“She’s on a project with a deadline, I didn’t want to distract her.”
“Sure,” he said. “That was it.”
I followed him back to the station, where he called a few more security companies with no success. I used the time to check for messages.
Despite the joys of mechanization, I keep an answering service because I like talking to actual people. Lucette, one of the more durable operators, said, “Hey, Dr. Delaware. Looks like I got … five for you.”
A family court judge I’d never heard of wanted to confer about a custody case. His surname had lots of consonants and I had her spell it.
The second call was from a Glendale pediatrician who’d interned at Western Pediatric back when I was a psych fellow. She wanted advice on a failure-to-thrive infant that might be Munchausen by proxy.
Lucette said, “The other three are all from the same person, came in starting at nine, half an hour apart. And I’m talking thirty minutes precisely. Ms. Gretchen Stengel.” She read off the number. “The first two were just her name and number, the third was kind of a strange conversation. If you don’t mind my saying.”
“Strange, how?”
“She sounded pretty nervous, Dr. Delaware, so I asked her if it was an emergency. She went quiet, like she had to think about that, finally said she couldn’t honestly say it was an emergency and nowadays she needed to be honest. To me that sounded like some kind of twelve-step thing, you know? But you know me, Dr. Delaware, I’m just here to help, never put my two cents in.”
The last time—the only time—I’d met the Westside Madame was almost a decade ago.
Restaurant on the trendoid stretch of Robertson just below Beverly Boulevard. A few storefronts north of Gretchen Stengel’s short-lived boutique.
Her play at legitimacy. Lack of crime did not pay.
I’d been tagging along with Milo as he worked the death of a beautiful young woman named Lauren Teague who’d once been part of Gretchen’s call girl stable. Gretchen had just finished serving two-thirds of a thirty-two-month sentence for tax evasion. Still in her thirties, she’d come across prematurely aged, sullen, unkempt, quite likely stoned.
Her arrest and trial four years previous had been nectar for the media and every wrong turn in her life had been retracted, probed, and aspirated like a surgical wound.
She’d grown up rich and privileged, the daughter of two high-powered lawyers at Munchley, Zabella, and Carter—a firm since diminished and eventually destroyed by malfeasance and corruption, so maybe character issues had laced the family’s chromosomes.
Education at the Peabody School, summers in Venice and Provence, frequent-flier status on the Concorde, socializing with celebs and the people who created them.
All that had distilled to drug and alcohol abuse by adolescence, six abortions by age fourteen, dropping out of college to take on self-abasing roles in bottom-feeder porn loops. Somehow that had led to a seven-figure income running beautiful, fresh-faced girls, some of them Peabody alumnae, out of the better lounges and hostelries of prime-zip-code L.A.
Gretchen’s trick-book was rumored to be hours of fascinating reading but somewhere along the line it vanished and despite rumors of LAPD enmity, her eventual plea bargain was a sweetheart deal.
Now she was calling me. Three times in one morning. On the half hour precisely; shrinks and hookers are both good at sticking to time-tables.
Not an emergency. I need to be honest.
That did sound like rehab-talk.
Milo slammed the phone down, studied the single-spaced list of rent-a-cop outfits. The place his finger rested said he’d barely made a start.
“This is gonna take time.”
“If you don’t need me—”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, go have a life, someone should.”
On the way home, I phoned the judge and the pediatrician. The custody case sounded ugly and probably futile and I begged off. The failure-to-thrive lacked any hallmarks of Munchausen by proxy and I gave the doctor some differential diagnoses and suggested she get gastro and neuro consults on the baby but continue to keep an eye on the parents.
That left Gretchen Stengel.
Eager to talk to me. But no emergency.
I shut down the hands-off, put on music, took the long way home.
Wonderful sounds filled the car. More than music; Oscar Peterson doing impossible things with a piano.
L.A. rule number one: When in doubt, drive.
obin cried.
Wiping away tears, she laid her chisel down, stepped away from her workbench. Laughed, as if that would reverse the emotional tide. “No sense staining a nice piece of Adirondack.”
A finger traced the edge of the spruce slab she’d been shaping. The beginning of a guitar top. Spec job, no deadline.
I said, “I figured you’d want to know. Sorry if you didn’t.”
“I’m being a baby, she was a total stranger.” Spots appeared on sawdust and she swiped at her eyes again. “Damn.”
Blanche waddled over and nosed the shavings. I bent down and petted her. Her eyes remained fixed on Robin.
“When did it happen?”
“A few hours after we saw her.”
“That’s crazy,” she said. “How’d you figure out it was her?”
“Milo came by this morning, showed me crime scene photos.”
“How’d she die?”
“Shot.”
“Where?”
“That’s important?”
“You know me, baby. I code the world visually.”
Exactly.
I said, “In her face.”
She flinched. “How vicious. Such a beautiful face. And now you’re on it?”
“Mostly I’ve been tagging along.”
“Sure, I’ll draw, but I don’t know if I can come up with anything good. If I don’t, I’ll sit down with a real artist.”
“I could do that.”
“So can I,” she said. “I’d like to do something.” Leaning on her bench. “Poor, poor thing. It’s like we were predestined to be there, Alex.”
I put my arm around her.
She said, “Whenever they want me, let me know.”
“Okay.”
I kissed her.
She said, “You didn’t tell me earlier because …”
“I needed to digest it, myself.”
“Sure. That explains it.”
“I—”
“I love you, too, baby.” She walked to her drafting table. “I’m going to give it a try, right now.”
Four attempts were crumpled. Examining the fifth, she said, “This’ll have to do.”
Spare but accurate likenesses of the girl in white and the man in black. More than enough for the evening news.
I said, “A-plus.”
“More like C-minus. It’s just lines and shadows, I didn’t capture a whit of their personalities.”
“I’m not sure we saw her real personality, Rob.”
“What do you mean?”
“When’s the last time you saw someone use a cigarette holder? It felt like she was playing a role.”
She climbed off her stool. “That was high drama, wasn’t it?” She studied the drawing some more, brushed a curl of eraser lint from the girl’s mouth. “I’m not happy with these. They’re missing something.”
“I’m sure Milo will be happy.”
“Let me sit down with a real artist and work on it until it’s perfect, Alex. I’ve got a few people I can call. Ask Milo if it’s okay to bring in a civilian.”
As opposed to us.
She frowned at the drawing of the man. Lifted the drawing of the girl. “Playing dress-up for some bastard who keeps her waiting then ends up doing that.”
“Or he stood her up and she met someone else. At this point, anything’s possible.”
“I knew there was something off about him.” Jabbing the drawing on the table. “He looked so hostile. If he was a real Secret Service guy doing an actual job, you
could understand that. You’d want that. But being part of some sick drama? Creepy, definitely creepy. If Milo’s okay with it, I’ll call Nigel Brooks, see if he’ll help with some real drawing. Better yet, Sam Ansbach, portraiture’s his thing, he’s just back from a show in New York.”
Frowning. “On the other hand, Sam’s not exactly a law enforcement fan, what with that restraining order his ex foisted on him, stupid mixup put him in jail for three days. So Nigel, first.”
She phoned Brooks’s Venice studio. Out of town for a month.
“I’ll try Sam, worst he can do is say no.”
“Maybe we don’t need a civilian,” I said. “Petra Connor used to be a professional artist.”
“Good point, I’ve seen her work, she’s good. Fine, arrange it, and I’ll head over to Hollywood. Once Milo gets both their faces on the news, maybe he can solve this quickly.”
Milo was still at his desk. “Great, hold tight.”
Minutes later: “Petra’s in Atlanta for a conference but she told me there’s a new Hollenbeck guy named Shimoff—a fellow Alexander—did some training at Otis before joining the department. Is Robin up for it if he’s available today?”
“Raring to go.”
“So she took it okay.”
“She’s a tough girl,” I said. “No progress with the security firms?”
“No one owns up to a Fauborg gig. Jernigan called from the coroner’s just before you did. Our princess was a natural brunette who enhanced herself with dye. No sign of strangulation or stab wounds or blunt-force trauma, death due to exsanguination as a consequence of gunshot wounds. Autopsy’s in the queue but swabs from all intact orifices bear no semen, blood, or signs of trauma. As to the state of her mouth, the damage is too great to rule anything out. But Jernigan’s not feeling a sexual attack. She did think it weird that two guys shot her at the same time in the same relatively small target area. Said that felt like a firing-squad execution. And that got me wondering: Some enraged boyfriend wants to blast her away and take back his watch, why share the fun? I can see bringing muscle along for security, but when the time came to pull the trigger, why not go solo?”
“Could be cowardice,” I said. “Or lack of experience. Someone unaccustomed to firearms might want reassurance.”
“Ready aim fire,” he said. “Or it could be some kind of sick game. Okay, let’s get those faces out there, maybe someone’ll come up with an I.D. By the way, I checked out those designers—Lerange, Scuzzi. Both are high-end but kind of obscure. And not carried in any local outlets. A few stores in New York stock individual pieces but none of them could help much. That and Princess’s Brit accent says I shouldn’t give up on a foreign visitor but the Homeland Hoohahs haven’t called back yet. So as of now, I’m majoring in art appreciation. Let’s see about this Otis guy.”
Ten minutes later he left a message. Detective I Alexander Shimoff had a day off but could meet Robin anytime until nine p.m. at his home in the Pico-Robertson district.
I’d missed his call because I’d been talking to someone else.
retchen Stengel answered her phone after one ring. “I’m me, who are you?”
Her voice was low, hoarse. The tail-end of each word faded.
“This is Dr. Delaware returning your call.”
“Doc,” she said. “Been a while, huh?”
“What can I—”
“You do remember me.”
“I do.”
“Been told I’m hard to forget,” she said.
I waited.
“All those years ago, huh, Doc?” Coughing. “Not exactly good times.”
“No one likes visits from the police.”
“The unspoken message: especially a pimp.”
I said, “My messages tend to be spoken. What can I do for you, Gretchen?”
She barked laughter, slid into a coughing fit, caught her breath with a sharp intake of air. “Now that we’re BFFs, may I call you Doctor?” Giggling.
I didn’t answer.
She said, “I can see you sitting there, with that stony shrink look.”
“Pure granite.”
“What—oh, ha, funny. Okay, sorry for being a wiseass. It’s just that I get that way when I’m dying.”
She coughed some more. “I don’t mean like some fucking comic bombing. Dying literally. As in the cells will soon go sleepy-bye.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Trust me, I’m sorrier than you. Springing it on you was a little naughty of me, huh? But there’s no easy way. Like when cops go tell families someone’s been murdered. Your gay buddy must love that, no?”
I didn’t answer.
She said, “I’ve been watching a lot of cop shows. Seeing it from the other side’s perspective has been educational.” Sigh. Throat clear. “Anyway, I’m on the way out. Kaput.”
“Would you like to come in to talk about it?”
“Not a chance,” she said. “There’s nothing to say. I lived what they call a high-risk life. Cleaned-and-sobered-up for seven years but kept dating Tommy Tobacco. My lungs never stopped bitching at me to quit, I didn’t, so they got pissed and cultivated a nice little bumper crop of tumors. I went through one course of chemo, asked the oncologist if there was a purpose to any of it and he was such a pussy, hemmed and hawed, that I got my answer. So I said, screw that noise, time to exit gracefully.”
There’s nothing to say.
She gasped. “Feels like I just ran the marathon. Not that I ever did that. Did anything healthy.” Laughter. “You’re a good shrink, I feel better already.” Inhalation. “Not.”
“What can I do for you, Gretchen?”
“Meaning why if I’m going to be snotty am I bugging you? It’s not about me. It’s my kid. One of the first things I did when I got out of rehab was find a nice anonymous sperm donor. Don’t ask why, I don’t know why, it just seemed like the thing to do. Kind of easy, I didn’t even need to lie about how big his cock was. Anyway, the result was Chad. So now I’ve got a six-year-old male BFF and I’m going to fuck up his life by bailing and I don’t know”—gasp—“what to do about it. So I figured, why not you? So what do you do with a six-year-old? Play therapy? Cognitive behavioral therapy? For sure not existential therapy, I mean Chad’s big angst is not enough TV.”
Ragged laughter. “Been reading psych books, too.”
“I’d be happy to help. Before I see Chad, you and I need to talk.”
“Why?”
“For me to take a history.”
“I can give you that right now.”
“It needs to be in person.”
“Why?”
“It’s the way I work, Gretchen.”
“Into control, huh?”
“If it doesn’t work for you, I’ll be happy to—”
“It works, it works fine,” she said. “When do we do this history?”
“Are you healthy enough to come to my office?”
“Mobility’s a day-to-day thing. But don’t worry, if I cancel, I’ll still pay you, I know you guys are big on that.”
“If you’re not too far, I could come to you.”
“Like a house call?” she said. “You’re punking me.”
“Where do you live?”
“B.H. adjacent, got a nice little condo on Willaman off Burton.”
“Close enough. What’s a good time?”
“Anytime. It’s not like I’m flying to Paris.”
I checked my book. “How about tomorrow at eleven?”
“House call,” she said. “You’re really going to do that.”
“Unless you have a problem with it.”
“My only problem is I’m going to be shutting my eyes forever, and who knows if Hell really exists,” she said. “Hey, does this mean you’re going to charge me for drive time, the way lawyers do? Nice way to pump up the hourly.”
“The hourly will be the same.”
Silence.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was assholishly ungrateful. I’ve never h
ad much of a filter and cancer’s no mood enhancer.”
“Tomorrow at eleven,” I said.
“Besides no filter, I’m also a control freak who wants everything buttoned up to the max. What is the hourly?”
I told her.
“Not bad,” she said. “Back in the day, I had girls giving blow jobs for more than that.”
I said, “Free enterprise is a many-splendored thing.”
She laughed. “Maybe you’re not as stiff as I thought. Maybe this could work.”
t seven thirty p.m., Milo, Robin, and I arrived at the Shenandoah Street apartment of artist-turned-cop Alexander Shimoff.
Shimoff’s flat was on the ground floor. He stood outside his door wearing gray sweats and drinking from a half-gallon bottle of ginger ale. Thirtyish, with a prematurely gray Caesar cut, he was built like a tennis player, had facial bones just a bit too large for the pale skin that cased them.
Milo made the introductions.
Shimoff smiled and shook with a slightly limp hand. No real accent to his speech but a slight stretching of syllables suggested birth in another country.
Standing in the living room were a young, rosy-cheeked platinum-blond wife and two little girls around four and six. The kids were curious but compliant as their mother hustled them to their room, talking in Russian. Shimoff’s easel, drawing table, and weathered oak flat file took up half of the meager space. Most of the rest was given over to games and toys. A big-screen Mac sat atop the file, along with brushes in pots and an array of pencils and pens. A nearly completed painting—dead-on replica of Picasso’s Blue Guitarist—occupied the easel.
Milo whistled appreciatively. “You could get into serious trouble for that.”
Shimoff’s grin was lopsided. “Only if I put it on eBay for ten bucks.” He turned to Robin. “I looked up your website. Beautiful instruments. Someone who can do that, my guess is they can draw pretty good.”
“Not good enough,” she said.
“Show me what you’ve produced.”
Robin handed him the sketches of Princess and Black Suit.
Shimoff studied them for several moments. “If the proportions are okay, this gives me plenty to work with. Describe them like you would to a stranger. Start with the guy because he’s the easy one; once we’re in the groove, we’ll work our way to her.”
Mystery: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 4
