Monster

Chapter 8

At Eight P.M. Milo called. "Am I interrupting anything?"

He'd missed interrupting by an hour. Robin was reading in bed and I'd taken Spike for a short walk up the canyon. When the phone rang, I was sitting out on the terrace, trying to rid my mind of question marks, struggling to concentrate on the sound of the waterfall that fed the fishpond. Grateful because I couldn't hear the freeway.

"Not at all. What's up?"

"Got the info on Claire and Stargill. Married two years, divorced nearly two, no kids. I reached Stargill. He says the split was amicable. He's a partner in a ten-lawyer firm, remarried three months ago. He just learned about Claire. San Diego papers didn't carry it, but one of his partners was up here, read about it."

"What was his demeanor?"

"He sounded pretty upset over the phone, but what the hell does that mean? Said he doubted there was anything he could add but he'd talk to me. I set up an appointment for tomorrow morning at ten."

"San Diego?"

"No, he's driving up."

"Very cooperative fellow."

"He has business here anyway. Some commercial property closings-he's a real estate lawyer."

"So he comes up to L.A. regularly."

"Yeah, I made note of that. Let's see what he's like face-to-face. We're meeting at Claire's house. Which she owns. It was his bachelor place, but after the divorce he signed it over to her and agreed to pay the mortgage and taxes in lieu of alimony and her dipping into his stocks and bonds."

"Who inherits the property now?"

"Good question. Stargill wasn't aware of any will, and he claims neither of them took out insurance on the other. I never came across any policies; Claire was thirty-nine, probably wasn't figuring on dying. I suppose a lawyer would know how to play the probate process-he might make a case for mortgage payment constituting partial ownership. But my guess her parents would come first. What do you think a place like that is worth?"

"Three hundred or so. How much is equity?"

"We'll find that out tomorrow if Mr. Cooperative stays cooperative… Maybe he got tired of paying her bills, huh?"

"It could chafe, especially now that he's remarried. Especially if he's got money problems. Be good to know what his finances are like."

"If you want to meet him, be there at ten. I left a message with Heidi Ott's machine, no callback yet. And the lab sent another report on the prints: definitely only Claire's. Looks like she really did go it alone."

The next morning I called Dr. Myron Theobold at County Hospital, left a voicemail message, and drove to Cape Horn Drive, arriving at 9:45. Milo's unmarked was already there, parked at the curb. A deep-gray late-model BMW sedan sat in front of the garage, ski clamps on the roof.

The house's front door was unlocked, and I entered. Milo had reassumed his position at the center of the empty living room. Near the kitchen counter stood a man in his forties wearing a blue suit, white shirt, yellow pin-dot tie. He was just shy of six feet, trim, with short, curly red hair and a matching beard streaked with gray. Skinny gold watch on his left wrist, wedding band studded with small diamonds, shiny oxblood wingtips.

Milo said, "This is Dr. Delaware, our psychological consultant. Doctor, Mr. Stargill."

"Joe Stargill." A hand extended. Dry palms but unsteady hazel eyes. His voice was slightly hoarse. He looked past me, into the empty room, and shook his head.

"Mr. Stargill was just saying the house looks pretty different."

Stargill said, "This wasn't the way we lived. We had wall-to-wall carpeting, furniture. Over there was a big leather sofa; that wall held a chrome cabinet-an etagere, I think it was called. Claire taught me that. I'd bought a few things when I was single but Claire filled it in. Pottery, figurines, macrame, all that good stuff." He shook his head again. "She must have gone through some major changes."

"When's the last time you spoke to her, sir?" said Milo.

"When I U-Hauled my things away. Maybe a half-year before the final decree."

"So you were separated before the divorce."

Stargill nodded, touched the tip of his beard.

Milo said, "So your last contact would be around two and a half years ago."

"That's right."

"You never talked about the divorce?"

"Well, sure. A phone call here and there to wrap up details. I thought you meant a real conversation."

"Ah," said Milo. "And after the divorce you never came back to visit?"

"No reason to," said Stargill. "Claire and I were over- we'd been over long before we made it official. Never really started, actually."

"The marriage went bad quickly."

Stargill sighed and buttoned his jacket. His hands were broad, ruddy, coated with beer-colored hair. "It wasn't a matter of going bad. The whole thing was essentially a mistake. Here, I brought this. Found it this morning."

He fished out a crocodile wallet and removed a small photo, which Milo examined, then handed to me.

Color snapshot of Claire and Stargill arm in arm, "Just Married" banner in the background. He wore a tan suit and brown turtleneck shirt, no beard, eyeglasses. His nude face was bony, his smile tentative.

Claire had on a long, pale blue sleeveless dress printed with lavender pansies, and she carried a bouquet of white roses. Her hair was long, straight, parted in the middle, her face leaner than in the headshot I'd seen, the cheekbones more pronounced.

Full smile.

"Don't really know why I brought it," said Stargill. "Didn't know I even had it."

"Where'd you find it?" said Milo.

"In my office. I went in early this morning before driving up here, started going through all the paperwork Claire and I had in common: divorce documents, transfer of ownership for the house. It's all out in the car-take whatever you want. The picture popped out from between some pages."

Stargill turned to me. "Guess a psychologist could interpret that-still having it. Maybe it does mean something on a subconscious level, but I sure don't remember holding on to it intentionally. Seeing it again was bizarre. We look pretty happy, don't we?"

I studied the photo some more. A flimsy-looking altar flecked with glitter was visible between the newlyweds. Glittering red hearts on the walls, a pink Cupid figurine with Dizzy Gillespie cheeks.

"Vegas?" I said.

"Reno," said Stargill. "Tackiest wedding chapel you ever saw. The guy who officiated was an old geezer, half blind, probably drunk. We got into town well after midnight. The geezer was closing up and I slipped him a twenty to do a quickie ceremony. His wife had already gone home, so some janitor-another old guy-served as witness. Afterward Claire and I joked that they were both senile-it probably wasn't legal."

He placed his hands on the counter, stared blankly into the kitchen. "When I lived here, we had appliances all over the place-juicer, blender, coffee maker, you name it. Claire wanted every gizmo invented… Wonder what she did with the stuff-looks like she was stripping everything away."

"Any idea why she'd do that?" I said.

"No," he said. "Like I said, we weren't in touch. Truth is, even when we were together I couldn't have told you what made her tick. All she ever really liked was going to the movies-she could see a flick a night. Sometimes it didn't seem to matter what was on the screen, she just liked being in the theater. Beyond that, I never knew her at all."

"Where'd the two of you meet?"

"Another major romantic story: hotel cocktail lounge. Marriott at the airport, to be specific. I was there to meet a client from the Far East who never showed up, and Claire was attending a psychology convention. I'm sitting at the bar, irritated because this guy does this to me all the time, and now I've wasted half a day. Claire glides in looking great, sits a few stools down."

He pointed at the picture. "As you can see, she was an eyeful back then. Different from my usual type, but maybe that's what did it."

"Different, how?" I said.

"I'd been dating legal secretaries, paralegals, a few models, wannabe actresses-we're talking girls who were into fashion, makeup, the whole body-beautiful thing. Claire looked like exactly what she was: a scholar. Great structure, but she didn't mess with herself. That afternoon she was wearing granny glasses and one of those long print dresses. Her whole wardrobe was those dresses and some jeans and T-shirts. No makeup. No high heels-open sandals, I remember looking down at her feet. She had really pretty feet, adorable white toes. She saw me staring and laughed-this low chuckle that struck me as being really sexy, and then I started to look past the glasses and I realized she was great-looking. She ordered a ginger ale, I was well into the Bloody Marys. I made some crack about her being a wild party girl. She laughed again and I moved closer and the rest is history. We got married two months later. At the beginning, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven."

He had a redhead's typical milky complexion and now it pinkened.

"That's the whole sordid story," he said. "I don't know why I came here, but if there's nothing else-"

"Died and gone to heaven?" said Milo.

Pink turned to rose. "Physically," said Stargill. "I don't want to be vulgar, but maybe this will help you in some way. What drew Claire and me together was one thing: sex. We ended up getting a room at the Marriott and stayed there till midnight. She was- Let's just say I'd never met anyone like her, the chemistry was incredible. After her, those other girls seemed like mannequins. I don't want to be disrespectful, let's leave it at that."

I said, "But the chemistry didn't last."

He unbuttoned his jacket, put a hand in his pocket. "Maybe it was too much too quickly. Maybe every flame burns out, I don't know. I'm sure some of the blame was mine. Maybe most. She wasn't my first wife. I'd gotten hitched in college- that one lasted less than a year; obviously I wasn't good at the matrimony thing. After we started living together, it was like… something sputtered. No fights, just… no fire. Both of us were really into our work, we didn't spend much time together."

The beard hair under his lip vibrated a bit. "We never fought. She just seemed to lose interest. I think she lost interest first, but after a while it stopped bothering me. I felt I was living with a stranger. Maybe I had been all along."

The other hand went in a pocket. Now he was slouching. "So here I am, forty-one, working on my third. Happy honeymoon so far, but who knows?"

I noticed that he tended to shift the focus to himself. Self-centered, or an intentional distraction?

I said, "So Claire was really into her work. Did that ever change?"

"Not that I saw. But I wouldn't have known. We never talked about work. We never talked about anything. It was weird-one moment we're getting hitched, having hurricane sex, then we're each going about our business. I tried. I invited her to the office a couple of times, but she was always too busy. She never invited me to her lab. One time I dropped in on her anyway. What a zoo, all those drunks lurching around. She didn't seem happy to see me-like I was intruding. Eventually, we were avoiding each other completely. Easy to do when you're both working seventy hours a week. I'd get home when she was already asleep; she'd wake up early, be over at the hospital by the time I was in the shower. Only reason we stayed married for two years is each of us was too busy-or too lazy-to file the papers."

"Who ended up filing?" I said.

"Claire did. I remember the day she announced it to me. I came home late, but this time she was up, in bed doing a crossword puzzle. She pulls out a stack of papers, says, 'I thought it was about time, Joe. How do you feel about it?' I remember feeling relieved. But also hurt. Because she didn't even want to try to work it out. Also, for me it was the second time, and I was wondering if I'd ever pull off the whole relationship thing. I moved out, but she didn't actually file for six months."

"Any idea why?" said Milo.

"She said she hadn't gotten around to it."

"What was the financial agreement?" said Milo.

"Polite," said Stargill. "No hassles; we worked the whole thing out with one phone call. I give Claire big points for fairness, because she refused to hire a lawyer, let me know she had no intention of cleaning me out. And I was the vulnerable one, I had the assets-investments, pension plan, I had some real estate things cooking. She could've made my life miserable, but all she asked was for me to deed her the house, finish paying it off, and handle the property taxes. Everything else was mine. I left her the furniture, walked away with my clothes and my law books and my stereo."

He rubbed an eye, turned away, tried to speak, cleared his throat. "The paperwork was easy-we never filed a joint tax return. She never changed her name. I thought it was a feminist thing, but now I wonder if she ever intended to stay with me."

"Did that bother you?" said Milo.

"Why should it? The whole marriage didn't feel like a marriage. More like a one-night stand that stretched out. I'm not saying I didn't respect Claire as a person. She was a terrific woman. Considerate, kind. That was the only downer: I liked her-as a person. And I know she liked me. My first wife was twenty when she left me, we'd been together eleven months and she tried to enslave me for the rest of my life. Claire was so damn decent. I wouldn't have minded remaining her friend. But it just didn't go down that way… I can't understand why anyone would want to hurt her."

He rubbed his eyes.

"When did you move to San Diego?" said Milo.

"Right after the divorce. A job opportunity came up, and I'd had it with L.A., couldn't wait to get out."

"Fed up with the smog?" said Milo.

"The smog, the congestion, the crime. I wanted to live near the beach, found myself a little rental near Del Mar. The first year, Claire and I exchanged Christmas cards, then that stopped."

"Did Claire have any enemies you were aware of?" said Milo.

"No way. I never saw her offend anyone-maybe some nutcase at County got an idea in his head, stalked her or something. I still remember those drunks leering, smelling of barf, leaking all over the place when they walked. I couldn't see how Claire could work with them. But she was real business like about it, giving them these tests, doing research. Nothing grossed her out. I'm no expert, but I'd concentrate on County."

He folded his handkerchief and Milo and I used the split second to exchange glances. Stargill didn't know about the job switch to Starkweather. Or wanted us to think he didn't.

Milo shook his head. Don't bring it up now.

He said, "How much is owed on the house, Mr. Stargill?" Quick change of context. It throws people off balance. Stargill actually stepped backward.

"Around fifty thousand. By now the payments are mostly principal; I was thinking of paying it off."

"Why's that?"

"Not much of a tax deduction anymore."

"Who gets the property in the event of Dr. Argent's death?"

Stargill studied him. Buttoned his coat. "I wouldn't know."

"So you and she didn't have any agreement-in the event of her demise, it reverts to you?"

"Absolutely not."

"And so far, no will's turned up-do you have a will, sir?"

"I do. Why is that relevant, Detective Sturgis?"

"Just being thorough."

Stargill's nostrils expanded. "I'm the ex, so I'm a suspect? Oh, come on." He laughed. "What's the motive?" Laughing again, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels-a courtroom gesture. "Even if I did get the house, three hundred thousand equity, tops. One of the things I did when I moved to S.D. was invest in seaside property. I've got a net worth of six, seven million, so murdering Claire for another three, before taxes, would be ludicrous."

He walked to the bare kitchen counter and rubbed the Formica. "Claire and I were never enemies. I couldn't have asked for a better ex-wife, so why the hell would I hurt her?"

"Sir," said Milo, "I have to ask these questions."

"Sure. Fine. Ask. Hearing about Claire made me sick to my stomach. I felt this stupid urge to do something-to be useful. That's why I drove up, brought you all the documents. I should've figured you'd see me as a suspect, but still it's…" Shrugging, he turned his back on us. "All I can say is, glad it's your job and not mine. Anything else you want to quiz me on?"

I said, "What can you tell us about Claire's family background, her social life?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing about her family?"

"Never met her family. All I know is she was born in Pittsburgh, did undergrad at the University of Pittsburgh, went to Case Western for her Ph.D. Only reason I know that is I saw her diplomas in her office. She refused to talk about her past."

"Refused, or avoided?" I said.

"Both."

"And she never talked at all about her family?"

Stargill pivoted and stared at me. "That's right. She was a closed book. Claimed she had no brothers and sisters. Her parents ran some kind of store. Other than that, I don't know a thing."

He shook his head. "I talked plenty about my family, and she listened. Or pretended to. But she never met my side, either. My choice."

"Why's that?" I said.

"Because I don't like my family. My mother was okay-a quiet drunk-but by the time I met Claire, she was dead. My father was a violent, drunken sonofabitch I wouldn't have tossed a stick at, let alone introduced to my bride. Same for my brother."

He gave a sick smile. "Get it? I'm one of those adult children of alcoholics et cetera, et cetera. Never developed a drinking problem myself, but I watch myself, went through the whole therapy thing after my mother killed herself. When I saw Claire with that ginger ale I wondered if maybe she had some history with alcohol, maybe we had something in common. I ended up telling her about my colorful background." The smile acquired teeth. "Turned out, she just liked ginger ale."

"Not a mention of her family in two years of marriage," I said. "Amazing."

"Like I said, it wasn't your typical marriage. Every time I tried to get personal, she changed the subject." He rubbed his scalp and the corners of his mouth curled up-outward trappings of another smile, but his mood was hard to read. "And she had an interesting way of changing the subject."

"What's that?" I said.

"She took me to bed."