Mystery

ilo stopped to stare at the ranch houses before slipping into the passenger seat. “Place calls itself Awakenings but Manlow admitted most of the patients go back to sleep. Including Steve-o. The way she got squirrelly about Longellos tells me there was a hookup. And that Muhrmann was a problem child. So what constitutes a problem in a place like this?”

“Chronic noncompliance,” I said. “Or consorting with another patient. In this case an older woman with problems of her own.”

“Consorting,” he said. “Love your knack for the genteel. Yeah, maybe he consorted with DUI Connie. Who can’t be found anymore.” He grimaced. “The Caspar kid described Muhrmann as hostile and aggressive. Maybe women he consorts with don’t fare well. But Dr. Manlow wouldn’t come out and say he was dangerous.”

“Maybe he wasn’t when he was here. One good thing, we’re developing a time line: Longellos and Muhrmann get busted around the same time, Muhrmann’s out for a year or so when he uses her as a reference for the house on Russell. By that time, he and Mystery are hanging out, maybe to shoot a porno. He has eleven grand in cash but comes to his mother eight months ago for more money. She gives him two, which he probably uses for dope, because once his upfront rent’s paid off, he stops paying. Whatever his relationship with Connie Longellos, he kept seeing Mystery. Maybe for sex, maybe for business, maybe for both. Which could tie in with that scene I saw at the Fauborg: some sort of fantasy game involving the two of them and a third party.”

“Mystery’s hot date,” he said. “We’ve been assuming a man, but what if this Connie was part of the threesome? That could explain two weapons when the time came for Mystery to go. A woman might not have enough shooting experience to do it on her own.”

“But she might get a charge out of being part of a firing squad.”

He thought about that. “Sick. Okay, Thai time, but make a stop first.”

“Where?”

“I see it, I’ll tell you.”

We’d traveled half a mile on Colorado when Milo said, “Here.”

Twenty-four-hour photocopy place. Dime-a-page faxing.

He phoned Brandon Caspar at Zephyr Properties, told him to be on standby, then slipped the drawing of Mystery into a machine.

Moments later, Brandon called back.

Milo said, “Probably? You’re not positive?” A beat. “No one’s asking you to place a bet, Brandon, just go with your gut … no, we’re not even close to charging anyone with anything so don’t worry about going to court … yes, I do remember Brigitte Bardot … yes, I can see the resemblance but what I want to know is … okay, I’ll settle for most probably.”

Clicking off, he said, “Unless you’re starving, forget Thai.”

“Lost your appetite?”

“More like putting it on hold. I was hoping the kid would give me a positive I.D. and I could get Muhrmann’s face on the news.” He snatched the drawing out of the fax machine.

Back in the car, he said, “What the hell, nothing ventured.”

As I aimed for the freeway, he called Public Affairs, hung up squeezing the phone so hard it squeaked.

“As far as they’re concerned I’ve still got insufficient cause but even if I did have enough, the chance of getting more media time would be slim to none. ’Cause that would violate the one-time rule.”

I said, “You get one shot per case?”

“Unofficially, no, but apparently hell yeah. Unless it’s a big-time serial killer task force or something the department views as especially media-worthy.”

“Celebrities in trouble?” I said.

“That would work.”

“You’d think O.J. would’ve been a lesson.”

“Yeah, right. Every idiot wants to be a star or at least fuck one.”

“How about some cheap rationalization? Going public on Muhrmann too early could drive him underground.”

“There’s always that risk,” he said. “But Muhrmann’s not some sixteen-year-old gangbanger who’s never been on a plane. For all I know, he’s already out of sight. Also, the two-killer scenario might mean he’s got a partner willing to finance an escape.”

“Homicidal Sugar Daddy.”

“Or Mommy, if it’s elusive Connie or someone like her. Did SukRose mention anything about that?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Either way, there’s a name in the Agajanians’ database that would bust this thing wide open but I can’t access it because Big Brother Brian’s a damn attorney.”

He looked up Brian Agajanian’s office number. Huge firm in Century City. Mr. Agajanian was out, his secretary had no idea when he’d be back. When Milo identified himself, her voice closed up and her promise to pass along the message took on the sincerity of a diplomat’s dinner banter.

A DMV search produced Agajanian’s home address in Glendale, off the Brand Boulevard exit.

Right on our way as we sped west on the 210.

“Talk about karma,” said Milo. “Let’s yank this guy’s leash, see how good a guard dog he really is.”

The house was a two-story Spanish perched atop a hillside covered with verbena. Evening was settling in. As the contours of the mountains receded, freckles of city light asserted themselves.

It took a steep hike to get to the paved mesa that served as Brian Agajanian’s parking area. Two vehicles rested up there, leaving no spare space. We left the Seville down below and climbed.

Milo started to huff at the halfway point. “There better be gain with pain.”

By the time we reached the top, he was breathing hard and, in between exhalations, muttering a low mantra of rage.

Agajanian’s wheels were a steel-gray Lexus RX SUV with a Baby On Board sticker. Two kiddie seats took up the back. Video screens were built into the headrests. Behind that, an immaculate white Porsche Boxster sported BRY ATT personalized plates.

“Proud of himself,” said Milo, catching his breath. “Having the capacity for shame is probably too much to ask of him.”

He jabbed a bell circled by a small, lacquered wreath of pinecones and maple leaves. A pretty, buxom redheaded woman in a red top and black leggings came to the door holding a sleeping infant wearing a pale blue hybrid of swaddle blanket and p.j.’s that evoked Swee’Pea.

“Oh, I thought you were …?” An anticipatory smile gave way to anxiety.

“Ms. Agajanian? Los Angeles Police Department. We need to talk to Mr. Brian Agajanian.”

“I thought you were my mother,” she said. “She’ll be here soon. There’s nothing wrong, right?”

Milo said, “Nothing at all. We just need to talk to your husband. Is he here?”

Stepping back into a spotless travertine entry hall, she hugged the baby to her breast. “Bri-an!”

A tall, thin, black-haired man with an arched nose and a barbered goatee trotted in. He wore a white T-shirt, blue sweatpants with a white stripe running down the leg, yellow-and-black running shoes. “Everything okay, Mel?”

She pointed.

Black eyes swung to us. “Can I help you?”

“They’re the police, Bri.”

“What?” Addressing the question to us, not his wife.

She said, “They’re the—”

“Go back inside, Mel.”

“Is everything okay?” Rocking the still-dozing baby.

“Of course. Go back inside.” His glare dared us to contradict him.

Milo said, “Everything’s peachy.” The baby stirred. Mel Agajanian cooed, “Sh-sh, sh, sh,” and rocked the child.

Brian Agajanian’s eyes slitted. “Put him to bed. I’ll take it from here.”

Once she complied, he stepped out of his house, strode to the outer edge of the flattened parking area, stopped an inch from the drop. One misstep and he’d be plummeting through a slalom of verbena. Folding his arms across his chest, he studied each of us, pretended to care about the darkening sky, then the lights below. Young man but the black hair was thinning and deep furrows scored his cheeks before confronting beard hairs. “This can’t be about what I think it is.”

Milo said, “That’s a pretty complex sentence, Mr. Agajanian.”

“Okay, here’s a simple one: What’s. This. About?”

“A name in your sisters’ data bank.”

Brian Agajanian punched a palm. “Unbelievable. For that you disrupt my privacy and scare my wife?”

“Think of it as a friendly visit.”

Agajanian’s arms crossed his chest. His pinched expression said he was wearing the tightest sports bra in the universe. “I know you have a job to do but this is really outrageous.”

Milo snapped open his attaché case and brandished a photo. Close-up of the bloody swamp that had once been the face of the girl called Mystery.

“Yech.” Brian Agajanian swayed, canting dangerously toward the hillside. Milo braced his left arm.

Agajanian shrugged him off, careful to keep his movement slow and easy.

Milo said, “You looked like you were losing your balance.”

“I’m fine,” said Agajanian, averting his eye from the image. “That’s disgusting, there was no need for that. Why didn’t you just call my office?”

“We did. Your secretary promised to call you right away but we never heard back.”

“I was working outside the office, haven’t checked messages.”

“Outside, as in your sisters’ office?”

“Outside is all you need to know. Now, you really should go. This is totally inappropriate.”

Milo said, “If we had reached you on the phone would you have given me that poor girl’s real name?”

“What makes you think this will be effective?”

“I always go for the personal touch.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Sturgis, West L.A. Division.”

“And you’re a lieutenant.”

Milo smiled. “And you’re an attorney.”

Agajanian said, “Lieutenant Sturgis,” as if caching a weapon.

Milo said, “If you’d like to enter it into your PDA, I’d be happy to wait.”

“That’s okay, I have a good memory.”

“Does that include this poor girl’s real name?”

Agajanian didn’t answer.

Milo said, “I also need the name of anyone your sisters hooked her up with—”

“My sisters don’t hook anyone up, they’ve created a social networking site.”

“Where people pay them for the privilege of hooking up.”

“It’s not a fine point, it’s the crux, Lieutenant. There’s no genuine agency here, meaning SukRose is not a party to any transaction and as such—”

“They’re aiming to be the eBay of May–December romance,” said Milo. “I hope they make billions. Meanwhile, give me names for one particular May and any Decembers in her past so we can find out who turned her into hamburger. At the least, we’ll be able to notify her family so what’s left of her—her components—are not stacked indefinitely in a refrigerated closet—”

“I get you, Lieutenant Sturgis. But no, sorry, can’t help.”

Milo loomed. “Why not?”

“Why not? Because SukRose could conceivably end up incurring legal responsibility for any ensuing personal damage brought about by your investigation. Then there’s the general matter of privacy and—”

“I get you, Mr. Agajanian.”

“Meaning?”

“You were always a good student but the sight of blood grossed you out so instead of becoming a doctor where you might actually be able to help someone, you chose a profession where you get paid to turn simple things complicated by creating a foreign language called lawyer-speak that you can then charge poor suckers to translate.”

Arcing a thumb at the Boxster’s personalized plate, Milo winked. “Life is good, huh?”

Brian Agajanian’s jaw dropped, then slammed shut, tightening to compensate. “I’m not going to stand here and justify my profession. Some things are complicated and your situation falls into that category.”

Milo dropped the death photo into his case. “Suit yourself, Brian. Have you discussed with your sisters the fact that the less you tell us, the more public exposure their company’s going to get? But not the right type of exposure? As in tomorrow’s six o’clock news letting the world know that one of their Sweeties ended up murdered and they’ve refused to help furnish evidence?”

“That,” said Agajanian, “would incur consequences of its own.”

“You bet it would, Brian. If I’m a rich geezer looking for a nubile hard-body I’m not gonna turn to a website where a hard-body got turned nasty-mushy and the police are snooping around.”

“That’s my point! Your snooping is potentially deleterious to the survival of—”

“What’s deleterious, Brian, is your letting things get to the point where everything’s out in the open.”

“You’re the one ripping it wide open.”

“Business is business,” said Milo. “Mine is putting away bad guys and if your sisters are taking money from a murderer to whom they supply girls—directly or indirectly—you think that’s gonna help their business? It’s in their best interests to clear this up. One way or the other, I’m gonna find out who killed that poor girl and why. The only question is do Suki and Rosalynn end up part of the problem or part of the solution.”

Agajanian’s chest heaved. He stared at the sky.

“Brian?”

“They end up neither, because they’re not involved any more than the phone company’s involved when someone makes a crank call.”

“We subpoena phone records,” said Milo. “Have no problem getting compliance.”

“Then maybe you should subpoena us.”

“Suit yourself, Brian. Meanwhile, my Public Affairs Division tells me there’s a TV reporter doing a story on computer dating sites, real pushy type, chafing at the bit to learn more about your sisters.”

“My sisters have done nothing wrong.”

“If you say so. We’re finished, go enjoy your family.” Milo turned to leave.

Brian Agajanian said, “You’re telling me there’s been a specific request to cover SukRose.net?”

“What started out as general interest got specific when news of this poor girl’s murder got out.”

“You didn’t purposely direct this reporter to my sisters?”

“Nope.”

“But if I don’t comply, you will.”

“Brian, the less media contact I have, the better. But once the wheels start spinning, it’s hard to put the brakes on.”

“This is wrong. This is totally wrong.” Agajanian tapped a foot, looked out over the rooftops of houses beneath his. “Okay, I didn’t want to get into this but maybe it’ll prevent you from wasting your time and ours. Trust me, there is no possible connection between my sisters’ client and your victim’s murder. None, whatsoever.”

“One client,” said Milo. “You’re saying she only hooked up with one Daddy?”

“I’m saying you’re wasting your time looking at any client of my sisters. You have my personal assurance in that regard.”

“That so?”

“Cross my heart.” Agajanian’s smile was smug. The joy of regaining the upper hand.

Milo said, “Well, here’s my personal assurance, Brian: If you want your sisters’ business to thrive, you’re gonna need to cut the crap and stop dancing around and give me two names. Hers and her date’s. Once you do that, I’m out of your hair.”

“What if you decide to get back into my hair?”

“Then you’ll need one helluva comb.”

“Very funny—”

“It’s not funny, Brian. Nothing’s funny. A poor girl got her face blown off and even if I had a sense of humor to begin with, I lost it. You’ve got ten seconds to decide before those wheels start spinning.”

Agajanian’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. He licked his lips.

New smile. Tight, cold, focused.

Milo said, “Nice talking to you, Brian.”

Agajanian said, “Should SukRose choose to help your department in the pursuit of their investigation and should SukRose at some point require confirmation of that help, I need a guarantee that said confirmation will be forthcoming without undue delay or obfuscation. Furthermore, the police department must pledge to do its utmost to shield SukRose from unwarranted media exposure, excepting such exposure that SukRose solicits in pursuit of its own legitimate interests, not to exclude film, television, or printed media adaptation.”

“You want to write a screenplay?”

“Just buttoning down details, Lieutenant. Finally, it is imperative that SukRose not be identified as the source of the information you are seeking in any way that exposes the company or its principals to civil or criminal liability.”

That sounded like a motion he’d drafted and memorized. To my ear, meaningless, unenforcable pap.

Maybe he needed to face-save at the next family reunion.

Milo smiled. “You’re a good brother, Brian. And that all sounds fine to me.”

Brian Agajanian breathed in deeply, closed his eyes. “The name in our files is Tara Sly.”

“Sly as in—”

“Clever, tricky. And that’s all I know about her except for what she listed on her page. Women don’t pay a fee so we don’t collect personal data from them. Therefore I have no address or financial information to give you, only the email address she was using at the time, which is taracuteee@gmail.com. I tried to send an email there and it got kicked back as an inactive account. And yes, she did connect to only one client but as I told you he’s irrelevant.”

“Because he’s a saint?”

“Even better,” said Agajanian. “He’s deceased.”

“His email got kicked back, too?”

“I checked him out in public records, found the death certificate. Natural causes.”

“Thorough, Brian.”

“No need to thank me.”

“I’ll thank you once I get a copy of Tara Sly’s page as it was when she posted it on SukRose. Same for the late, lamented Sugar Daddy and his personal information.”

“I just told you, he’s dead,” said Agajanian. “Nine months ago.”

“I’m a thorough guy, Brian.”

Agajanian flexed a biceps. “You cannot tell his family you found him through SukRose.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“Fine, fine.” Agajanian’s face was wet with sweat. “If you promise me that’s the end of it.”

“Cross my heart, Brian.”

“Wait here, I’ll bring it to you.”

“Thank you, Brian.”

“I still don’t know why you’d care about a dead guy.”

“Old habits,” said Milo.