“I'll drive there today, see what kinds of shops are nearby— maybe someone noticed something. Maybe I'll drop in on de Maartens on the way back. Where's he live?”
“Don't know, but his number's a 310.”
“I'll get it. Thanks for all the work, Alex.”
“However useless.”
“Hey,” he said, “you can never tell what'll pan out.”
Lying through his teeth. What else are friends for?
* * *
Just after one P.M. I got in the Seville and drove to Motivational Associates’ Brentwood office.
The building was one of a group of towers that had sprouted on Wilshire during one of the booms. Four stories for parking, eight for offices, zebra-striped walls of white aluminum and black glass. The packing carton a serious building came in.
I walked past an empty guard desk to the directory. No pattern to the tenant mix: computer consultants, insurance agents, lawyers, an occupational therapy brokerage, a few psychotherapists. Motivational Associates was Suite 717, a third of the way down a gray-walled, plum-carpeted hallway. Black doors with tiny chrome signage. Dugger's was set between E-WISDOM and THE LAW OFFICES OF NORMAN AND REBBIRQUE.
No mail at or under the door, and when I peeked through the slot I saw an unlit waiting room, still no pile of letters. Either someone had collected or the post went to another location. I didn't knock— the last thing I wanted was to have to explain myself.
I'd returned to the elevator, was waiting for it to ascend from the lobby when the door to 717 swung open and a man came out carrying a scuffed brown leather briefcase. Locking the dead bolt, he made his way in my direction, swinging his keys.
Thirty-five to forty, five-ten, one sixty. Dark hair trimmed close to the sides, thinning on top, freckled bald spot at the crown. He wore a shapeless oatmeal herringbone sport coat with brown-leather elbow patches, an open-necked white button-down shirt with blue stripes, faded beige cords that would've suited Milo had they been five waist sizes larger, and brown loafers with toes worn to gray gristle. A wadded selection from the morning's Times was stuffed into a pocket of the jacket, weighing the garment down on one side and making him appear lopsided. Three black plastic pens were clipped to his handkerchief pocket. Tortoiseshell eyeglasses dangled from a chain around his neck.
He arrived at the lift just as the door opened, waited for me to step in, then followed and stood near the door. Placing the briefcase on the floor, he punched in P3 and said, “How about you?” in a pleasant voice. Straight nose, straight mouth, smallish ears, firm chin. Nothing out of proportion, but something— a blurring of contours— kept it just shy of handsome. The lapel of his sport coat was fuzzed where it met his shirt. Two white threads had come loose from his shirt collar.
I said, “Same, thanks.”
He turned, offering a view of his bald spot. I noticed a worn gold monogram above the clasp of the case. BJD. As we descended he began whistling, and his hands grew active— fingers drumming, tapping, stretching, curling. A shaving nick bottomed his right earlobe. Another cut flecked his jawline. He gave off the smell of soap and water.
He stopped whistling. Said, “Sorry.”
“No problem.”
“They used to play Muzak. Someone must've complained.”
“People tend to do that.”
“They do, indeed.”
No further exchange until we reached P3 and I hung back as he stepped out into the parking area. As he headed briskly toward a nearby aisle, I was watching from behind a concrete pillar.
* * *
His car was a white Volvo sedan, plain-wrap model, several years old. No alarm click, and he'd left the door unlocked. Tossing the briefcase across the seat, he slid in, started up, backed out blowing chalky smoke. I ran up the three flights to the lobby, was heading for the Seville when I saw him pull onto Wilshire, going west.
Toward the beach? Malibu?
He was ten blocks ahead of me, and it took several traffic violations for me to catch up. I stayed two car lengths behind in the neighboring lane and tried to watch him. He kept both hands on the wheel; his lips were moving and his head was bobbing. Either a hands-off cell phone or singing to himself. My guess was the latter: he looked utterly at peace.
He drove to Long's Drugstore in Santa Monica, stayed inside for ten minutes, emerged with a big bag of something, got back on Wilshire and drove to Broadway and Seventh, where he pulled up in front of a narrow, white-clapboard Victorian, once a three-story house, now THE PACIFIC FAITH APOSTOLIC CHURCH. One of the few old ones that had survived the Northridge quake.
The white boards were freshly painted, and a crisp picket fence boxed off the church's yard. Sandboxes and swings and slides and monkey bars. Three dozen munchkins, mostly brown-skinned and dark-haired, scooted and jumped and shouted and squatted in the sand. Three young women wearing braided hair and long, pale dresses watched from the sidelines. A rainbow-lettered banner across the fence announced FAITH PRESCHOOL, SPRING REGISTRATION STILL OPEN.
Dr. Benjamin Dugger parked at the curb, walked through the picket gate, and entered the church. If he was burdened with sin, the bounce in his stride didn't say so. He remained inside for fifteen minutes, emerged minus the bag from the drugstore.
Back to Wilshire. His next stop was a fish-and-chips place near Fourteenth Street, where he came out with another bag, smaller and grease-spotted. Lunch was enjoyed on a bench at Christine Reed Park, behind the tennis courts, where I watched from the Seville as he shoved french fries and something breaded into his mouth, drank from a can of Coke, and shared leftovers with the pigeons. A quarter of an hour later he was back on Wilshire, heading east this time, staying in one lane, sticking to the speed limit.
He entered Westwood Village, parked in a pay lot on Gayley, and entered a multiplex theater. Two comedies, a spy thriller, a historical romance. Showtimes said he'd chosen either one of the comedies or the romance.
What a sinister fellow.
I drove home.
* * *
At three, deciding I should stick to what I knew, I phoned the Abbot house. The robot voice answered and, feeling grateful when neither Jane's nor Mel's broke in, I hung up.
At 4:43, Milo called. “The pay phone's in a gas station. Nearby are a gym, an insurance agency, and a café. No one remembers Lauren. The owner of the station doesn't recall any frequent callers. It's a busy place, lots of traffic, for him to notice someone they would've had to set up office in the booth. I also dropped in on a bunch of motels and showed Lauren's picture around. Zero. I'm back at my desk, figured I'd check out snippy Professor de Maartens. Who, as it turns out, lives in Venice. Want to tag along?”
I debated whether to tell him I'd followed Benjamin Dugger. By now, the tail seemed ludicrous. No reason to share.
“Sure,” I said. “The charm of my company?”
“Just the opposite. You pissed him off once— maybe that can be harnessed.”
13
SIMON DE MAARTENS lived on Third Street, north of Rose. The beach was a short walk west. Crossing Rose brought you into gang territory.
The block was filled with tiny houses, some divided. Intermittent bright spots— fresh paint, brand-new skylights, flower beds, staked saplings— said gentrification had arrived. De Maartens's abode was a brown-stucco, side-by-side duplex with a gray lawn, curling tar-paper roof, and flaking woodwork. The blue VW van in its driveway was patched and primered. Its rear bumper sagged, and so did the independent wealth hypothesis.
“Doesn't look as if he's been seduced by externals,” said Milo. “Life of the mind and all that?”
“Could be.” I realized the same could be said of Benjamin Dugger: Newport and Brentwood offices but a frayed lapel.
Not exactly the high rollers I'd conjured when imagining Lauren spirited away to some Casbah.
He switched off the engine. “How about I do the talking, and work you in as needed?”
“Sounds good to me.”
We were
halfway to de Maartens's front door when loud barking came from the brown house and a big, yellow face parted the curtains of the front window. Some kind of retriever. Steady barking but no enmity— announcing our presence without passing judgment. The door began opening before we got there, and a young, red-haired woman smiled out at us.
She was tall and solidly built, wore a black T-shirt and green drawstring pants, held a paintbrush in one hand. Wet, blue bristles. Her hair was the color of fresh rust, cut in a pageboy that hung to midneck, the bangs perfectly straight above inquisitive hazel eyes. The pants were baggy but the shirt was tight, accentuating a soft, friendly bosom and generous shoulders. Nice coating of flesh everywhere except for her hands, which were slim and white, with tendril fingers. The smell of turpentine blew through the doorway, along with classical music— something with woodwinds. No sign of the yellow dog. The woman had stopped smiling.
“Police, ma'am,” said Milo, flashing the badge. “Are you Mrs. de Maartens?”
“Anika.” Pronouncing her name as if it were required for border crossing. “I thought you were UPS.” “Thought” came out “taut.” Her accent was thicker than her husband's, harder around the edges. Or maybe that was anxiety. Who likes the police on a sunny afternoon?
“Expecting a delivery?”
“I— I'm supposed to get art supplies. From back home. Was there a crime somewhere on the block?”
“No, everything's fine. Where's back home?”
“Holland . . . Why are you here?”
“Nothing to worry about, ma'am, we just wanted to talk to Professor de Maartens. Is he in?”
“You want to talk to Simon? About what?”
“A student of his.”
“A student?”
“It's better if we talk to the professor directly, Mrs. de Maartens. Is he in?”
“Yes, yes, I go get him, hold on.”
She left the door open and headed toward the music. A big butter-colored form materialized. Heavy jowls, small bright eyes, short coat, droopy ears. Retriever mix, a splash of mastiff somewhere in the bloodline.
The dog regarded us for a second, then followed Anika de Maartens. Returned moments later with a man in tow. Man and beast walking in synchrony, the master's hand resting lightly on the animal's neck.
“I'm Simon. What is it?”
De Maartens was six feet tall and heavyset, with a whiskey-colored crew cut and a ruddy, bulb-nosed, thick-lipped face, as close to spherical as I'd seen on a human. Despite his clothing— gray sweatshirt, blue cutoffs, rubber beach sandals— he looked like a Rembrandt burgher, and I half-expected him to whip out a clay pipe.
“Detective Sturgis,” said Milo, extending a hand.
De Maartens looked past it, kept coming toward us. “Yes?” The sound of his voice made the dog's ears perk.
Milo began repeating his name.
“I heard you,” said de Maartens. “I'm not deaf.” Smiling, as he and the dog stopped at the threshold. His head turned from side to side, and he stared blankly, settling on the space between Milo and me. That's when I saw his eyes: black crescents set in bluish sockets so deep they appeared to have been scooped out of his flesh. Immobile crescents, the merest sliver of black showing through dull black, no gleam of pupil.
A blind man.
The psychophysics of vision in primates. The Braille Institute Award.
He said, “This is about the girl— Lauren.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Some of my students I do know,” said de Maartens. “The ones who ask questions, visit during office hours. Voices that recur.” He touched his ear. The dog looked up at him adoringly. “Lauren Teague was not one of them. She got an A in the class— a very high A, so perhaps she did not need to ask questions. I can produce her exams when I return to my office next week. But right now, I am on vacation and I do not see why I need to be bothered. What can you hope to learn from two exams?”
“So there's nothing you can tell us about Ms. Teague?”
De Maartens's thick shoulders rose and fell. He canted his face toward me. Smiled. “Is that you, Dr. Delaware? Nice aftershave. After your second call when I grew cross, I called the department to see what records they have on her. Just her grade transcripts. All A's. I should not have grown cross, but I was in the middle of something and I did not see the point. I still do not.”
He scratched behind the dog's ears, aimed his eye sockets back at Milo. “Three times during the quarter, the class was divided into discussion groups of approximately twenty students each, supervised by teaching assistants. The groups were optional, nothing discussed was graded. It was an attempt by the department to be more personal.” Another smile. “I checked with my department chairman, and he said it would be permissible to give you the names of the students in Lauren Teague's group. Her T.A. was Malvina Zorn. You may call the psychology department and obtain Malvina's number. She has been instructed to give you the names of the students in the group. The chairman and I have signed authorizations. That should be all you need.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
“You are welcome.” De Maartens rocked back and forth, then stopped. “What exactly happened to Ms. Teague?”
“Someone shot her,” said Milo. “You can read it in the paper—” He flushed scarlet.
De Maartens laughed uproariously and ruffled the dog. “Perhaps Vincent here can read it to me. No, I am sure my wife will give me every detail. She devours everything she can about crime and misfortune because this city frightens her.”
* * *
When we were back in the car I said, “So much for that.”
Milo said, “I don't see Lauren's academic life as the thing here, anyway. It's the people she didn't talk about that I'm interested in. I'll phone the psych department, though, get those students’ names.”
He made the call, copied down a list of nine students that I inspected as we drove away. Three males, six females.
“Everyone out for the quarter,” he mumbled, as we drove away. “Fun.”
“I'm your partner in futility.” I told him about following Benjamin Dugger. He was kind enough not to laugh.
“Old Volvo and delivering goodies to kids at the church, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Throw in the pro bono thing at the shelter in Chicago and he's Mother Teresa in tweed. You're right, guys like him aren't what got Lauren into trouble. She lived in a whole other world.”
“Speaking of which,” he said. “I thought I'd drop in on Gretchen Stengel.”
“She's out of prison?”
“Paroled half a year ago. Found herself a new line of work.”
“What's that?”
“Similar to her old gig, but legal. Dressing the insecure.”
* * *
The boutique was on Robertson just south of Beverly, five doors north of a restaurant-of-the-moment where valets shuffled Ferraris and alfresco diners laughed too loudly as they sucked bottled water and smog.
Déjà ViewCouture with a Past
Eight-foot-wide storefront, the window draped in black jersey and occupied by a single, bald, faceless, chromium mannequin in a billowing scarlet gown. A bell push was required for entry, but Milo's bulk didn't stop whoever was in charge from buzzing us in.
Inside, the shop's mirrored walls and black granite floor vibrated to David Bowie's “Young Americans,” the bass tuned to migraine level. Nailed into the mirror were raw iron bolts from which garments dangled on chrome hangers. Velvet, crepe, leather, silk; wide color range, nothing above a size 8. A pair of orange deco revival chairs designed by a sadist filled a tight oblong of center space. Copies of Vogue, Talk, and Buzz fanned across a trapezoid of glass posing as a table. No counter, no register. Seams in the rear wall were probably the dressing rooms. To the right was a door marked PRIVATE. The fermented-corn sweetness of good marijuana tinctured the air.
A dangerously thin girl in her twenties wearing a baby blue bodysuit and a rosewood-tinted Peter Pan do stood behin
d one of the orange chairs, hips thrust forward, eyes guarded. White stiletto-heeled sandals put her at eye level with Milo. Pink eyes and dilated pupils. No ashtray or roach, so maybe she'd swallowed. The bodysuit was sheer, and the undertones of her flesh beneath the fabric turned the blue pearly. She seemed to have too many ribs, and I found myself counting.
“Yes?” Husky voice, almost mannish.
“I need something in a size four,” said Milo.
“For . . . ?”
“My thumb.” He stepped closer. The girl recoiled and crossed her arms over her chest. The music kept pounding, and I looked for the speakers, finally spotted them: small white discs tucked into the corners.
Flesh and Blood Page 15
