Flesh And Blood

CHAPTER 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 View

Couture 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 behind 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.

Out came Milo’s badge. Rather than rattle the girl, it seemed to calm her. “And the punch line is…?” she said.

“Is Gretchen Stengel here?”

The girl gave a languid wave. “Don’t see her.”

Milo reached out toward the iron rack and fondled a black pantsuit. “Couture with a past, huh?”

The girl didn’t move or speak.

He examined the label. “Lagerfeld… What kind of past does this one have?”

“It went to the Oscars two years ago.”

“Really. Did it win and make a speech thanking the little people?”

The girl snorted.

“So where’s Gretchen?”

“If you leave your name I’ll tell her you were here.”

“Gee, thanks. And you are…”

“Stanwyck.”

“Stanwyck what?”

“Just Stanwyck.”

“Ah,” said Milo. He dropped the sleeve, faced her, did one of those moves that makes him taller than you think possible. “Don’t they require two names for booking?”

The girl’s lips tightened into a little pink bud. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Where’s Gretchen?”

“At lunch.”

“Late lunch.”

“Guess so.”

“Where?”

Stanwyck hesitated.

“C’mon, Stan,” said Milo. “Or I’ll tell Ollie.”

Her eyes filmed with confusion. “I don’t run her appointment schedule.”

“But you do know where she is.”

“I get paid to be here, that’s all.”

“Stan, Stan.” Milo sniffed the air conspicuously. “Why make this complicated?”

“Gretchen doesn’t like attention.”

“Well, I can sure understand that. But fame is like a dog with an unstable temperament. You feed it, think you’ve got it under control, but sometimes it bites you anyway. Now, where the hell is she?”

“Up the block.” She named the trendoid eatery.

He turned to leave.

Stanwyck said, “Don’t tell her I told you.”

“Promise,” said Milo.

“Yeah, right,” said the girl. “And you’ve got a Porsche and a house on the beach and won’t come in my mouth.”

We made our way past the valets, up brick stairs, and through a low picket gate to the front patio, turning the heads of the see-and-be-seen crowd. Lots of free-floating anxiety and ponytails on heads that didn’t deserve them, big white plates decorated with small green food. Some high fashion, though quite a few people were dressed worse than Milo. But at much higher cost, and everyone knew the difference. The maître d’s were two white-jacketed, black-T-shirted sticks, both too busy to stop us. But one of them did notice us enter the inner dining room at the rear.

The room was low and dark and cheap-chic, noisy as a power plant. As we made our way among the tables, I heard a man in a five-hundred-dollar Hawaiian shirt urging a waiter, “Speak to me of the crab cakes.”

Gretchen Stengel sat at a corner table opposite a sleek young woman with blue-black skin. A blue liter of esoteric water stood between them. The black woman picked at a salad, and Gretchen twirled a crayfish on a toothpick.

No problem recognizing the Westside Madam; three years ago she’d been evening news fodder for months, and, but for a few age lines, she hadn’t changed much.

Sunken cheeks, lemon-sucking mouth, stringy brown hair, skinny upper body but broad-beamed below the waist. An ungainly waddle as her lawyers hustled her to and from court. Brown eyes that claimed injury when they weren’t shielded by dark lenses. Today the glasses were in place – oversized black ovals that blocked expression.

It would have been easy to ascribe her pallor to the twenty-five months she’d spent behind bars for income tax evasion, but she’d been pale before then. Floppy hats, kabuki-white makeup, and the omnipresent black glasses fed rumors that she hated the sun. Interesting choice, if it was one, for a girl growing up at the beach. Then again, most daughters of Pacific Palisades corporate lawyers don’t grow up to be pimps.

Gretchen Stengel had been raised on two acres overlooking the ocean, attended the Peabody School and summer camps designed to pamper, vacationed at private villas in Venice and châteaus in southern France, flown the Concorde a dozen times before entering puberty.

Rocky puberty. Her arrest led to journalistic archaeology of the Stengel family and discovery of childhood learning problems, drug and DUI busts, and half a dozen abortions beginning when Gretchen was fourteen. At twenty she dropped out of Arizona State, having never declared a major. Unsubstantiated stories had her starring in a series of bottom-feeder porn loops featuring a variety of partners, not all of them two-legged.

Prior to her arrest none of her teenage problems had leaked out of sealed records, nor had she been disciplined by the system. Mildrew and Andrea Stengel were senior partners at Munchley, Zabella, and Cater, a downtown firm with a wide reach. After leaving college Gretchen moved back home to a guesthouse at their estate, attending openings of bad art and premieres of films that lost money, hanging out with the sweating throng of Eurotrash that filled Sunset Plaza cafés. Telling anyone who cared to listen that she was working on a screenplay, had a deal pending at one of the big independent production companies.

At some point she discovered long-hidden organizational skills and began mustering a small army of hookers: girls with great bodies and fresh faces and the ability to operate a credit-card machine. None was older than twenty-five, some had been Peabody School acquaintances, others she spotted on Sunset or the Colony. Many had never sold sex before. All were terrific at faking innocence.

The nerve center of the operation was Gretchen’s free digs behind the parental swimming pool. She called her employees “agents” and put them to work in the lounges and bars of hotels with “Beverly” in their names. Clients paid for the room and the flesh, the girls divvied up for clothing and cosmetics and birth control, and Gretchen financed quarterly medical checkups. Other than doctor bills, phone and credit company charges, her overhead was nil. By the time she was twenty-five, Gretchen was pulling in seven figures a year and lopping off a zero when she filed with the IRS.

What tripped her up was never made clear. The rumor mill spat out the names of famous clients: movie stars, assorted film industry lampreys, politicians, developers. Supposedly Gretchen had run afoul of the LAPD. But no john list ever materialized, and Gretchen sat mute during her indictment.

Her trial was slated to be the Next Big Media Event. Then Gretchen’s lawyer pled her to a single evasion charge and a money-laundering misdemeanor, and bargained her sentence to thirty-two months in federal lockup, plus restitution and penalties. Gretchen served solid but truncated time: no interviews, no wheedling, seven months lopped off for good behavior.

Now she was selling used clothes in a high-rent closet that reeked of weed and hiring ex-employees to stroke the customers.

It suggested an inability to learn from experience, but maybe Gretchen had learned something other than crime doesn’t pay.

Blaming her parents was easy but, like most pat solutions, that was just an excuse not to puzzle. Gretchen’s older brother had achieved honors as a flight surgeon for the Navy, and a younger sister ran a music school in Harlem. Following Gretchen’s arrest someone had suggested middle-child syndrome. They might as well have indicted the lunar cycle. Mildrew and Andrea Stengel were high-powered lawyers but by all accounts attentive parents. The week after Gretchen’s conviction they resigned their partnerships and moved to Galisteo, New Mexico, purportedly to live “the simple life.”

Milo and I walked up to the table. Gretchen had to have seen us, but she ignored us and tweaked the tail of the crayfish. Edging the creature toward her mouth, she changed her mind, drew back her arm, flicked the crustacean’s tail as if daring it to resuscitate. Then back to her lips. Licking but not biting. Some weight-loss behavior-mod trick? Play with your calories but never ingest them?

Nearby diners had begun to stare. Gretchen didn’t react. Her companion lacked Gretchen’s composure and started fidgeting with her salad. Scallops on something saw-toothed and weedlike. She was young like Gretchen, with cropped hair, felonious cheekbones, and slanted eyes, wore a sleeveless yellow sundress, pink coral necklace and earrings, long, curving nails painted a lighter shade of coral. All that color achingly dramatic against flawless black skin.

Gretchen’s cuticles were a wreck. She had on a shapeless black sweatshirt and black leggings. Her hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a week. The black lenses did their trick, putting her somewhere else.

Milo moved so he could smile down at the black woman. “Nice dress. Does it have a past?”

Painful smile in response.

“Have a bug,” said Gretchen, waving the crayfish. “That’s what they are. Bugs.” Her voice was nasal and scratchy. The black woman grimaced.

Milo said, “Thanks for the biology lesson, Ms. Stengel.”

Gretchen said, “Actually, they’re more like spiders.” To the black woman: “Think spiders taste any good?” Her lips barely moved when she spoke. The black woman put her fork down and picked up her napkin.

“What about flies and caterpillars?” said Gretchen. “Or slugs.”

Milo said, “Lauren Teague.”

The black woman wiped her mouth. Gretchen Stengel didn’t budge.

Milo said, “Lauren-”

“It’s a name,” said Gretchen.

The black woman said, “If you’ll excuse me, please,” and started to rise.

“Please stay,” said Milo.

“I have to go to the little girls’ room.” She reached down for her purse. Milo had placed his foot over the strap.

“Please,” she said.

Conversation at neighboring tables had died. A waiter came over. A glance from Milo made him retreat, but seconds later one of the white-jacketed maître d’s arrived.

“Officer,” he said, sidling up to Milo and managing to spit out the word while smiling wider than his lips had been built for. “You are a police officer?”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.”

“Please, sir, this isn’t the place and time.”

Gretchen twirled the crayfish. The black woman hung her head.

“For what?” said Milo.

“Sir,” said White Jacket. “People are trying to enjoy their food. This is a distraction.”

Milo spied a free chair at a neighboring table, pulled it over, sat down. “How’s this for blending in?”

“Really, Officer.”

“Fuck it, Damien,” said Gretchen. “Leave him alone, I know him.”

Damien stared at her. “You’re sure, Gretch?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved the crayfish. “Tell Joel to make it spicier next time.”

“Oh.” Damien’s acrobatic lips fluttered. “It’s too bland?”

“If you’ve got taste buds.”

“Oh, no – I’ll bring you some extra sauce, Gretch-”

“No,” said Gretchen. “That won’t help, too late. It has to be cooked into the meat.”

“Really, Gretch-”

“No, Damien.”

Damien simpered. “I am so sorry. I’ll have a fresh batch prepared right now-”

“Don’t bother. Not hungry.”

“I feel terrible,” said Damien.

“Don’t,” said Gretchen, flicking the crayfish’s tail. “Just do better next time.”

“Sure. Of course. Certainly.” To the black woman: “Is yours okay?”

“Perfect.” Glum tone. “I’m going to the little girls’ room.” She stood. Six feet tall in flats, sleek as a panther. Looking down at her purse, she left it there, edged past me, disappeared.

Damien said, “Really, Gretch, I can get you another plate in no time.”

“I’m fine,” said Gretchen, blowing a kiss at him. “Go away.”

When he departed she looked at me. “Sit. Take Ingrid’s chair, she’ll be gone awhile. Bladder infection. I tell her to drink cranberry juice, but she hates it.”

“Old friend?” said Milo.

“New friend.”

“Let’s talk about Lauren Teague. Someone shot her and dumped her in an alley.”

Gretchen’s flat expression maintained. She put the crayfish down. “How terrible. I thought she was too smart for that.”

“Too smart for what?”

“Going into business without me.”

“You think that’s what killed her?”

Off came the sunglasses. The brown eyes were piercing and focused; childhood learning difficulties seemed remote, and I wondered how many of the rumors about her were true.

“So do you,” she said. “That’s why you’re here.”

“Were you and she in touch?”

Gretchen shook her head. “After I retired, I cut all ties to the staff.”

“How long has it been since you saw Lauren?”

Gretchen tried to pry something from between her teeth. Stubby nails weren’t up to the task. She removed the toothpick from a crayfish and began probing. “She resigned before I retired.”

“How long before?”

“Maybe a year.”

“Why?” said Milo.

“She never said.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“Why should I?” said Gretchen. “It wasn’t as if there was a personnel shortage.”

“Any idea why she quit?”

“It could’ve been anything.”

“You never discussed it.”

“Nope. She e-mailed me, I e-mailed back.”

“She was into computers,” said Milo.

Gretchen laughed.

Milo said, “What’s funny?”

“That’s like asking if she was into refrigerators.” She reskewered the crayfish.

“Any theories?” said Milo. “About why she quit?”

“Nope.”

“What else do you remember about Lauren?”

“Great body, knew how to do makeup, no need for surgery. Some clients don’t like bionics.”

“Think she might’ve picked up a steady?” said Milo.

“Anything’s possible.”

“Did you know she’d gone back to school?”

“Really,” said Gretchen. “How self-improving.” She folded her hands in her lap.

“When she was working for you, did she complain of problematic clients?”

“Nope.”

“No problems at all?”

“She was good with people. I was sorry to see her go.”

“Did she have any particular specialties?”

“Other than being gorgeous and smart and polite?”

“No kinks?”

Gretchen smiled. “Kinks?”

“Anything out of the ordinary.”

Gretchen laughed. “How could I even begin to answer that.”

“How about yes or no, and if it’s yes, some details?”

Gretchen sat back and crossed her legs. Her back was against the wall, and she seemed to enjoy the support. “The truth is, people are depressingly ordinary.”

“Guys were willing to pay big-time for ordinary?”

“Guys were willing to pay to have it on their terms.”

“So Lauren had no specialties?”

Shrug.

“What about special clients? Guys who requested her specifically?”

Gretchen shook her head. Picked up a crayfish and stared at the crustacean. “Look at those eyes. It’s as if he knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That he’s dead.”

Milo said, “Who requested Lauren?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

Milo edged his chair closer to her. From the way he talked into her ear and her sudden, warm smile, they might’ve been lovers.

“Help me out here,” he said. “We’re talking murder.”

“I can help if you want to buy a dress.” She drew her head back and looked him up and down. “I don’t think you’d like our styles.”

Milo stayed close to her. “Someone tied Lauren up and shot her in the back of the head and left her like garbage in a Dumpster. Give me a name. Anyone who had a thing for Lauren.”

Gretchen touched his tie, lifted it, and kissed the tip. “Nice syntho. Chez Sears? Tar-zhay?”

“What about girls she worked with? Friends on the staff?”

“Far as I recall, she went it alone.”

“What about Michelle?”

“Michelle,” said Gretchen. “As in…?”

“A brunette Lauren stripped with – they both did the party scene. Back when you were in business. Was that one of your subsidiaries?”

“Uh-uh. I specialized.”

“In what?”

“Networking. The tools of commerce.”

“Nuts into bolts,” said Milo. “So Lauren and Michelle were freelancing on the side?”

Gretchen smiled again. “You’re cute.”

“Did you have a Michelle on staff?”

“It’s a common name.”

“How about a last name?”

Gretchen placed her lips next to Milo’s ears. Flicked his lobe with her tongue. Gave a soft, dry laugh. “I have nothing to offer because I’m nothing. A speck of lint in the navel of the least important creature in the universe. And that makes me free.”

“You’re anything but nothing,” said Milo. “I’d say you’re a presence.”

“You are so sweet,” said Gretchen. “I’ll bet you treat the girls gently.”

Milo’s turn to smile. “So how about tossing me a bone? Off the record. Michelle what?”

“Michelle, ma belle. Sont les whatever.” Gretchen began toying with the crayfish. “Those eyes. He’s like, Let me sit on this plate dead and get all shriveled up but leave me intact, I just don’t want to be chewed up.”

“Lauren didn’t end up intact.”

Gretchen sighed. “They really should remove the eyes.”

Milo said, “So that’s it? Nothing?”

“Have a nice day,” said Gretchen.

On the way out we met Ingrid returning.

Milo blocked her way. “Lauren Teague was murdered.”

Lavender lips parted. “Oh.” Then: “Who’s Lauren?”

“An old friend of Gretchen’s.”

“I’m a new friend.”

“I don’t think so, dear,” said Milo. “I think you and ol’ Gretch go way back – Ten to one I can get hold of your sheet like that.” Snapping fingers in front of her face. “Seen Michelle recently?”

“Michelle who?”

“My, my, the same old song – Michelle the tall brunette who used to dance with Lauren.”

Ingrid shook her head. Milo’s hand closed around her arm. “We can discuss this in my office or you can continue your meal.”

Ingrid’s eyes burned fiercely. She craned to get a look at Gretchen’s table.

“Don’t worry,” said Milo. “I won’t let her know you told me.”

“Told you what?”

“Michelle’s last name.”

“I don’t know any Michelle. I’ve heard mention of Michelle Salazar – Did Gretchen eat anything?”

“Not much.”

“Damn! She needs to eat. Please don’t bother her lunch again.”