Flesh and Blood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Must be your boyish charm,” muttered LeMoyne.

  Salander's hand balled. “Once upon a time you thought so! Stop picking at me!”

  LeMoyne brought the script closer to his eyeglasses.

  Salander said, “You're a grump, but I still love you, Justin.”

  LeMoyne whispered something.

  “What?” said Andy.

  “Love you, too.”

  Salander smiled. “Thank you.”

  Low grumble. “Welcome.”

  Milo said, “So the source of Lauren's money puzzled you. Did she ever talk about any other jobs she'd held? Before the research thing?”

  “Modeling,” said Salander. “She said she'd modeled— I told you that, didn't I?”

  “Anything besides modeling?”

  Salander stared down at the bedspread. “No. Like what?”

  “The girl was a hooker,” said LeMoyne. “I keep telling you that.”

  “You don't know that, Justin!”

  “Oh, Jesus, Andrew, I met her. She had hooker written all over her.”

  Milo said, “How many times did you meet her, Mr. LeMoyne?”

  “Two or three times— in passing. But that was enough to know what she was. She was high-priced— no doubt about that. But she had the moves— the look, the walk, the whole phony-class thing going on. For all I know, she was trained by Gretchen Stengel.”

  “You know Gretchen Stengel?”

  “I know of her,” said LeMoyne. “Everyone in the industry does. We've never lunched, but I've certainly seen her around. And run into many of her little vixens. Back when Gretchen was plying her trade, you couldn't go anywhere that was anywhere without tripping over them.”

  “Easy to spot,” said Milo.

  LeMoyne rolled his eyes. “Even for you, Sherlock. Gretchen went for a type— cool but remotely friendly, the ready rap, the body, the clothes. The clothes were always the tip-off. A girl who shouldn't have been able to afford five grand worth of couture but wore it well.”

  LeMoyne smiled and closed the script. “Not that it helped. If you knew the difference between real class and bullshit. Every one of those girls had a certain . . . commonness. Trailer-park trying to morph into Grace Kelly.”

  He crossed his legs. “Beleeeve me, Detective, that takes more than aerobics and a crash course on what fork to use. Still, you can fool most of the people . . .” To Salander: “She was a hooker, Andy.”

  Salander gazed up at Milo.

  Milo said, “She did have that in her past, Andy.”

  “Oh . . .” Another labored sigh. “I'm très naïve, aren't I? I guess it was right there in front of me, but I just didn't want to know— Not that it would've mattered. I don't judge, why should I judge? And I swear the whole time we lived together she never did anything illegal or brought anyone home— I guess when she took those long weekends she was . . . She told me . . . I can't be blamed for believing her. Okay, fine, I'm naïve and stupid.” Staring at LeMoyne.

  LeMoyne shook his head and reopened the script.

  Milo said, “What did she tell you about the long weekends, Andy?”

  Salander squirmed. “I didn't say anything when you first came around because I wasn't sure— And it looks like now maybe it didn't have anything to do with it. Now that you're telling me she was . . . The thing is, I didn't want to make things complicated—”

  LeMoyne's laughter cut him off. “You're babbling, Andrew. They have no clue what the hell you're talking about.”

  Milo edged closer to Salander.

  “What, Andy?”

  “Her family,” said Salander. “Her real family. She said she was going out to Malibu to reconnect with them. Since she'd learned who her real father was. Tony Duke. I guess she was . . . fantasizing, right? It's the world's greatest fantasy, right? Live your life one way and then find out all of a sudden that you're on a whole different level.”

  Milo sat down on the bed.

  So did I.

  * * *

  Milo's notepad was out. His tie was loose. “When and how did she learn about this, Andrew?”

  “When was last year,” said Salander. “Maybe a year ago— just before we started rooming together. How is her mother told her. The two of them had started relating again. They hadn't talked for a long time, and then Jane started making overtures and they began trying to patch things up. Slowly— having lunch once in a while. It was at one of those lunches that Jane told her. They'd finished off a bottle of wine, gotten all girlie-chatty, and Jane just spilled it out. She said she'd met Duke while working as a flight attendant on a jet Duke had chartered— taking some models and a bunch of other people to the big island of Hawaii for a big photo spread and partying. Jane ended up serving Duke personally, and he invited her to spend the layover at some mansion he was renting. And . . . it happened. Jane and Lo's dad— the one she thought was her dad, the asshole— were going together but hadn't decided to get married. When Jane found out she was pregnant, she convinced him to marry her.”

  “Talk about your false pretenses,” said Justin LeMoyne. “It really does have story elements.”

  “The funny thing,” said Salander, “finding out about Duke caused things to make sense for Lauren. Like why she couldn't stand her father— the one who raised her. She said she'd never related to her father, she'd always felt like a stranger to him— like there'd been this wall between them. Now she understood it.”

  “Jane never told him about Lauren's true paternity,” I said.

  “Lauren said no way, his temper was too bad for that. The marriage broke up anyway, but Jane told Lauren the whole time she was pregnant, she was paranoid he would find out, do something violent. Luckily, Lauren resembled Jane.”

  “Paranoid, but she kept the baby,” I said.

  “She told Lauren she'd always wanted a baby.”

  Tish Teague's outburst came back to me. Recounting Lauren's cruel parting comment: “You don't deserve a damn thing from me— you're not even my family and neither is he and neither are your rugrats.”

  No blood connection between Lauren and Lyle's little girls, yet Lauren had sought them out, brought them Christmas presents, only to withdraw. Ambivalent. How lonely she must've been. . . .

  “So Jane told Lauren about a year ago,” said Milo. “When did Lauren tell you?”

  “Soon after I moved in— maybe a couple of months later. At first, after we started rooming together, she was real up— happy all the time. Probably 'cause she'd just found out. But then her mood changed— she slid way down. Being a natural listener, I kept trying to help her open up. . . . When she did, it was after I'd cooked this big Italian dinner and we'd finished a whole bottle of Chianti— cheap wine's the great conversation starter, right?”

  Milo shifted his bulk. “What was her mood when she told you?”

  “At first she was kind of giddy about it— like isn't that cool, my real dad's a zillionaire. But then she got real quiet. I thought maybe because she felt she'd missed out on stuff— all those years she could've been a princess. I said something to that effect, but she said, no, that wasn't it at all. She wouldn't trade her life with anyone's, but the whole thing had just thrown her off balance. And— this was the main thing— after Jane told her, she got all freaked out and started pressuring Lo to forget about it, not to try to get in touch with Duke. Lauren thought that was cruel and manipulative, and she was right, don't you think? You can't just go and dump something on someone then try to hold them back. Lo was furious at Jane.”

  I said, “That's when she complained about Jane wanting to control her.”

  “Yes, exactly. She said Jane was a coward and a liar and totally full of shit to think she— Lauren— would just sit there and let someone else make up the rules. She was also mad that Jane had tried to bribe her to keep quiet— said it was sleazy.”

  “Bribe her how?”

  “After Jane got divorced, she was real poor for a while. So she wrote to Tony Duke and he started sending her money.
For her and for Lauren. Even though Lauren wasn't in the picture— she and Jane had lost contact for years. Jane claimed she spent only her part, put Lauren's share aside. When she and Lo connected, she started giving Lo a regular allowance, but she never told Lo where it really came from.”

  Milo and I exchanged glances. Both of us remembering the deposits in Lauren's portfolio. A hundred thousand payment four years ago, then fifty a year since.

  “Big money?” said Milo.

  “Lauren didn't specify, but it must've been, right?” said Salander. “All those zeros. And the way she dressed. But the point was, Jane wasn't up front about it. Lied to Lauren about where Lauren's allowance was coming from.”

  “What did she tell her?”

  “That her second husband was giving it to her— to Jane— and that Jane was sharing with Lauren, out of the goodness of her heart.”

  “Lauren believed that?”

  “He's a rich TV producer, Mr. Abbot. Real generous with Jane. Jane was living like a rich woman now. But then, when Jane was trying to pressure Lauren not to blow the lid off the Duke thing, she told Lauren where the money had really come from, tried to make herself a saint— like ‘I put myself on a limb for you, all those years you never talked to me, I still put your money aside.’ And then she offered to give Lauren even more money if she'd stay away from Tony Duke.”

  “Why was she worried about that?”

  “She told Lauren it would create a big mess, there was nothing to gain from it. Lauren suspected what she was really worried about was ticking off Tony Duke and jeopardizing her own allowance. Protecting her butt. In Lo's mind, Jane was just trying to buy her off, and she was tired of being bought.”

  Salander turned silent. “I guess I know, now, what she meant.”

  “Ding,” said LeMoyne, miming a bell ring.

  Milo said, “So Jane wrote a letter to Duke, and he just started sending her money.”

  “Jane wouldn't give Lo the details— that was part of the frustration. Jane got drunk and spilled out the whole story, then she just curled up and wouldn't tell Lauren any more.”

  “Can you blame her?” said LeMoyne. “The girl was a hooker. The mother had a golden goose farting into her hand and knew that if Duke found out he had a hooker kid, that would screw the deal. He's Mr. Wholesome Tits and Ass, a daughter who earned her living on her knees would be bad PR.” Smiling at Milo: “Right?”

  “Good story line.”

  “It's my job.” Chuckling, LeMoyne returned to the script.

  “So Jane tried to hold Lauren back,” I said. “But Lauren wouldn't be held back. Made contact with the Dukes and went to see them in Malibu.”

  Salander said, “She never gave me the details, but she did say thank God for her computer— she used it to research the Dukes, didn't need her mother or anyone else 'cause she had technology on her side. She even showed it to me— had this cute little family tree thingie in there— this actual little tree full of apples with people's names on them.”

  Milo said, “Did you notice any of the names?”

  “No, she didn't let me get that close— just wanted me to see the tree, and then brought it back into her room. Like she was proud of it. She said it was a genealogy program; she'd bought it and downloaded it herself.” Salander flinched. “And then when you called and asked about the computer and I realized it was gone . . . That's when I started to worry.”

  “That maybe someone wanted to get hold of the family data.”

  “That and the fact someone had gotten into our place. Then, when I heard about Jane.” Salander bit his lip. “I started thinking: Maybe Lauren had misjudged her mother. Maybe Jane didn't want Lauren to get too close not because she was worried about getting cut off but because it was dangerous. What if Jane really cared and Lauren was never able to see that?”

  Milo stood, paced the space between the bed and the window. “Did Lauren indicate that she'd ever actually made contact with Tony Duke?”

  “No,” said Salander. “All I know about is that tree thingie. But he does live in Malibu, right? That humongous place, with all the parties.”

  “What else did she tell you that could help me, Andy?”

  “That's it, I promise. After that one time she spilled her guts, she pulled back— just like Jane did with her. Mostly she stayed in her room, in front of that computer.”

  “Did she ever talk about other family members? Besides Tony Duke?”

  Salander shook his head.

  “What about girls she'd worked with?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Michelle Salazar?”

  “No.”

  “Shawna Yeager?”

  “Uh-uh. She never talked about the past. And like I told you the first time, she didn't have any friends. A real loner.”

  “A girl and her computer,” said Milo.

  Salander said, “So sad.” Then: “Now what?”

  “Have you told anyone besides Mr. LeMoyne about any of this?”

  “No.” A glance at LeMoyne. “And all Justin wanted was to write up a treatment and register it—” He stopped. “That could be dangerous, huh? If someone at the Guild saw it and—”

  “Oh, please,” said LeMoyne. “No one in the Industry reads.”

  “Still,” said Milo.

  “Fine, fine,” snapped LeMoyne. “Fine.”

  Milo turned to Salander. “Andy, I'll be needing you to repeat everything you've told me for a formal statement.”

  Salander blanched. “Why?”

  “It's the rules. We'll do it in a couple of days. Either down at the station or somewhere more private, if you're straight with me about sticking around. This time.”

  “More private,” said Salander. “Definitely more private. Do you think we can move back to Justin's place? I mean, if Lauren and Jane died because Lauren was Tony Duke's daughter and I know about it—”

  “That's the point, son,” said Milo. “No one knows you know. If you're discreet, I don't see any imminent danger. If you're not, I can't promise you anything.”

  Salander laughed hollowly.

  “Something funny, Andy?”

  “I was just thinking. About those times you came into The Cloisters and I served you. It's really a great job, tending bar. You have the power to make people happy— their moods just kind of fall into your hands. Not just the booze, it's everything— the listening. I knew you were a cop, someone told me. At first it bothered me. What an ugly world you must live in— I hoped you wouldn't start talking, didn't want to soak up all those negative vibes. But you never did. You just sat there and drank— you and that handsome doctor. Neither of you talked, you just drank in silence, then left. I started feeling sorry for you— no offense. Soaking up those vibes yourself. But I also felt good about helping you— not that you had a problem, but you know what I mean. I was in charge, got those beers and shots delivered right on the money and everyone was happy. And now . . .”

  Another laugh. “I'll be discreet, all right,” said Salander. “I'm the soul of discretion.”

  * * *

  Outside, I said, “No imminent danger?”

  “Not if he keeps his mouth shut.”

  “No grounds for protective custody?”

  “That's TV crap— LeMoyne's world. So was my line about Salander being a material witness. The truth is, he and old Justin are free to fly off to Antigua any damn time they please.” He looked back at the Palm Court, cracked his knuckles. “I always knew it was about money, but Tony Duke's daughter . . . Talk about high-stakes blackmail.”

  I watched the traffic on Washington Boulevard, thinking about things Lauren had told me— that her parents hadn't been married when she'd been conceived. That they'd “brought me up with lies.” The wall of ice between her and Lyle. The remark to Michelle about her mother “screwing up.”

  How early had she sensed something wrong? What had the truth done to her?

  Jane had called me in a panic after Lauren had disappeared. Knowing
what Lauren was up to, suspecting the five-day absence was more than just another extended weekend. Trying to motivate the police but holding back facts that might've helped. Even after Lauren's death Milo had felt Jane had been less than helpful. I thought back to any hints she might have dropped, came up with only one: “Lauren's never gotten anything from her father, and maybe that was my fault.”