Flesh And Blood

CHAPTER 11

“A PRINCE AMONG men,” said Milo.

I was driving east on Ventura Boulevard. Blackened storefronts, bare sidewalks, a breeze had kicked up, and scraps of litter danced above the cement. Warm breeze. Unseasonal winter.

“He hated her, didn’t he, Alex?”

“You consider him a suspect?” I said.

“Can’t eliminate him. Am I the only one who picked up nuances of paranoia?”

“Unhappy man,” I said. “Lots of anger. But he didn’t try to soft-pedal. Doesn’t that imply nothing to hide?”

“Or he’s trying to be clever, pull some kind of stupid double bluff. What a family. The more I learn, the sorrier I feel for Lauren.”

I knew what was taking place: Lauren’s corpse had begun as business as usual, inanimate as the mountain of forms he was forced to fill out on every case. Enlarging her humanity brought out his empathy. It’s happened to him on most of the cases we’ve worked together.

I said, “You didn’t ask him where he was the night Lauren was killed.”

“I don’t know when she was killed – waiting till the coroner gives me an estimate. Also, there was no sense threatening him right off. If nothing else slam-dunks, he’ll get a recontact. Maybe I can pay him a morning visit, see what he’s like when he’s not beered up.”

“And the shotgun’s not within arm’s reach.”

“Yeah, that was fun, wasn’t it? Loose cannon like that having access to a double-barrel. Just what the Founding Fathers had in mind… Wifey number two seemed quite the sheep. Think he slaps her around?”

“He dominates her.”

“I wonder if Lyle and Jane had violent stuff going on when they were hitched – Jane kept saying he was mean. Maybe something else Lauren was exposed to. That never came out when you treated her?”

“She complained about them but never mentioned violence. But the treatment wasn’t much.”

“Two sessions.” He rubbed his face. “Twenty-five years old and what did she have to show for it besides a nifty wardrobe?… People and their garbage. Some jobs you and I’ve got.”

“Hey,” I said. “Sure beats being rich and relaxed.”

He laughed. “You won’t catch me admitting this again, but your gig just might be tougher than mine.”

“Why’s that?”

“I know what people are. You try to change ’em.”

As I turned onto Laurel Canyon, he phoned the officer at Lauren’s apartment, found out Andrew Salander hadn’t returned.

I said, “He works the night shift.”

“You up for The Cloisters?”

“Sure,” I said. “One of my favorite spots.”

He laughed again. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Ever been to a gay bar?”

“You took me to one,” I said.

“I don’t remember that. When?”

“Years ago,” I said. “Tiny little place over in Studio City. Disco music, serious drinking, lots of guys who didn’t look at all like you. Past Universal City – back of an auto body shop.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “The Fender. Closed down a long time ago – I actually took you there?”

“Right after our first case together – the Handler murder. The way I figured it, some friendship rapport was developing and you were still nervous.”

“About what?”

“Being gay. You’d already made the grand confession. I didn’t get overtly repulsed, but you probably figured I needed more testing.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “Testing you for what?”

“Tolerance. Could I really handle it.”

“Why am I not remembering any of this?”

“Advanced middle age,” I said. “I can describe the room precisely: aluminum ceiling, black walls, Donna Summer on tape loop, guys going off in pairs.”

“Whoa,” he said. Then nothing.

A few miles later he said, “You weren’t overtly repulsed. Meaning?”

“Meaning, sure, it threw me. I grew up with sissies getting beat up on the school yard and ‘fag’ as acceptable speech. I never pounded on anyone, but I never stepped in to stop it either. When I started working, my practice emphasized traumatized kids, and homosexuality never came up much. You were the first gay person I’d ever known socially. You and Rick are still the only gay people I know in depth. And sometimes I’m not sure about you.”

He smiled. “Aluminum ceilings… guys who didn’t look like me, huh? So who’d they look like?”

“More like Andrew Salander.”

“There you go,” he said. “I am the great individualist.”

The Cloisters was on Hacienda just north of Santa Monica, notched unobtrusively into the gray side wall of a two-story building. It was nearly three A.M., but unlike the postnuclear silence of the Valley, the streets here were alive, lit by a steady stream of headlights, sidewalk cafés still serving a garrulous clientele, the pavement crowded with pedestrians – mostly, but not exclusively, male. West Hollywood was one of the first L.A. neighborhoods to earn itself a nightlife. Now people emerge for after-dark strolls in Beverly Hills, Melrose, Westwood. One day, Los Angeles may grow up and become a real city.

I found a parking space half a block up, and we walked to the front door. No bouncer on duty and we stepped right in. I’d allowed myself the luxury of prediction and expected the place to be stone walls, refectory windows, gothic gloom. It turned out to be off-white plaster, recessed lighting dimmed to soft-and-easy, a mahogany-and-black-granite bar with a brass rail and beige suede stools, a few booths along the opposite wall. Light classical music eased from unseen speakers, and the conversation from the fifteen or so men inside was low and relaxed. Casually but well-dressed men in their thirties and forties. Shrimp and meatball bar snacks, toothpicks sporting colored cellophane frizz. But for the fact that there were only men, it could’ve been an upscale lounge in any slick suburb.

Andrew Salander was easy to spot, working alone behind the bar, wiping down the granite, refilling glasses, attending gregariously to half a dozen patrons. His dress duds were a pale blue button-down shirt under a white-and-blue-striped apron. We were right in his face when he noticed us – first me, then Milo, back to me, back to Milo. One of the drinkers saw the scared-animal heat in his eyes and turned toward us with hostile curiosity. Milo leaned on the bar and nodded at him, and the man returned to his Scotch.

“Mr. Sturgis?” said Salander.

“Hi, Andy. Anyone to cover for you?”

“Uh… Tom’s on break – Hold on, I’ll get him.” Salander ran through a rear door with a tall young man dressed in a similar shirt and apron, holding a cigarette. Tom stubbed out his light and put on a smile, and Salander came around through Dutch doors at the other end of the bar.

“Please tell me this isn’t business,” he said to Milo. “Please.”

Milo eased him toward the door. Waited to say “Sorry,” until we were outside.

Salander wept. “It can’t be – I can’t believe it, why would anyone hurt her?”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me with that, Andy.”

“I can’t – Dr. Delaware already knows that. I already told him everything I knew – didn’t I, Doctor?”

I said, “Is there anything else you might remember?”

“What? You think I was holding back?”

“Back when we thought Lauren was coming back, I can see your not wanting to violate her privacy. But now…”

“That’s true, I was being discreet. But there’s still nothing else I can tell you.”

“Lauren gave you no hint of where she was going?” said Milo.

“No. It wasn’t that weird – her taking off. I already told the doctor she’d done it other times.”

“For a day or two.”

“Yes.”

“This was a week.”

“I know, but…” said Salander. “I wish I could help.”

“Those short trips,” said Milo. “Did you ever have any reason to think they were for anything other than rest and relaxation?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Lauren ever mention another reason for traveling?”

“No. Why?”

“Okay, Andy, let’s backtrack to the last time you saw her.”

“Last Sunday – a week ago,” said Salander. “I didn’t sleep well, got up around noon and Lo was in the kitchen.”

“How was she dressed?”

“Slacks, silk blouse – casual elegant, as always. She rarely wore jeans.”

“Did you guys talk?”

“Not much – just small talk. We had a light lunch before she left. Eggs and toast – I can eat breakfast any time of day. She left shortly after – I’d say one, one-thirty.”

“But she didn’t say where.”

“I assumed the U.”

“Her research job.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“On a Sunday?”

“She’d worked other Sundays, Detective Sturgis.”

“But this time she didn’t take her car.”

“How would I know that unless I followed her downstairs?”

“And you didn’t.”

“No, of course not-”

“When did you notice she’d left the car?”

“When I went to get my own car.”

“Which was?” said Milo.

“Later that evening, when I left for work – around seven-thirty.”

“And what did you think when you saw Lauren’s car?”

“I didn’t – didn’t think much, one way or the other.”

“Was that typical, Andy? Lauren not taking her car?”

“Not really. I just – It wasn’t on my mind. I can’t say I even consciously noticed it. When I got home she wasn’t there, but that wasn’t unusual either. She was often gone by morning. We were on different biorhythms – sometimes days would pass before we bumped into each other. I started to get a little concerned by Wednesday or so, but you know… She was an adult. I figured she had a reason for doing the things she did. Was I wrong?”

“About her having reasons?”

“About not doing something sooner. I mean, what could I have done?”

Milo didn’t reply.

Salander said, “I just wish – I feel sick – This is unbelievable.”

“Back to Sunday, Andy. What did you do after Lauren left?”

“Um, tried to go back to sleep, couldn’t, got up and went shopping over at the Beverly Center. I thought I’d buy some shirts, but I didn’t find anything, so I saw a movie – Happy, Texas. Hilarious. Have you seen it?”

Milo shook his head.

Salander said, “You should see it. Really funny-”

“What’d you do after shopping?”

“Came back, had some dinner, got dressed for work, came here. The next day I slept late. Till three. Why are you asking me all this? You can’t seriously think…”

“Routine questions,” said Milo.

“That’s so TV,” said Salander. “So Jack Webb.” Trying to smile, but his face had lost tone, as if someone had yanked out the bones.

“Okay, Andy,” said Milo. “There are police officers at your apartment. It’s going to be disruptive for a while. Legally, I don’t need your permission to search, but I’d like to know that I have your cooperation.”

“Sure. Of course – you mean my room too?”

“If the search does carry over to your room, would you have a problem with that?”

Salander kicked one shoe with the other. “I mean, I wouldn’t want my stuff trashed, or anything.”

“I’ll do it myself, Andy. Make sure everything gets put back in place.”

“Sure – but can I ask why, Mr. Sturgis? What does my room have to do with anything?”

“I need to be thorough.”

Salander’s narrow shoulders rose and fell. “I guess. Why not, I have nothing to hide. Nothing’s ever going to be the same, is it? Can I go back to work now?”

“When do you get off shift?”

“Four – then I clean up.”

“The officers may still be there when you arrive – you are planning to come home?”

“Where else would I go? At least for now.”

“For now?”

“I don’t know if I can afford the place by myself… Oh, God, this is just so nauseating – Did she suffer?”

“I don’t have the forensic details yet.”

“Who would do this?” said Salander. “What kind of twisted mind – Oh, Mr. Sturgis, I feel as if everything’s unraveling.”

Milo said, “Yeah, it’s rough.” He looked out at the traffic on Santa Monica, eyes unreadable. Then a glance at me.

I said, “Andrew, that lunch Lauren had with her mother, when she said she didn’t want to be controlled? Do you have any idea what she meant?”

“No. And even when she was upset at Mrs. A, she said she knew her mother loved her.”

“What about her father? Did he ever come up?”

“No, she never talked about him – refused to. Just clammed up the first time I brought him up, so I never did that again. It was pretty obvious she had no use for him.”

“But she never said why.”

Headshake. “There are so many reasons, though, aren’t there,” he said. “So many men who screw up fatherhood.”

“So,” I said, “you have no idea what the control issue was?”

“I just thought it was one of those family tension things, you know. I mean it’s not as if she told me about any big festering Jerry Springer thing.”

Salander rubbed the back of his head against the wall. “This is horrible, I hate this.”

“Hate what, Andy?”

“Talking about Lauren in the past tense – thinking about her suffering. Can I get back to work?”

“The show must go on?” said Milo.

Salander froze. “That was unkind, Mr. Sturgis. I cared about her, I really did. We cared for each other, loved to hang out together, but we didn’t – she didn’t confide in me. Can I help it if she didn’t confide? What I told the doctor about that lunch is all that I remember. She came back and looked miffed, didn’t want to talk about it, and I tried to get her to open up. But she really didn’t.”

“What did she say – as closely as you can remember?” I said.

“Something to the effect that she’d come this far on her own and wouldn’t be controlled – that’s it. Come to think about it, she might not have even said controlled by Mrs. A, specifically. I just assumed that’s who she was talking about, because it was Mrs. A she’d just had lunch with.” He sidestepped closer to The Cloisters’ front door.

“Let’s get back to that research job,” said Milo. “What else do you know about it?”

“Something to do with psychology – or maybe I’m assuming that, too. I’m so shook up, I don’t even know what I know.”

“When did the job start?”

Salander thought. “Soon after the quarter started – so maybe two, three months ago. Or maybe even before the quarter – I can’t swear to anything.”

“Was it a five-day-a-week job?” said Milo.

“No, it was irregular. Sometimes she’d work every day of the week, then she’d have days off. But I really wasn’t paying attention to her schedule. Half the time she was up and around, I was sleeping.”

“What else did she tell you about the job?”

“Just that she enjoyed it.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nope.”

“Did she mention who she worked for? What the project was?”

“No, just that she enjoyed it. I’m sure you can find out at the U.”

“That’s the problem, Andy,” said Milo. “We can’t seem to find any trace of her working at the U.”

Salander’s mouth dropped open. “How can that be? I’m sure it’s some mistake – she definitely told me it was on campus. That I do remember.”

“Well,” said Milo.

“Why would she make up something like that?”

“Good question, Andy.”

“My… You think the job had something to do with…”

“I’m not saying anything, Andy. But when people don’t tell the truth…”

“Oh, Lauren,” said Salander. He put his back to the wall of the building, cupped his hand over his eyes. “Oh, my.”

“What is it?” said Milo.

“I’m all alone now.”

During the drive to Hauser and Sixth, Milo ran Salander’s name through the files. One traffic ticket last year, no wants or warrants, no criminal record. Milo closed his eyes, and I realized how numb I felt – deadened and tired and marginal. We cruised the rest of the way in silence, gliding through city streets stripped of light and humanity.

Two squad cars and a crime-scene van were parked outside Lauren’s building. A uniform guarded the entrance. Another was stationed upstairs. Someone had opened the door to apartment 4. Inside the living room a young black woman kneeled and dusted and scraped.

“Loretta,” said Milo.

“Morning, Milo.”

“Yeah, guess it is. Anything?”

“Lots of prints, as usual. So far, no blood, and the only semen’s on the roommate’s sheets. Nothing looks disturbed.”

“The roommate,” said Milo.

“Did both bedrooms,” said the tech. “Was that okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Nothing’s perfect,” said Loretta. “Not even me.”

We entered Salander’s room first. Midnight blue velvet walls and shabby-looking tapestry drapes turned the stingy space gloomy. A black iron queen-sized bed canopied by billows of what looked like cheesecloth took up most of the floor. A fake Persian rug left only a foot-wide border of scuffed board. Lining the ceiling were more of the gilded moldings I’d seen in the living room. A small TV and VCR perched atop a pale blue bureau decoupaged with pink cabbage roses. Replicas of Russian icons and filigreed crucifixes hung on the wall along with a white-framed photo of Salander and a stolid-looking couple in their fifties. At the bottom of the frame, someone had written in black marker: “Mom and Dad, Bloomington, Ind. ‘The Olde Country.’”

In the top drawer of the bureau, Milo found neatly folded clothing, tissues and eyedrops, a box of disposable contact lenses, six packets of condoms, and a passbook from Washington Mutual Bank.

“Four hundred bucks,” he said, flipping pages. “Little Andy’s highest balance for the year is fifteen hundred.” He ran through the book several times. “Every two weeks he deposits nine hundred – gotta be his take-home. On the fifteenth, he withdraws six hundred – the rent – spends around eight or so. Leaving a hundred or so in savings, but it looks like he eventually spends that too.”

“Tight budget,” I said. “He will have trouble making the rent by himself.”

He frowned and replaced the bankbook. “Giving him a legit reason to cut out.”

“You’re worried about him? I noticed you did ask him about time and place.”

“No specific reason to worry,” he said. “But no reason not to either. He’s the last person to see her alive, and that’s always interesting.”

Opening the closet door, he ran his hands over pressed jeans and khakis, two pairs of black slacks, several blue button-down shirts like the one Salander wore at the bar, a black leather jacket. Black oxfords, brown loafers, Nikes, and one pair of tan demiboots on the floor. Nothing on the top shelf. Plenty of empty space.

“Okay,” said Milo. “On to the main event.”

Lauren’s room was larger than Salander’s by half. Bare oak floors, walls painted the palest of yellows, and a low, narrow single bed with no headboard increased the feeling of space. Her dresser was a white, three-drawer affair. Flanking it on each side were low teak bookcases with the slightly askew stance of self-assembly. Hardback books filled every shelf.

Next to the bed was a matching teak desk with a built-in file drawer. Milo began there, and it didn’t take long to find what he was looking for.

“Smith Barney brokerage account. Out of town – Seattle.”

“Wanting things private?” I said. Thinking: Lauren had thrived on secrets. Kept everything segmented.

He turned pages, ran his finger down columns. “She kept some loose cash in a money market, the rest is in high-yield mutual funds… Well, well, well, look at this: quite a different league from little Andy. She’s put away three hundred forty thousand dollars and some change in… a little over four years… First deposit is a hundred grand, four years ago, December… Then fifty a year for the next three – last one was three weeks ago. Nice and steady – wonder where it came from.”

I do great with tips.

He opened another drawer. “Let’s see if she keeps her tax returns here. Be interesting to know how she categorized her employment.”

He found a paper-clipped stack of Visa Gold receipts that he examined as I looked over his shoulder.

Six months’ worth of records. Lauren had charged only a handful of purchases each month: supermarkets and gas stations, the campus bookstore at the U. And bills from Neiman-Marcus and several designer boutiques that amounted to 90 percent of her expenditures.

Dressing for the job…

No motel or hotel charges. That made sense if she’d paid cash to avoid leaving a trail. Or if someone else had paid for her time and lodgings.

The bottom dresser drawer yielded another stapled sheaf. “Here we go,” he said, “tucked in with the cashmere sweaters. Four years of short forms… Looks like she prepared them herself. Nothing before that – everything started when she was twenty-one.”

He scanned the IRS paper. “She called herself a ‘self-employed photographic model and student,’ took deductions for car expenses, books, and clothing… That’s about it… No student loans, no medical writeoffs… no mention of any research gig either… Every year for the past four, she reported fifty thousand gross, deducted it down to thirty-four net.”

“Fifty thousand a year coming in,” I said, “and she manages to invest every penny?”

“Yeah – cute, isn’t it.” He moved to the closet, opened a door on a tightly stacked assortment of silk dresses and blouses, pantsuits in a wide array of colors, leather and suede jackets. Two fur coats, one short and silver, the other full-length and black. Thirty or so pairs of shoes.

“Versace,” he said, squinting at a label. “Vestimenta, Dries Van Noten, Moschino – ‘arctic silver fox’ from Neiman… and this black thing is…” He peeled back the long coat’s lapel. “Real mink. From Mouton on Beverly Drive – hand me back those Visa receipts… The average is a grand or so a month on threads – that’s less than one of these suits, so she had to be spending more, had cash she didn’t declare.”

He closed the closet door. “Okay, add tax evasion to her hobby list… Over three hundred grand saved up by age twenty-five. Like Momma said, she took care of herself.”

“That first hundred plus the three fifty-thousand deposits is two fifty,” I said. “Where’d the rest come from, stock appreciation?”

He returned to the brokerage papers, trailed his finger to a bottom line. “Yup, ninety thou five hundred and two worth of ‘long-term capital appreciation.’ Looks like our girl played the skin game and rode the bull market.”

“That would explain the lie about having a job at the U,” I said, feeling a sad, insistent gnawing in my gut. “When she was arrested in Reno at nineteen, she called her father for bail money, claimed she was broke. Two years later, she deposited a hundred thousand.”

“Working hard,” he said. “The American way. She didn’t call Mom because Mom was poor.”

“That and she might’ve cared enough about Jane to keep secrets.” I took the brokerage packet from him, stared at zeros. “The first hundred was probably money she saved up. When she turned twenty-one, she decided to invest. I wonder if it came from multiple clients or just a few high rollers.”

“What makes you wonder?”

“A long-term client could be the reason she didn’t take her own car on Sunday. Someone sent one for her.”

“Interesting,” Milo said. “When the sun comes up, I’ll check with taxi companies and livery services. Gonna also have to canvass the neighborhood, see if anyone saw her getting into a car. If she was hooking up with some pooh-bah who wanted it hush-hush, he wouldn’t have had her wait right in front of her apartment. But maybe she didn’t walk too far.” He whipped out his pad, scrawled furiously.

“Something else,” I said. “Being in a cash business – wanting cash handy for expenditures – she could’ve been carrying a lot of money in her purse.”

He looked up. “A high-stakes mugging?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“I suppose… In any event, the money stink has now grown putrid.” He placed the tax returns atop the desk. Nothing but papers on the desk. That made me wonder about something else.

“Where’s her computer?” I said.

“Who said she had one?”

“She was a student. Every college kid has a computer, and Lauren was an A student.”

He gave the dresser drawers another shuffle, found a pocket calculator, grunted disgustedly. Returning to the closet, he searched the corners and the shelves. “Nada. So maybe she was storing data someone wanted. As in trick book. As in a pooh-bah with a good reason to value his privacy.”

“Trick database,” I said. “She was a modern girl.”

He frowned. “I’ll ask Salander if he ever saw a computer. And I just thought of something else that should be here but isn’t. Birth control. No pills or diaphragm in her drawers.”

“No medical charges on her Visa either. So she either paid her doctor in cash or used the Student Health Service.”

“Call girls get checked up regularly,” he said. “High-priced entertainment would have to be especially careful. She had to be using some kind of protection, Alex – Let me check the bathroom again. Why don’t you take a look at her books meanwhile, see if anything pops out.”

Starting at the top of the left-hand case, I traced two and a half years of required reading.

Basic math, algebra, geometry, basic science, biology, chemistry.

Economics, political science, history, the type of fiction favored by English professors. Sections underlined in pink marker. Used stickers from the bookstore at Santa Monica College.

The neighboring case was all sociology and psychology – dog-eared textbooks and collections of journals stored in transparent plastic boxes. The volumes on the top shelf matched Lauren’s classes last quarter. More pink underlining, Used stickers from the U bookstore – the charges I’d just seen on her Visa. Fifty grand a year but she watched her pennies.

Turning to the journals, I opened the first plastic box and found a collection of thirty-year-old issues of Developmental Psychology, each bearing the faded stamp of a Salvation Army thrift shop on Western Avenue and a ten-cent price tag. No receipt, no date of sale.

The rest of the magazines were of similar vintage and origin: American Cancer Society thrift, Hadassah, City of Hope. In a copy of Maslow’s Toward a Psychology of Being, I found a Goodwill receipt dated six years ago. A few scraps from the same time span turned up in other volumes.

Six years ago.

Lauren had begun her self-education at nineteen, nearly four years before she’d enrolled in junior college.

Intellectually curious. Ambitious. Straight A’s. None of that had stopped her from selling her body for a living. Then again, why should it? Knowledge can be power in all kinds of ways.

I took a closer look at the material Lauren had acquired before she’d gone back to school. Most of it centered on human relations and personality theory. No underlined sections; back then, she’d approached her books with the awe of a novice.

I shook each volume, found no loose papers.

Back to the required texts on the top shelf. Nothing illuminating or profound in the pink passages, just another student hypothesizing about what might appear on the final exam.

I was just about to quit when something in the margin of her learning theory book caught my eye. A neatly printed legend that matched the lettering I’d seen on her school papers.

INTIM. PROJ. 714 555 3342

Dr. D.

That flipped a switch: the “human intimacy” study that had run in the Cub three weeks before Shawna Yeager’s disappearance. Disconnected Orange County number – the Newport Beach pizza parlor. Same area code, but this number was different.

There was no evidence Shawna had even seen the ad, let alone checked it out, but she had been a psychobiology major… living off savings.

Intim. proj.

Right up Lauren’s alley? What she considered a “research job”?

But Lauren hadn’t needed the money.

Maybe she’d been greedy. Or something else had attracted her to the ad.

Something personal, as Gene Dalby had suggested.

Intimacy. A beautiful young woman who faked intimacy for cash.

Dr. D.

As in Dalby? No, Gene claimed to barely remember her, and I had no reason to doubt him. And his research was on politics, not intimacy.

Another of her teachers’ names began with a D – de Maartens. The psychology of perception. Lots of D’s.

Who was I kidding – I knew whose initial she’d jotted.

You were a great influence on her, Doctor.

The last time I’d seen her, she’d paid for the privilege of unloading her anger – not unlike the pattern she’d adopted with her father.

Years later she’d thought of me, made the notation.

Intimacy…

Wanting something from me? Never building up the courage to ask?

I thought of that last, angry meeting, Lauren flashing the wad of bills, unleashing the acid of recrimination. I’d always felt she’d been after more than that.

But what had been her goal when she’d picked up the phone and dialed my service?

What had I not given her?