy-strict religious parents. Knew who he was but they didn’t approve so he did his own thing and used his talent to make a life for himself. It wasn’t easy. Are you catching my drift?”
Milo said, “Yes, sir.”
“Trust me,” said Hesse. “He was upright and ethical and a very, very, very talented guy.”
His voice broke.
Milo waited.
Harlow Hesse said, “I’m not going to get into details but let’s just say Ster was known to frequent the same place I went with your Dr. Silverman. Both floors.”
“Got it.”
“I’d hope so. Given who you are.”
Click.
I said, “Upstairs/downstairs at The Azalea. Maybe there was more interplay than was obvious.”
“Lawrence and Des Barres ran into each other and figured out the supply–demand thing?”
“Des Barres and others like him. Lawrence could’ve gotten kickbacks or Hesse is right and there was nothing sleazy going on, just some informal matchmaking. In any event, we’ve got a good theory of how three women ended up in the harem.”
“But no clue what happened to them. And maybe others.” He rubbed his face. “This is the point where I’d suggest nutrition but I’m supposed to meet Nancy Strattine for lunch. You have Saturday plans?”
“No, I’ll come, once I figure out where to put my car.”
“Let’s see to that.”
* * *
—
No letup in the strip-mall traffic. The attendant looked even more harried.
Milo said, “Hi.”
Waving hands, scowling face. “One sec one sec hold on.”
A flash of the badge drew the attendant’s eyes. “Police? Okay, no problem.” He let in a pink VW Bug. “What?”
“We came in with two cars, the Impala and a classic Seville.”
“The green one, yeah, nice.”
“Very nice and it’s going to be here for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Hours.”
“I can’t do that.”
A twenty pressed into the man’s palm. Milo folded his fingers over the bill.
“Got it, sir.”
“Knew you would.”
* * *
—
Eighty minutes to get to Oxnard was close to a sure bet, even with a mishap or two on the 101. Today there were none and we sailed through the Valley into 805 territory, passed Camarillo and into its northern neighbor.
Once a high-crime scar on the pretty face of Ventura County, Oxnard had finally realized it was a beach town and matured accordingly. A few gang neighborhoods survived but between a well-designed harbor, surf-side resorts and condos to the west, and lush plantings of berries, artichokes, and leafy things to the east, once you got off the freeway, the drive was a pretty one.
We exited at Rice Avenue, continued a few miles, and turned right into a high-end industrial park. Wide, mostly empty streets crisscrossed multi-acre lots on which white and off-white buildings sat behind knolls of barbered grass. Some of the structures housed the headquarters of agribusiness firms and the companies that serve them—truckers, shippers, packers. Others with black glass windows sported the names of corporations—names that explained nothing and could have sprung from the feverish mind of a conspiracy theorist.
> One of the few buildings that’s not white is painted brick and cream and contains a large winery with a tasting room at the front and restaurant at the back consistently rated the best in the county. I’d discovered it years ago, interviewing a witness in a previous case, had turned Milo and Rick on to it because they’re always looking for cuisine. They’d become fans, stopping on the way to rare weekends in Santa Barbara for Cabernet and prime rib.
Any eatery Milo frequents benefits from his habitual overtipping. It’s a cop thing he takes even further. The result is usually a hero’s welcome and today was no exception.
We arrived eighteen minutes before the appointment with Nancy Strattine, were immediately seated at a private corner table and comped with a charcuterie plate generous enough to nourish all three bears.
Milo said, “Aw, not necessary.”
The waiter said, “Enjoy.”
Milo said, “Sage advice,” and reached for his fork.
* * *
—
Several bison sausages, strips of venison jerky, and chunks of veal pâté later, he took a breather, wiped his forehead, swigged ice water, and looked around. Seconds after he’d returned to the food, I noticed a blond woman enter, confer with the host, and head our way.
“Here she is, Big Guy. On the dot.”
He wiped his face hurriedly, stood to greet her.
“Ms. Strattine. Thanks for coming.”
“Nancy’s fine.”
Fine came out “Fahn.”
He gave her the same name-only intro for me that he’d offered Bella Owen. She smiled, said, “Hi, Alex,” and sat.
Nancy Strattine was five-three and trim, wearing full makeup that included exuberant false eyelashes and bright-red lipstick. The blond hair was an ash-colored, meringue-like cloud. Her eyes were dark, her chin firm and pointy. A slightly oversized nose aimed for the sky.
She carried a navy Gucci bag, wore yellow spike-heeled shoes and an olive-green pantsuit. The suit’s neckline framed a vee of freckled chest and an inch of cleavage. On her left lapel was a gold brooch shaped like a rose. Three-inch gold hoop earrings, a fire-opal pendant on a chunky gold chain, a two-carat diamond ring paired with a wedding band crusted with pavé diamonds, and an Apple Watch with an orange leather band completed the ensemble.
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