Compulsion

CHAPTER 18

Milo ran backgrounds on Rory Cline and Michael Browning.

Cline was easy – one motorist with that name in L.A. County. Studio City apartment, no criminal record, wants, or warrants, eleven-year-old Audi.

Sixteen Michael Brownings. Narrowing the search to the three who lived in the Valley and cross-checking business listings turned up one accountant: Michael J. Browning, office on Lankershim, near Universal Studios.

One-year-old Saab, another clean record.

“A mailroom flunky and a number cruncher,” said Milo. “No reason for either of them to have car-boosting skills, but let’s talk to them anyway.”

Creative Representation and Promotion occupied a travertine-and-green-glass fortress near the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica. Inside was more of the same beige stone. A mural of stiff people watching a movie dominated the three-story, skylit lobby. A milky sky-light aimed for an indoor-outdoor effect but missed. Mussolini loved travertine but got strung up before he could remodel Rome.

A pair of male receptionists in gunmetal silk shirts hid themselves behind a high counter and whispered into tiny phones suspended from their ears. A beefy black man in a bad suit stood to their side.

Milo strode up to one of the gray-shirts and held out his badge. The security man smiled and remained in place. The receptionist kept talking. From the sound of it a personal chat.

Milo waited, slapped a hand on the counter. The security guy smiled wider as the receptionist jumped.

“Hold on.” Sudden smile, as sincere as silicon. “Are you here for a meeting?”

“We’re here to see Rory Cline.”

“Who might that be?”

“He works in the mailroom.”

“The mailroom doesn’t take calls.”

“It’s taking this one.”

“Uh-uh-uh. Working hours are-”

“Irrelevant. Call him.”

Grayshirt shrank back. Glanced at the security guard. Saw a broad back.

“Look, I don’t even know how to get anyone there.”

Milo said, “Time to learn.”

It took several calls delivered in a perplexed whisper, and frantic repetition of the word “police” before Grayshirt said, “He’s on his way, you can wait over there.”

We hung by the brown chairs. Five minutes later an elevator slid open and a narrow, round-shouldered, dark-haired man strode toward us.

Rory Cline looked every minute of forty and then some, with hollow cheeks and eyes to match. His spiky do fit him like lipstick fits a goldfish. His white shirt was wrinkled and limp as a used Kleenex. A skinny black tie dangled below the cinched belt line of gray pipe-stem trousers.

He pointed to the front doors, hurried past us, left the building.

We found him half a block down on Linden Drive, hands jammed in his pockets, pacing.

“Mr. Cline?”

“What are you doing to me? Now everyone’ll think I’m a felon!”

Milo said, “In your business, maybe that could be career-enhancing.”

Cline’s eyes bugged. “Funny funny funny. I can’t believe she sent you here. I already gave you guys my version and they believed me that her story was total bullshit. Now you’re back? Why, because she’s got beaucoup bucks, that’s the way you guys do it, like that Eddie Murphy movie? What, I’m living a fucking Beverly Hills comedy?”

Herky-jerk movements, rat-a-tat speech, constricted pupils.

“She,” said Milo.

“Her, she, whatever,” said Rory Cline. “Let me cue you in: The only reason she’s pursuing this is she probably heard I’m due to move up and she wants to get in on the gravy train.”

Milo said, “Congrats on the promotion.”

“Yeah, it’s happening. Or was going to until you guys showed up and maybe fucked everything up. I’m being considered for an assistantship to Ed LaMoca. Get it?”

“Big-time guy.”

“As in,” said Cline, rattling off a list of movie stars. “Everyone wants to work for him, it’s taken me shit-all years to get in position, and now you show up and they’re going to think – how could you do this just because those assholes tell you to? They’re fucking lying, the whole thing is a fucking put-up.”

The pace of his speech had ratcheted from frantic to nearly unintelligible. I wondered if the building was vast enough to conceal a meth lab.

Milo said, “Who do you think called us, Mr. Cline?”

“Who do I think? Them. Persian bitch and her fucking Persian husband. No matter how they’re spinning it, she hit me, fucked up my bumper, fucked up my trunk, fucked up a taillight. I was in front, she was behind me, and there’s no fucking way I rolled backward, it wasn’t even uphill. I didn’t call you guys because there were no injuries and she admitted it was her fault, promised to pay A-sap. Then she goes home, tells her rich fucking asshole rug merchant husband, he starts spinning. Fine, they wanna fight, I’ll fight. What I don’t get is you wasting your time when I already gave a statement to her insurance and they said they believed me, it’s obvious I didn’t roll back into her. The only reason I didn’t have my own insurance was it lapsed after I moved here from ICM and if you read the insurance reports you’d know that.”

He embarked on a ten-step march, came back. “May I go back to work and try not to get fucked up?”

Milo said, “This isn’t about your fender-bender.”

“Then what? I’m busy!”

“Calm down, sir.”

“Don’t tell me that. You probably just ruined my life, so don’t-”

“Stop-”

“You stop-”

“Be quiet. Now.”

Something in Milo’s voice killed the tirade. Cline wrung his hands.

“Let’s start over-”

“What now? Oh, man,” said Cline, “I haven’t slept in I don’t know-”

“Then we have something in common, Mr. Cline. I’m investigating a homicide.”

“Homi-who? Someone got killed? Who?”

“Kat Shonsky.”

Cline’s posture loosened as if he’d been shot up with Valium. “You’re kidding.” He smiled.

“You think it’s funny?”

“No, no, it’s – that’s – totally bizarre. You really came at me from left fucking field. Who killed her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. What’s bizarre?”

“Someone getting killed.” Cline’s mouth got hard. “Why are you talking to me about it?”

“We’re talking to everyone she dated.”

“Count me out, we never dated. She picked me up in a club, we had sex for a few months, then we both realized we were faking and said why bother.”

“Hard for a man to fake,” said Milo.

“You’re being literal,” said Cline. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t happened to you. I’m not talking losing it, I’m talking being there without being there.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“Fine,” said Cline, “you’re macho mellow, can do it with a can of liver. For me, it got empty. Because she was never there. We decided to be friends, just hang out. That didn’t work either.”

“How come?”

“’Cause we didn’t like each other.” Cline drew back, maybe realizing the implication. “Listen, the last time I saw her was maybe half a year. I’ve had two girlfriends since then, you want to talk to them, be my guest, they’ll tell you I’m safe as milk.”

Cline fired off names. Milo wrote them down.

“You’re actually going to call them? Unreal. Fine, do it, why not, could work for me with Lori, maybe she’ll get interested again.”

“Why?”

“Making me look dangerous and all that,” said Cline. “Being safe is my issue. Lori thought I was average to nothing. Mostly I feel like nothing. Don’t eat, don’t sleep, and now you’ve fucked up my career.” Shrill laughter. “Hell, maybe I’ll cut my wrists.” Rubbing his arms. “And it’ll be your fault.”

Milo said nothing.

Rory Cline said, “I know, I know, get some rest, do yoga, take my vitamins. Sorry, Charlie, it’s like the ad for that gym. ‘I’ll rest when I’m dead.’”

Milo said, “Then I guess Kat’s resting.”

Cline shut his mouth. Tried to stand still and settled for rocking on his heels. “Unbelievable.”

Milo asked where he’d been when Kat Shonsky left the club.

Cline said, “Here.”

“In L.A.?”

“Here,” said Cline. “Working. Down in the bowels, eating shit.”

“Working over the weekend.”

“What’s a weekend? You want to check with the security logs, I can’t stop you, but please don’t, it’s only going to fuck me up further.”

“You do that a lot?” said Milo.

“Do what?”

“Work weekends.”

“Fuck, yeah. Sometimes I don’t go home for days. Ed LaMoca set the record twenty years ago, ten days without bathing. Dominated the droobs with radioactive ambition and cosmic body odor. They fade easily, the droobs, mostly Ivy League brats thinking they’re gonna waltz from Harvard to repping Brad Pitt. I went to Cal State North-ridge. Hunger gives me the edge.”

Milo said, “Anything you can tell us about Kat Shonsky?”

“Big faker,” said Cline. “Not just about that, about everything. Like she wanted to live someone else’s life.”

“Whose life?”

“Someone lazy and rich. She had half of it down.”

“You didn’t like her.”

“I already told you that.”

We asked a few more questions, slipping in cues about fancy cars and sexual kinks. All of that went right past Cline as he talked about himself.

When we turned to leave, he stood there.

Milo said, “You can go back to work.”

Cline didn’t move. “Listen, if it does turn out to be a story, let me know. If it’s something Brad or Will or Russell can use, I’ll make sure you’re in it in a way that pays off big.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Milo.

“Excellent.” Cline pumped air, ran back inside.

As Milo drove to the Valley, I reached one of Rory Cline’s past girlfriends, a lawyer named Lori Bonhardt. She described Cline as “a wimp and a dishrag,” denied ever witnessing a violent side.

“What’s he done?”

“He knows someone who got hurt.”

“Knows someone?” She laughed. “If that’s all it is, forget it. Aggression would take effort and Rory’s hobbies are drinking and sleeping. I used to tell him he should get on speed or something. Might give him some ambition. My Lhasa apso used to hump his leg and Chi never does that to anyone else. Know what that means?”

“Submissive personality,” I said.

“Beta male. Pure vice president.”

Michael Browning’s eyes got moist when he heard about Kat.

He was a barrel-chested, rust-bearded fireplug, five six in thick-soled shoes, with sturdy, hirsute wrists and lumberjack hands. He wore a yellow-and-blue windowpane shirt, a big-knotted red tie of gleaming silk brocade, leather knit suspenders. The shoes were mocha suede wingtips, maintained impeccably.

The stylish duds of a full partner at Kaufler, Mandelbaum and Schlesinger, but Browning’s office was a cubicle on the ground floor, one of two dozen in a fluorescent warren.

He spoke freely. Kat had stopped seeing him four months ago after learning he was married.

“I wasn’t cheating. My wife and I were having problems. Debbie was doing her own thing and so was I. I met Kat at Leonardo’s – the one on Ventura that closed down. Kat found out about Debbie when Debbie called my cell at Kat’s place. Debbie was cool with the whole thing but Kat told me she didn’t want to be space-filler and kicked me out. I didn’t blame her.” A curling thumb brushed a tear duct. “This is so incredibly sad. She was a nice girl.”

First time anyone had used that adjective to describe Kat.

I said, “You parted on friendly terms.”

“Of course,” said Browning. “Kat was right about not wanting to be used. I told her I was sorry. She said she forgave me but we both knew it could never be the same.”

“Did you see her after that?”

Tucking bristly beard hairs into his mouth, he chewed. His eyes shifted to the left. “Not often.”

Milo and I waited.

“Don’t tell my wife, okay?” said Browning.

“She’s not cool with it anymore.”

“We’re back together. Expecting our first in two months.”

“Congrats,” said Milo. “How often did you and Kat see each other after the breakup?”

“We didn’t really see each other,” said Browning. “Not in the sense of a consistent relationship.”

“But…”

Browning flashed what he considered a charming smile. “There were a couple weekends – retreats thrown by the firm.” He glanced around the warren. The symphony of computer clicks hadn’t slowed when we entered and no one was watching us now.

Milo said, “Where were the weekends and when did they take place?”

“Palm Springs and Mission Bay. As for the when…” Browning consulted his day planner. Read off dates.

Nine weeks ago and less than a month ago.

“Did she drive down and meet you or did you travel together?”

“Palm Springs she drove herself. San Diego, we went together. Please don’t tell Debbie. We’re happy now, it would be disruptive.”

“No doubt,” said Milo.

“Look,” said Michael Browning, “I’m being totally open with you. Even if I had reason to lie, I wouldn’t because I’m no good at it. Debbie says I’m one big poker tell.”

Milo asked where he’d been the night Kat disappeared.

Another page flip through the planner. The color leached from Browning’s cheeks. Milo took the book. “Says here ‘meeting, year-end deductions, TL.’ What’s that stand for?”

“Code,” said Browning.

“For what?”

“Is it really important?” Browning asked.

“Now it is,” said Milo.

“Sir, I’d never hurt Kat. Nothing but affection ever passed between us.”

“Until she booted you out.”

“When we were together it was always loving. I swear. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t lie and I have no reason to. A part of me might’ve loved Kat. I certainly wouldn’t hurt her.”

Milo said, “TL.”

Browning leaned on his low-backed swivel chair. The seat creaked. “As long as Debbie doesn’t get involved.”

“Another woman.”

“Nothing serious,” said Browning. “A fling. Do you really need the details?”

“You bet, Mr. Browning. And we’ll get them one way or the other.”

“Okay, okay. Tenecia Lawrence. She was an intern from Valley College, spent a summer working for me and came in for a recommendation letter to the business school at the U. One thing led to another.”

“You wanted to review her qualifications.”

“It was mutual,” said Browning. “If all she wanted was the letter, she could have just called.”

Milo smiled. “First date for you and Ms. Lawrence.”

Browning said, “Strictly speaking, no. We hung out a bit when she interned.” Touching the rim of his desk. “She’s black.”

The irrelevancy hung in the air.

Browning said, “She’s twenty, gorgeous, legs to infinity. I’m not going to make excuses. It’s the way I’m wired.”

“Let’s have her phone number,” said Milo.

“How about I just give you the facts? Tenecia and I spent that entire weekend together, I can produce hotel receipts. Debbie was at her mom’s. She’s hormonal. It leads to changes.”

“The number.”

“Receipts aren’t enough?”

“If Ms. Lawrence confirms your story, they may be.”

“May?” Sweat beaded Browning’s flat, ruddy brow. “I have no anxiety about Kat, but Debbie-”

“If you didn’t kill Kat, Debbie will never know we were here.”

Browning exhaled. “Thanks. Thanks so much, I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t call Ms. Lawrence before we do,” said Milo. “We’ll know.”

“Of course not, that never entered my mind.” Browning held out a hand for a shake.

Milo pretended not to see it.

I said, “The last time you saw Kat, did she mention anything about an encounter with a customer?”

“A customer?”

“At her workplace.”

“Oh, that,” said Browning. “If you’re talking about what I think you are.”

We waited.

Browning said, “The freak, right? Transvestite, whatever.”

“Tell us what Kat told you.”

“A guy came into the store, checked out the goods. Kat figured out it was for himself.”

“How?”

“She said he looked sneaky and nervous. She thought it was hilarious. Kind of faced off with the guy, like ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Kat could be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Aggressive.” Another shrug. “It had its benefits.”

“How did the man react to being confronted?”

“She said he got ticked off and left and she felt good about handling him.”

“How’d she describe him?”

“Um,” said Browning. “She really didn’t.”

“Nothing at all?”

“She did say he was big, looking at plus sizes. That really cracked her up. Guy in a size sixteen cocktail dress.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“That’s it,” said Browning. “It wasn’t like I wanted to continue the discussion.”

“Why not?”

“We were having a good time. Last thing I wanted was to talk about perverted stuff.”

“Put her out of the mood,” I said.

“Put me out of the mood,” said Browning. “Kat was always ready. Made a lot of noise. Sometimes it got so loud you could almost think she was faking it but she wasn’t.”

“How could you tell?”

“No one fakes it with me. No need to.”

“Mr. Speedfreak and Mr. Amoral Cretin,” said Milo. “She did know how to pick ’em.”

He sped back to the city, fighting the curves on Coldwater Canyon. “Good thinking bringing up the cross-dresser.”

“Browning’s her most recent lover, I figured it might come up.”

“Pillow talk… sounds like she told everyone who’d listen.”

“Proud of herself,” I said. “For handling him.”

“Aggressive with the wrong guy. But putting that aside, do either of these jokers bear further attention?”

I said, “Cline’s got the anger and the dope-fed impulsiveness to do damage to Kat if she caught him at the wrong time. But he’s got no obvious motive and he seems way too wired to pull off something so well planned. My guess is the agency security logs will back up his alibi but I’d definitely try to get them. Browning comes across agreeable but to my mind, he’s scarier. He lies easily and lives to manipulate and I have no doubt he’d eliminate Kat, or anyone else who got in his way. His alibi’s even simpler to verify.”

“Tenecia Lawrence,” Milo said, digging his notepad out of his pocket. “Let’s do it before Browning preps her. Your turn, I need two hands on the wheel.”

I put my cell on speaker and called the number he’d written down. A female voice answered with a high, chirpy “This is Neesh.”

When I told her the reason for the call, she dropped from soprano to alto. “Am I in trouble?”

I cited the date. “We need to know if you were with Michael-”

“He told you?” Her voice broke. “It was supposed to be totally secret.”

“It can stay that way,” I said.

“Please,” she said. “My parents.”

“True or not, Tenecia?”

“Um… how do I know you’re the police?”

“If you’d like we can drop by in person.”

“No, no, that’s okay.”

“Were you with Michael?”

Silence.

“Tenecia?”

A scared little girl’s voice said, “Yes, I was. My dad’s a fire captain and that weekend he took my mom to a reunion at Lake Arrowhead, all the battalions that had fought the big Laguna fire. Michael wanted to come to the house but I wouldn’t let him, no way. He would’ve stood out.”

“Why?”

“We live in Ladera Heights,” she said.

Prosperous black suburb.

I said, “Where did you and Michael go?”

“You’ll really keep this secret?”

“If you’re truthful, there’s no reason for it to get out.”

“Okay, um – Michael picked me up at school and we drove to a hotel.”

“Which one?”

“Dayside Inn.”

“Where is that?”

“Near the airport, I don’t know the street. We stayed in all day. Watched movies. The Wedding Planner and Prime with Uma Thurman and Meryl Streep ’cause it’s one of my favorites. Michael was okay with it, he likes chick flicks.”

“Then what?”

“Then the next day we went to Long Beach, visited the aquarium. I’d never been there.”

Silence.

“It’s really pretty,” she said. “The aquarium.”

“What happened after that, Tenecia?”

“Nothing.”

“You stayed in Long Beach.”

“I – this is going to sound… we were just having fun.”

“Where’d you go?”

Audible sigh. “Another hotel. Best Western, near the aquarium. The next day, we came home. I mean, not right away. First we went to dinner at Sizzler, then we drove through Palos Verdes to see the ocean. Then we went to Michael’s house in Granada Hills. I was nervous to go there but it was dark and Michael said it was okay. The next morning, he drove me back to school. I didn’t have a class until one p.m., so we had breakfast on campus, hung out, then he drove to work. Am I in trouble?”

“Not if you’ve been truthful.”

“I have been, I swear.”

“So you were definitely with Mr. Browning the entire weekend.”

“I won’t see him anymore,” she said. “He’s too old for me. Is he in trouble?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, Tenecia.”

“Okay, but I’m really not going to see him. You won’t have to call again, will you? Sometimes my dad picks up my phone.”

“You’re fine, Tenecia.”

“Thank you so much. Thank you.”

Milo said, “Poor kid, we mighta scared her into celibacy.”

“If she keeps away from Browning,” I said, “we did our good deed for the day.”

“Lowlife. Too bad he’s not our guy.”

He called in for messages. Gordon Beverly wanted to know if anything was new. Milo reached him, spent a few tortured minutes trying to be therapeutic.

Another try at Bradley Maisonette’s parole officer produced a third burst of voice mail. Milo left an irate message and dialed Wilson Good’s home number.

“No answer. Screw his flu, let’s go bug the coach.”