Compulsion

CHAPTER 9

Milo had asked the condo valet to keep the unmarked close. When we got to the front of the building it was gone and the valet was poking a BlackBerry.

A high-decibel throat clear made the man look up.

“The Crown Victoria?”

“Had to move it, too crowded.”

No other cars in sight.

Milo said, “Could you get it?” Adding a “Please” that made the valet flinch.

The guy ambled off toward the subterranean parking lot.

Milo said, “The Shonsky girl’s been missing over a week, Mommie Dearest sees it as playing hooky, wants me to be her personal truant officer.”

“Or she’s in deep denial.”

“She says she’s nervous but all I heard was anger.”

“Anger can mask anxiety,” I said.

He looked at his Timex. “Where’d the hell he park it, Chula Vista… First Tony and his mom and Hochswelder, now this harmonious bunch. Any happy families left?”

“With our jobs we’re not going to meet them.”

“So what do you think of our missing girl? With her history of cutting town on impulse, how far do I take it?”

“O-positive,” I said. “Same as in the Bentley.”

“Didn’t you hear Mom? It’s the most popular type. Like it’s a contest. Growing up with someone like that, I can see needing to escape.”

“That kind of rivalry could also make Katrina vulnerable.”

“To what?”

“Bling. Mom marries rich but Katrina works a low-paying job. If she left the club woozy and feeling abandoned by her pals, two hundred grand worth of car rolling up would’ve seemed heaven-sent. Talk about something to one-up Mommy.”

“If she was picked up, I don’t see it happening at the Light My Fire. I was there last year, chasing a dead lead on a drug murder. The male clientele’s acrylic shirts, too much hair gel, and dance moves worse than mine. Someone drives up in Heubel’s Bentley, the bouncers and everyone else would’ve noticed, and by the time the guy hit the floor, fifty women woulda been all over him.”

He phoned the club, asked to speak to the manager, looked at his watch again, scowled. The line clicked in. A brief conversation followed.

“Guy laughed, said what do you think this is, the Playboy Mansion? He also said nothing unusual happened at the club that night, he already said so to the ‘nosy mother.’”

“If Katrina was upset about being ditched by her friends, she could’ve hit another club, tried to redeem the night. Or she drove home drunk, had some sort of mechanical problem. We just heard she’s impulsive. And she’d stopped making payments on the Mustang. Both of which raise the chance of poor maintenance. For all we know, she simply ran out of gas, got stranded somewhere.”

“Drunk girl, alone late at night, Mr. Moneybags cruises by and says hop in. Or she’s in Hawaii.”

“She guarded her privacy with her mother,” I said, “but her friend worried enough to call Mom.”

“Breaking down on the 405, even late, someone would’ve seen her.”

“With several drinks in her, she could’ve been intimidated by the freeway, chose an alternate route.”

“Or she got totally lost and headed south, Alex. Which could’ve put her in some seriously nasty territory.”

“Why not start with the simplest assumption? When I’m heading north and want to avoid the freeway, I take the Sepulveda Pass. Late at night, once you get north of Sunset, it’s a fast ride, pretty much empty. But that also means breaking down in an isolated area.”

Engine noise sounded from the mouth of the sub-lot. The same valet rolled up in a baby-blue Jaguar sedan, got out and stood by the driver’s door.

Milo walked over to him. “If you insist.”

The valet said, “Huh?”

“I’ll take it in trade if you throw in the extended warranty.”

The valet gaped. Milo got an inch from his face. “Where’s the Crown Vic, friend?”

“I got a call from a resident.”

Milo took out his cell phone. “Want me to call you, too? What’s your number, pal. And while you’re at it, show me some I.D. for an official police investigation.”

The valet didn’t answer.

Milo flashed his shield. “Get it now.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lazarus are coming out in a-”

“I’ll help ’em. Go.”

The valet hazarded eye contact. Whatever he saw made him scurry off.

Milo eyed the Jaguar. “Budget wheels, pshaw. If Katrina did break down and got picked up, think Mr. Bentley Thief was stalking her?”

“Or cruising for a victim and she fit his appetite.”

“Sexual psychopath,” he said. “What’s the link with Ella Mancusi?”

I said, “Thrill of the hunt.”

“Guess so. Normally, I’d kiss Katrina off as not worth my time. But with two big black cars boosted and blood in the damn Bentley…” He shook his head. “Let’s try to find the Mustang.”

An elderly couple exited the condo, saw him standing next to the Jag. Stopped.

He grinned. “Evening, Mr. and Mrs. Lazarus.” Opening both doors with a flourish, he said, “Have a great time.”

The couple approached the car nervously. Got in, sped off.

Seconds later, the valet roared up in the unmarked and screeched to a stop. Milo took his hand, opened it, and slapped a five in his palm.

“Not necessary,” said the valet.

“Nor deserved. Have a nice life.”

We drove the Sepulveda Pass north all the way to the Valley’s southern border just shy of Ventura Boulevard, continued a few miles beyond. North of Wilshire was the low, flat stretch of veterans’ cemetery, then small businesses and apartments. After that, rolling hillside topped by lights. Traffic was thin. No sign of Katrina Shonsky’s car.

As we returned to the city, Milo said, “Oh, well. If I liked the simple life, I’d be a farmer.”

“There’s always south,” I said.

“A hundred and fifty miles’ worth to Mexico.”

I looked up at the foothills to the east. “Plenty of side streets to explore.”

“What a fun guy,” he growled, turning right and cruising several dark, winding roads.

An hour later: “I’ll have patrol follow up tomorrow, try to get hold of Katrina’s girlfriends. For all we know, they’ll tell us a whole different story. Like she’s with some bum Mommy wouldn’t approve of. And don’t bring up O-positive anymore. I’m not feeling popular.”

Light butterscotched the windows of Robin’s studio out back. I walked past the pond, stopped to check out the baby koi. The antique iron pagoda lights reached down to the floor, giving an easy view of the fish. Three, four inches long, now. Bobbing merrily in the current set off by the waterfall.

I’d first spotted them as larva-sized hatchlings. A dozen little scraps of fishy filament, swimming fearlessly among two-foot-long adults. Koi will eat their own eggs but once the young are born, they’ll never inflict harm. Unlike other fish, they don’t harass sick or dying cohorts. Maybe that’s why they can live over a century.

I continued to the studio, rapped the window. Robin looked up from her bench and smiled. Placed a white rectangle of Alpine spruce to her ear and tapped. Searching for the tones that told her the wood might be suitable as a soundboard. From the size of the plank, a mandolin board.

Her expression as she placed it to the side said no such luck. By the time I entered, she had another piece in hand. Blanche nestled in her lap, serene as ever.

Robin said, “Hi.” Blanche let out a wheezy bulldog welcome.

When Robin kissed me, Blanche turned her head sideways in that bulldog way and nuzzled my hand.

I said, “A blonde and a redhead.”

“Aren’t you the lucky one.”

I eyed the discarded spruce. “No music in there?”

“Even though he’d never know the difference.” She eyed a FedEx box in the corner. “Learn anything about that poor old woman?”

“The working assumption is the son had something to do with it but there’s nothing even close to proof.”

“A son doing that to his mother,” she said. “Beyond belief.”

She eyed the box in the corner again.

I said, “New tools?”

“Collection of DVDs. From Dot-com. Ten Audrey Hepburn movies and a note that said I remind him of her.”

Hepburn had been five seven and built like a human clothes hanger. Robin’s five three on a good day, curvy everywhere you look.

“You’re both gorgeous.”

She flexed her fingers, the way she does when she’s edgy.

“Has he ever been inappropriate?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

“When I met him at the luthiery show he was a little touchy, but nothing you could say was out of line.”

“Well, then,” I said. “Audrey Hepburn made some good flicks.”

“I’m overreacting, huh?”

“He could be working on a few fantasies. Happens all the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Men are always looking at you. You’ve got the X factor – pheromones, whatever.”

“Oh, sure.”

“It’s true. You never notice because you’re not a flirt.”

“Because I’m a space cadet?”

“Sometimes that, too.”

“Alex,” she said, “I’ve never come close to dropping a hint that this was anything other than business.”

“It needn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Great.”

“Hey,” I said, “what’s the worst that can happen? He makes a move and you gently deter him. Meanwhile you can e-mail him a friendly but formal thank-you note for the movies and tell him you and I are going to enjoy watching them.”

She stroked Blanche. “You’re right, I’m being silly. As they used to say in seventh grade, conceited.” She touched a hoop earring. Tossed her hair. Much better from her than from Tony Mancusi.

I played with the top button of her shirt.

She said, “Factor X, huh? Does that make you Mr. Y?”

We picked out two movies and watched from bed. Roman Holiday had held up beautifully over half a century. Breakfast at Tiffany’s hadn’t and when The End finally arrived, we were half asleep.

Cutting the lights, we touched fingertips. I murmured something I’m pretty sure was affectionate.

Robin said, “Audrey Hepburn was beautiful but I’m nothing like her,” and was out.

At ten the next morning, I picked Milo up at the station and drove to Barneys in Beverly Hills.

The ground floor was skinny girls hawking cosmetics. A blonde specializing in nail polish pointed out Rianna Ijanovic.

Tall, narrow brunette, one station down.

She smiled at us through a fragrant cloud. An array of sample atomizers adorned the counter. Shoppers and shopgirls chattered. Everyone chasing the next big thing in self-improvement. Milo identified himself and Rianna responded with the blank, frightened look of a toddler thrown off course.

She was thirty or so, pale and square-shouldered with hard, black eyes, optimistic breasts, and a face rescued from beauty by an off-kilter nose and a too-sharp chin.

“Police? I don’t understand.”

Milo said, “We’re here about Katrina Shonsky.”

“Oh, oh.” It came out aw, aw. Faint accent, barely audible over the magpie chorus.

“Could we talk somewhere quiet?”

Rianna Ijanovic tapped another perfume sprayer on the shoulder. “Cawver for me, okay?”

We left the department store through the front door on Wilshire, walked around the corner to Camden Drive, passed the entrance to the parking lot.

Milo said, “Ijanovic. Czech?”

“Croatian. I’m legal.”

“Even if you weren’t, it wouldn’t matter. We’re here about Katrina, that’s all.”

“I only know Katrina through another girl.”

“Beth Holloway?”

“Yes.”

“We tried Beth first, but she’s not working today and we don’t have a home number.”

“You wouldn’t find her at home,” said Rianna Ijanovic.

“Where is she?”

“Torrance. She met a man.” Sticking out her tongue.

“You don’t approve?” said Milo.

“I have an opinion, she has an opinion.”

“Are we talking about the same guy she met the night you two went clubbing with Katrina?”

“Yes.”

Milo said, “I heard you met a guy, too.”

Rianna Ijanovic’s black eyes narrowed. “Who told you?”

“Katrina’s mother. Beth told her.”

“Beth talk talk talk.” Folding a hand into a silhouette duck, she flapped her thumb against her index finger.

Milo said, “If Katrina’s hiding something from her mother, we couldn’t care less. Knowing right at the outset would save a lot of hassle.”

“I don’t know about secrets.”

“What’d you just mean about Beth talking too much?”

“I am private person,” said Rianna. “Beth is very American – no offense. Share everything.”

“Any reason Beth shouldn’t have been open with Katrina’s mother?”

“Maybe,” she said, gazing past us.

“What’s that?”

“Katrina hates her mother.”

“Katrina said that?”

“Many times.”

“Rianna, do you have any idea where Katrina is?”

“Uh-uh, sorry, no.”

“And the last time you saw her was…”

“That night.”

“At the Light My Fire.”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about that night.”

“We went to the club, I was the driver, not to drink. Beth met Sean. Sean’s brother is Matt. Beth wanted to be with Sean so I had to be with Matt.”

“Had to.”

“She’s a friend.”

“Where are Sean and Matt from?”

“Torrance,” she said. “They are brothers. Say they own surfboard business. What they own is nothing. Sean make surfboards in a factory. Matt want to be an actor.” She hooked a thumb at the department store. “Everybody here gonna be movie star or model.”

“You, too?”

“No, no, no. I want to work.”

“What’d you do in Croatia?”

“Architecture student.”

“So you and Beth left with Sean and Matt. And went…”

“To Torrance.” Another tongue-stick. “I call cab to go home, cost so much money.”

“What time was this?”

“Four in the morning.”

“And Beth?”

“She stay there,” said Rianna. “She mostly there now.”

“With Sean.”

“Yes.”

“True love,” said Milo.

“American love.”

“How did Katrina feel about the change in plans?”

“She didn’t yell.”

“But not happy.”

“I was unhappy, too. She was more unhappy.”

“How did she express being unhappy?”

“Pardon?”

“What did she say, Rianna?”

“Nothing. She turn her back, walk away.”

“Where’d she walk?”

“Into the action.”

“The dance floor.”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice her dancing with someone in particular?”

“I didn’t see.”

“At any time that night did she concentrate on one guy?”

“I didn’t see, no.”

“No one, the whole night?”

“Lots of people,” said Rianna. “I was busy.”

“With Matt.”

“With Matt here and here and here and here.” Grimacing and slapping her neck, shoulder, breast, rear.

Milo said, “Pesky guy, Matt.”

“Pesty, yes. Mr. Surfer-dude.” Meester sorfer-doood.

“What time did you and Beth tell Katrina you were going with Sean and Matt?”

“Honest answer? I don’t know.”

“Take a guess.”

“Maybe one thirty, two. They want to get out of there.”

“Beth and Sean.”

“American love,” she said.

“What can you tell us about Katrina – the kind of person she is.”

“Kat, we call her Kat. After the big damage, never Katrina.”

“She doesn’t like being associated with a hurricane.”

“All the damage?” said Rianna Ijanovic. “It’s like being… a bad, wild-animal name.”

“Katrina’s not a wild girl.”

“An animal? No.”

“Is she wild in another way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does she like to party?”

“Very much.”

“What else does she like?”

“Clothes.”

“Sounds like she found the perfect job.”

“Pardon?”

“ La Femme Boutique.”

“Too expensive,” said Rianna. “Even with employee discount. She make fun of the fat ladies in the big sizes.”

“Katrina doesn’t like the customers.”

“Old, fat, rich,” she singsonged. “Maybe remind her of Mother?”

“You ever meet her mother?”

“Never.”

“She’s skinny.”

“Okay.”

“Does Katrina have a thing about money?”

Confusion in the black eyes.

Milo said, “Is money really important to her?”

“Not to you?” said Rianna.

“I mean especially important. More than most people. Like, would she be impressed by a man with money?”

Rianna’s smiled spread slowly. “She should be impressed with losers?”

“Did she ever date anyone rich?”

“All the time I know her she never date anyone.”

“How long is that?”

“Two, three months.”

“How come no social life?”

“She says she never meet the right guys.”

“What about cars?”

“What about?”

“Did she have a special interest in cars?”

“Special… no. In the beginning she like her Mustang. Paid for by the rich stepdaddy.”

“She have something to say about him?”

Head shake. “Rich.”

“Why’d she stop liking the Mustang?”

Shrug. “Maybe she tired of it.”

“Katrina bores easily?”

“She move around – from thing to thing. Like a butterfly. ADD, you know? She say she have ADD in school. Lots of ADD in America, no? Lady customers talk to me about kids jumping like kangaroos. Everyone seeing psychiatrist.”

“Does Kat have a psychiatrist?”

“Don’t know – you ask these questions because her mother hire you to find her?”

“We work for the city, Rianna.”

“The city wants to find Kat?”

“If she’s been hurt.”

“I think not.”

“Why not?”

“ADD. Always like this.” Black irises zipped from side to side, bobbed up and down. “Jumping.”

“Restless,” said Milo.

“Not happy,” said Rianna Ijanovic. “Sometimes when she drinks, she talks about moving somewhere.”

“She drink a lot?”

“She like to drink.”

“Where does she talk about moving?”

“She never say, just somewhere. Not a happy girl. I don’t like being with her all the time. She… sometimes you can catch unhappy – like a cold, yes? She is Beth’s friend, I hang out.”

“Could we have Beth’s cell phone number, please?”

Rianna recited the digits. “Can I go back to work? I need this job.”

“Sure,” said Milo. “Thanks for your time. Here’s my card. If you hear from Kat, please let me know.”

“Yes. But I will not hear.”

“Why not?”

“If she call anyone, she call Beth.”

We walked her back to the front of the store. Before we reached the door, Milo said, “Did Kat ever talk about someone who owned really expensive cars – like a Ferrari, a Rolls-Royce – a Bentley.”

“She talk about a Bentley, but not a rich guy.”

“Who?”

“Some guy she used to date. Big loser, dirty hands.”

“A mechanic.”

“Greased-monkey she call him.” Rianna Ijanovic laughed.

“What’s funny?” said Milo.

“Greasy little monkey.” Her hands climbed the air in front of her. “It sound funny.”

“What’s this grease-monkey’s name?”

“Maybe… Clyde? I don’t know for sure.”

“Clyde what?”

“Clyde Greased-monkey.” Laughing louder, she swung the door open and hurried back to the world of cover-up.

I drove out of the Barneys lot and Milo worked the phone. “Clyde the Bentley boy, shouldn’t be a feat of detection.”

He started with the main dealership on the Westside. O’Malley Premium Motors was on the east end of Beverly Hills but the service facility was on Pico, in Santa Monica.

Minutes from the Light My Fire.

Milo called, asked for Clyde, said, “Yeah, that’s him – is he in? Thanks. No, not necessary.”

Click.

“Not Clyde, Clive. Probably a chips and ale and darts kinda guy. And tinkering with high-priced British metal as we speak.”