He said, “Kinda downscale for two skin docs, no? I thought Botox brought in the bucks.”
“Maybe they don’t care about the material world.”
“Numbing faces for fun? The way things are going, I’ll believe anything.”
From the look of her real estate, Leona Suss cared plenty for the material world.
The three-story brown-brick Georgian evoked Monticello. If Thomas Jefferson hadn’t run out of cash. The property was thirty car lengths wide, cordoned by matching brick walls topped by verdigris metalwork. Granite medallions carved into camellia blossoms punctuated every ten feet. Smudges of moss were too perfectly spaced to be accidental. Topping the grille, variegated ivy streamed gracefully through coppery spikes, loops, and finials. Pruned to the precise point where light peeked through but privacy held fast.
A copper pedestrian gate offered glimpses of the front acre. No parking area, just shaded patches on lawn and brick walkway cast by specimen pines, sycamores, and cedars. Half the lot spread to the left of the house, offering glimpses of boxwood parterres, columnate Italian cypresses, rose gardens spitting color, a lattice pavilion.
I coasted along the west side of the property where automobile access was provided through a ten-foot slab-steel gate set nearly flush with the street. An exquisitely laced Chinese elm spread to the right. Something in the tree caught sun and glinted.
Security camera tethered to a stout branch, nearly concealed by foliage.
We returned to the front, looked for another camera, spotted it winking from the largest cedar.
Milo said, “If little Ms. Tara ever caught a glimpse of this, she’d be inspired. Want to take bets ol’ Markham showed it to her?”
I said, “Too bad for her.”
His cell played Shubert. He plugged into the hands-off, barked, “Sturgis.”
A woman barked back louder: “Jernigan!”
“Hi, Doc.”
Female laughter. “Hi, Lieutenant. I’ve got the autopsy report on your victim without a face. There was some alcohol in her system but nothing incapacitating, maybe a drink or two. No narcotics or prescription medication. Death by gunshot, no stunner there. My guess is the bullet entered before the shotgun pellets because we got a nice clean track through the brain and if she’d been blasted with shot initially it would’ve been like shooting the bullet into soup. No evidence of sexual assault, she’s never had a baby, but there was some substantial endometriosis, which could be genetic, or the result of scarring due to an STD. There’s also some fibrosed tissue in and around her rectum, so at some point she probably engaged in anal sex fairly regularly. Other than that, her organs were healthy.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“That’s the science part, Milo,” said Jernigan. “Now here’s the gut-feeling part: The wound pattern still bothers me but I can’t say it’s based on anything other than a little cognitive twinge. Assuming she got hit with the .45 first and the impact knocked her off her feet, there should’ve been more shotgun damage. She’d be prone, dead or close to it, and totally vulnerable to an overhead blast. But the pellets didn’t overlap with the bullet wound as much as I’d expect. In fact, the most severe sprinkling of shot is almost totally in line with the bullet along the vertical axis. Almost as if your two bad guys fired simultaneously.”
“Firing squad,” he said.
“That’s the image I got. But a skillful squad, the two of them standing side by side, coordinating perfectly. The shotgun damage was far from tight. The pellets pierced her sinuses as well as the lower part of her frontal lobes. But used up close, a .410 could’ve taken her entire head off. And there’s no way I can see, short of standing on a ladder, that the shotgunner could’ve hit her straight-on once she was down.”
“Precision murder team,” said Milo. “Maybe at the next Olympics.”
“It’s creepy, right? Almost a ritualistic quality to it.”
“Like she was being punished.”
“I suppose,” said Jernigan. “You know what it’s usually like with sick stuff. We get up-close strangulation, a knife ballet. This is harder to characterize. There’s that calculated execution thing going on but possibly also something darker—something Delaware might be able to help you with.”
“Funny you should mention him.”
I said, “Alex here.”
“Oh, hi,” she said. “So what do you think?”
“It fits perfectly with our current best guess for motive: money as well as revenge.”
“Great minds,” she said. “When you learn more, keep me in the loop because this one’s got me curious.”
Milo said, “Love your optimism, Doc.”
Clarice Jernigan said, “Without optimism there isn’t much point, is there? Bye, guys, time for me to meet a few more wonderfully compliant patients.”
We walked up to Leona Suss’s gate.
Milo said, “Firing squad. Now that she’s planted that in my head it’s gonna stay there.”
We were trying to figure out a next step when a black-and-white SUV pulled up behind the Seville, gunned its engine, went quiet.
Beverly Hills PD Suburban. A young uniformed female officer got out, studied the Seville’s rear plate, hitched up her belt, studied some more.
Milo gave his mini-salute. She wasn’t impressed.
Small woman. Five three, tops, narrow-hipped, small-busted, and open-faced, with a long brown ponytail.
“Looks about twelve,” said Milo, digging into his pocket. “Maybe she’s selling Police Scout cookies.”
The cop confided something to her radio. Adjusted her belt again and came forward, one hand on her baton.
The open face was freckled, lightly made up except for generous eyeliner and mascara turned to gritty paste.
Borderline Goth; go know.
W. Bede on her badge.
“Gentlemen. That your Cadillac?”
I said, “It’s mine.”
“License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.” A too-husky voice tightened the cords of her neck. Straining, as if she’d taken lessons in authoritative but missed the final.
Milo flashed his badge and his card. “Will this do, Officer?”
Bede’s teal-green eyes seemed to enlarge as her pupils contracted.
She said, “L.A. Homicide? Nothing came up at roll call about any joint investigation.”
“There’s an investigation,” said Milo, “but it only touched upon your fair city a few minutes ago.”
“Touched? I’m not … sure what that means.”
“The occupant of this house is someone we might eventually want to talk to.”
“This house?” As if owning eight-figure real estate exempted you from suspicion.
Milo said, “Mrs. Leona Suss.”
“What’s your interest in her?”
“She may know certain individuals of interest and we wanted to make contact with her.” Smiling. “Top of that, Officer, we get to hang out in nice places. But you’re used to that.”
Bede’s posture relaxed and her eyes crinkled. Wholesome farm girl in tailored blues. “You’d be surprised, Lieutenant. We get alarm calls, ninety percent are false but we do walk-throughs anyway. You’d be amazed at the crap people call decorating in Beverly Hills.”
“Big money, no taste.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“Did Mrs. Suss call us in?”
“Five minutes ago, the non-emergency line.”
“Good response time.”
“That’s why people live here.”
“What was the complaint?”
Bede smiled again. “Two males loitering in an old car.”
“A Ferrari woulda made a difference?”
“Probably.”
“Maybe someone should tell her there’s old and there’s classic.”
Bede stepped back, appraised the Seville. Did the same for me. “You do keep it up pretty nice. You get it on a confiscation? When we invoke RICO we get all sorts of cool st
uff. Just added a Bentley used to be owned by a San Diego dope dealer who made the mistake of transacting here. The right plainclothes assignment comes along, someone’s going to be riding pretty.”
She glanced back at the mansion. “I do need to have contact with the complainant. What do you want me to tell her?”
Milo looked past her. Silk drapes had parted behind a ground-floor window. Woman holding a cat.
Tall, thin, with short black hair, she wore a body-hugging champagne-colored velour tracksuit and oversized, white-framed sunglasses.
Milo said, “Some variant of the truth will work fine, Officer Bede. You want, we can take it from here.”
Officer W. Bede said, “No, I need to make contact for my report. Okay if I tell her you’re kosher, doing an investigation, but I don’t add details? Then, if she wants to talk to you, it’s your game.”
“Free country.”
“Nothing’s free in Beverly Hills.”
eona Suss stepped through her gate, cradling her cat in the crook of one arm.
Officer W. Bede said, “Ma’am, turns out they’re L.A. police.”
Leona patted Bede’s shoulder. “Thank you, honey. I’ll be fine.”
Bede frowned. “I’ll be off, then, ma’am.”
“Have a nice day, dear.”
Bede’s Suburban roared off.
Leona Suss said, “They’re hiring babies nowadays.” A limp-wristed, bangled arm dangled toward Milo. “Hello, fellas.”
“Lieutenant Sturgis, ma’am. And this is Alex Delaware.”
“Leona. But you already know that.”
Her smile was so wide it threatened to split her face, sacrificing the lower half to gravity. She’d been tucked, but a while ago and with a light touch. The stretch-lines punctuating her jaw and her mouth and her forehead had begun to relent. The end result wasn’t unpleasant, hinting of what she’d been at thirty.
A nice-looking woman for any age. When she removed her shades and exposed almond-shaped, purple-blue eyes, that got upgraded to beautiful.
Angular, porcelain-skinned, finely boned, she reminded me of someone … Singer Sargent’s Madame X.
Milo said, “Sorry to bother you, ma’am.”
“Oh, you’re not bothering me, not at all.” A sunny, plummy voice fought the severe image. “I wouldn’t have even known you were here but Manfred grew alarmed.” Hefting the cat. “He’s better than any dog and considerably cleaner. The bonus is, I never had to buy him, he just showed up one morning meowing like the little panhandler he is. I gave him fresh albacore and cream from Whole Foods and we’ve had a wonderful relationship ever since. I don’t like dogs. Too clingy. How long have you fellas been here—what do you call it, surveilling?”
“We just got here, ma’am.”
“Then Manfred was at the top of his game. He began mewling and when I wouldn’t put down my Candace Bushnell, he commenced worrying the front drapes like a little maniac. When that didn’t work, he raced clear over to the side drapes, then back to the front. Finally I put down my book. Right in the middle of a juicy chapter. I checked the closed-circuit monitor and there you were in your charming old car. We owned one just like it, back in … seventy-six.” She stroked Manfred. He turned his head toward the mansion.
“With that car,” said Leona Suss, “there was no way to know you were police. They tell us to call when something’s out of the ordinary, so I called.”
“You did the right thing, ma’am.”
“Of course I did,” said Leona Suss. “Now let me guess, you’re here about her.”
“Who, ma’am?”
“Tara.” Cross-continental smile. “My late husband’s final bit of senior-citizen recreation.”
“You know her.”
“I know about her.”
“And you know we’re here about her because—”
“Because I saw her on TV,” said Leona Suss. “That drawing. I mean I wasn’t certain, but the resemblance was striking. I didn’t call about it because, really, what could I offer? Mark’s been gone nearly a year, what connection could there be?”
I said, “You knew what she looked like.”
“Mark showed me her picture. Bragging, the poor idiot. She gave him several pictures. Swimsuits and such. He was quite proud of his accomplishment.” Leona Suss offered another bifurcating grin. “As if it had to do with anything other than money.” Laughter. “You two look rather shocked. I didn’t know policemen were shockable.”
Milo said, “Well, ma’am, you managed.”
Leona Suss guffawed. The cat shivered. “Mark and I had a rather open relationship, Lieutenant Sturgis. Not in any smarmy sense—it’s complicated. I suppose you should come in. What do you think, Manfred? Shall we entertain the shockable Los Angeles police even though we’re Beverly Hills folk?”
The animal remained impassive.
“Manfred doesn’t appear to object. Come on in, fellas.”
The house opened to a white marble rotunda backed by a double staircase of the same glossy stone that Leona crossed at racewalk pace. She led us to a collection of cavernous, antiques-filled areas, any of which could be characterized as living rooms, chose to seat us in a hectagonal space painted delft-blue with contrasting cream moldings.
Gold-braided apricot upholstery was printed with scenes from ancient China. Blue-and-white porcelain abounded. Despite the warmth of the day, a gold onyx fireplace glowed electrically. All the case goods were deep mahogany. What looked to be genuine Georgian and Regency. Three large paintings framed in carved gilt graced the walls. Two depicted nineteenth-century, filmy-gowned women sitting in exuberant gardens. Over the mantel was a pastel-hued landscape of an imaginary English countryside. I looked for signatures, found them.
Soft music—something new age, maybe an imitation of whale calls—streamed from unseen speakers. A pair of maids in white nylon pantsuits stopped their tidying as we entered. One was gray-haired and Slavic, the other African.
Leona Suss said, “Would you ladies mind shifting to another room, please—the library hasn’t been dusted in far too long.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
The cat leaped from her arms, landed silently, scooted away.
“Ooh, Manfred’s hungry, please see to his brunch.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Leona motioned us to a ten-foot sofa adorned by silk shantung pillows. The facing Chippendale table bore a collection of black-and-white photos in gold easel-frames.
Two dozen or so glamour shots and stills from old movies, each featuring the same raven-haired beauty. In most she wore western clothes, in a few she posed on horseback.
Decades had passed, but no mistaking the subject. Leona Suss at her prime.
I said, “George Hurrell?”
She settled in an armchair, drew her legs to the side, folding like origami the way very lean people are able to do. “You knew Hurrell?”
“I know of him.”
“George was the greatest as well as a darling person,” she said. “He could make anyone look spectacular. Combine that with the raw material they gave him—Jane, Joan, Maureen, then the young ones—Sharon Stone. My God, the result was earth-stopping. George and I discussed several times doing a sitting but something always came up, so no, unfortunately these are the work of lesser talents. The studios had their own in-house people and, of course, there were always legions of journeymen eager to freelance.”
She played with her big white sunglasses. Diamonds or rhinestones studded the joints of the sidepieces. Similar but not identical to the shades Mystery had worn at the Fauborg.
A silver-nailed fingertip pinged the rim of a frame. “These are just your run-of-the-mill publicity nonsense.”
I said, “Did you act for a while?”
She smiled. “Some would say I’ve never stopped. Mark, for one. He enjoyed what he called my sense of drama, said I was his Little Movie Star, which, of cou
rse, is utter fooferaw. I made a grand total of eleven pictures, each a Grade C oater. Most typically, they used me as the brunette foil for the beautiful blond heroine. After that, I did oodles of episodic TV—you don’t want to know about me, you’re interested in Tara.”
She repeated the name, let out a low, breathy laugh. “Tara is a house, not a name, right fellas? A couple of times, Mark called her Tiara, which is even tackier, right? Perhaps the old fool’s memory was slipping. Either way I didn’t care, it reeked of trailer park.”
Milo said, “Do you know her last name?”
“No, sorry. Anything I know about her is limited to what Mark chose to tell me. Which was mercifully little.”
“Would you mind sharing what you do know?”
She studied a silver fingernail. “You’re thinking how bizarre, this woman is faking serenity or she’s crazy. But you need to understand the relationship that Mark and I shared for forty-two years. He plucked me from the throes of Hollywood desperation when I was barely twenty-four. He was twenty-six but seemed oh so worldly to a girl from Kansas. We were inseparable. Then he had the nerve to die on me.” Brittle laughter. “Even beautiful relationships have their ups and downs, fellas. Mark and I chose to endure the downs in order to luxuriate in the ups. That necessitated a certain degree of tolerance.”
Both of us nodded.
“Don’t pretend,” said Leona Suss. “You people are paid to judge.”
Milo said, “We don’t judge that kind of thing, Mrs. Suss.”
“Missus. I still like the sound of that. I was Mark’s only missus.” Waving a languid hand around the immense room. “If the poor, benighted boy needed to cut loose from time to time, so be it. We were in the rag trade, I learned to be realistic.”
“About …”
“The trollops who model bras and panties and nighties happen to possess the most spectacular bodies on the planet. We ran a high-volume business, meaning new panties and bras and nighties three times a year. Meaning a new crop of trollops three times a year. Can you imagine the temptation Mark faced on a daily basis? I never went to college, fellas, but I’m not stupid. As long as Mark remained faithful to me, he was free to engage in little bits of recreation.”
Mystery: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 15
