Mystery

uki Agajanian returned from the lav pasty-faced and hunched, limp hair tied in an unruly knot.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she said, as if we’d expressed concern.

Milo said, “Now what else are you going to tell us?”

“I swear there’s nothing, guys. It’s not like I actually met her. Or him. To us they’re just names.”

We waited her out.

She said, “I swear.”

“One more question: Did anyone else named Suss log onto your site?”

She hesitated, threw up her hands, typed. “Negative.”

“What about Longellos?” He spelled it.

“Negative.”

“Okay, Suki, we’re leaving now but if we find out you held back on anything—”

“I haven’t,” she said. “That would be poor judgment and I’m known for good judgment. We’re going to button things down even tighter from now on, but no one ever accused any of us of being stupid.”

“Let’s hear it for the Agajanian kids,” he said.

“We’re achievers. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Now, I really need to get to those emails.”

We left her at her desk, texting with one hand, typing with the other. But before we reached the door to the hallway, she was running toward us, barefoot. “Could I ask you one thing—you don’t have to answer but I really need to ask. How’d you actually connect us with her? Tara. Whatever her real name is.”

“Just what we told you,” said Milo. “Anonymous tip.”

Ashen innocence gave way to a crafty smile. “C’mon, guys, really.”

“Really.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Who’d want to screw us like that? That’s totally sneaky and low.”

Milo said, “Anonymous tips are our bread and butter.”

“That’s so sad.”

“What is?”

“People messing with each other.”

He winked at her. “We love our job anyway.”

As we walked to the elevator, he said, “Truth is, I’ve been wondering about the tip myself, trying to figure out who else knew about any of this. With all the trouble Muhrmann and Tara and probably Connie Longellos took to cover their tracks, you’d think they wouldn’t confide in anyone else.”

I kept my voice even. “You’d think.”

In the car, he said, “Rich family, it’s all gonna boil down to mow-ney.”

I said, “How about this for a soap opera: Suss fell quickly into lust, started out paying Tara a monthly allowance, no big deal for someone with his net worth. Then he became emotionally involved and upped the stipend. With Stevie and Connie and Tara splitting the proceeds, that kind of progress was in everyone’s interest. But the goose keeled over unexpectedly, the income stream dribbled out, and not only did Tara refuse to hook up with another Daddy, she wanted a lump-sum payment to finance her retirement, threatened Connie she’d tell the rest of the family about the scheme. That would mean more than lost income to Connie. It would spell disaster.”

“Swimming with the sharks,” he said. “Stupid delusional kid. But who was she waiting for that night at the Fauborg?”

“Maybe Connie.”

“You said she looked like she was out on a date.”

“Yes, I did.”

The elevator arrived. Empty. Once we were inside, he searched for cameras, found nothing but didn’t speak.

When we were back in the parking lot, he said, “Connie’s relationship with Tara was more than business?”

I smiled. “It happens.”

“A threesome,” he said. “Tara, Connie, and Steve-o, sex and money all meshed up together. Oh, man, that’s more than a soap opera. More like a reality show.”

“American Idolatry?”

We both laughed.

I said, “One more thing: Tara’s ambitions could’ve been fueled by promises Suss made to her, as in permanent relationship.”

“Leaving his wife for his bimbo?”

“Whether or not he meant it, it wouldn’t have seemed outlandish. Check out the society photos in any Westside throwaway. Geezers with arm candy.”

“Then he dies and she’s nothing but an ex-chippie. Yeah, that could motivate some serious foolishness.”

“In order to keep her believing, he bought her some bling.”

“The watch.”

“Jewelry would be attractive to Tara, because it’s relatively liquid and she could sell it privately without paying taxes. She wore the watch in front of Muhrmann but what if Suss gave her a lot of other baubles that she kept from him and Connie? If they’d found out, there’s yet another motive to punish her.”

“So the date at the Fauborg was a setup from their perspective. But what was Tara expecting?”

“A night of fun.”

In the car, he said, “They plan to kill her, why go public at a hotel and risk being seen?”

“Muhrmann never went inside, it’s only a fluke that we noticed him. Neil the waiter told us no one appeared during his shift, so maybe Connie never showed and Tara left and met up with Muhrmann. He told her there’d been a change in plans, Connie had rented a party pad in the Palisades. They drove to a predetermined spot where Connie was waiting and the two of them finished her off with a .45 and a shotgun. They went for overkill because Tara’s extortion had made it personal. Obscuring her face had the added bonus of making it tough to identify her. And it worked. We still don’t know who she really is.”

“Rub it in … okay, let’s do some drive-bys, see where these people bunk down.”

We took Laurel Canyon into the Valley, picked up the 134 west to the White Oak exit, headed south and crossed Ventura Boulevard, and climbed into the hills of prime Encino.

Portico Place was a gracious stretch of big houses shielded by healthy shrubbery and high gates. Phil and Connie Suss’s address matched one of the grandest constructions: two towering stories of hand-troweled, tile-roofed, ocher-stucco Tuscan Revival set off by meticulously shaped date palms and brandy-colored bougainvillea and preceded by a cobbled motor court. Filigree double gates revealed a white BMW 3 series and a bronze Lexus convertible.

Milo said, “Mama and Brother Frank go for 90210 but Phil and Connie sure ain’t slumming. Pretty good for a guy with no obvious income.”

He eased a soft whistle through his front teeth. “Nothing like the lucky sperm club.”

We watched nothing happen for nearly an hour before returning to the city.

Drs. Frank and Isabel Suss resided in 90210 but their house on the 500 block of North Camden Drive would’ve fit any middle-class suburb.

The one-story ranch was painted pinkish beige. A skimpy front yard was mostly concrete. An older Honda sat in front.

“Two doctors,” he said. “They’re probably gonna be at work.”

During the twenty minutes we sat there, the only action was a neighbor’s uniformed maid walking a mouse-sized Chihuahua.

He said, “Kinda downscale for two skin docs, no? I thought Botox brought in the bucks.”

“Maybe they don’t care about the material world.”

“Numbing faces for fun? The way things are going, I’ll believe anything.”

From the look of her real estate, Leona Suss cared plenty for the material world.

The three-story brown-brick Georgian evoked Monticello. If Thomas Jefferson hadn’t run out of cash. The property was thirty car lengths wide, cordoned by matching brick walls topped by verdigris metalwork. Granite medallions carved into camellia blossoms punctuated every ten feet. Smudges of moss were too perfectly spaced to be accidental. Topping the grille, variegated ivy streamed gracefully through coppery spikes, loops, and finials. Pruned to the precise point where light peeked through but privacy held fast.

A copper pedestrian gate offered glimpses of the front acre. No parking area, just shaded patches on lawn and brick walkway cast by specimen pines, sycamores, and cedars. Half the lot spread to the left of the house, offering glimpses of boxwood parterres, columnate Italian cypresses, rose gardens spitting color, a lattice pavilion.

I coasted along the west side of the property where automobile access was provided through a ten-foot slab-steel gate set nearly flush with the street. An exquisitely laced Chinese elm spread to the right. Something in the tree caught sun and glinted.

Security camera tethered to a stout branch, nearly concealed by foliage.

We returned to the front, looked for another camera, spotted it winking from the largest cedar.

Milo said, “If little Ms. Tara ever caught a glimpse of this, she’d be inspired. Want to take bets ol’ Markham showed it to her?”

I said, “Too bad for her.”

His cell played Shubert. He plugged into the hands-off, barked, “Sturgis.”

A woman barked back louder: “Jernigan!”

“Hi, Doc.”

Female laughter. “Hi, Lieutenant. I’ve got the autopsy report on your victim without a face. There was some alcohol in her system but nothing incapacitating, maybe a drink or two. No narcotics or prescription medication. Death by gunshot, no stunner there. My guess is the bullet entered before the shotgun pellets because we got a nice clean track through the brain and if she’d been blasted with shot initially it would’ve been like shooting the bullet into soup. No evidence of sexual assault, she’s never had a baby, but there was some substantial endometriosis, which could be genetic, or the result of scarring due to an STD. There’s also some fibrosed tissue in and around her rectum, so at some point she probably engaged in anal sex fairly regularly. Other than that, her organs were healthy.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“That’s the science part, Milo,” said Jernigan. “Now here’s the gut-feeling part: The wound pattern still bothers me but I can’t say it’s based on anything other than a little cognitive twinge. Assuming she got hit with the .45 first and the impact knocked her off her feet, there should’ve been more shotgun damage. She’d be prone, dead or close to it, and totally vulnerable to an overhead blast. But the pellets didn’t overlap with the bullet wound as much as I’d expect. In fact, the most severe sprinkling of shot is almost totally in line with the bullet along the vertical axis. Almost as if your two bad guys fired simultaneously.”

“Firing squad,” he said.

“That’s the image I got. But a skillful squad, the two of them standing side by side, coordinating perfectly. The shotgun damage was far from tight. The pellets pierced her sinuses as well as the lower part of her frontal lobes. But used up close, a .410 could’ve taken her entire head off. And there’s no way I can see, short of standing on a ladder, that the shotgunner could’ve hit her straight-on once she was down.”

“Precision murder team,” said Milo. “Maybe at the next Olympics.”

“It’s creepy, right? Almost a ritualistic quality to it.”

“Like she was being punished.”

“I suppose,” said Jernigan. “You know what it’s usually like with sick stuff. We get up-close strangulation, a knife ballet. This is harder to characterize. There’s that calculated execution thing going on but possibly also something darker—something Delaware might be able to help you with.”

“Funny you should mention him.”

I said, “Alex here.”

“Oh, hi,” she said. “So what do you think?”

“It fits perfectly with our current best guess for motive: money as well as revenge.”

“Great minds,” she said. “When you learn more, keep me in the loop because this one’s got me curious.”

Milo said, “Love your optimism, Doc.”

Clarice Jernigan said, “Without optimism there isn’t much point, is there? Bye, guys, time for me to meet a few more wonderfully compliant patients.”

We walked up to Leona Suss’s gate.

Milo said, “Firing squad. Now that she’s planted that in my head it’s gonna stay there.”

We were trying to figure out a next step when a black-and-white SUV pulled up behind the Seville, gunned its engine, went quiet.

Beverly Hills PD Suburban. A young uniformed female officer got out, studied the Seville’s rear plate, hitched up her belt, studied some more.

Milo gave his mini-salute. She wasn’t impressed.

Small woman. Five three, tops, narrow-hipped, small-busted, and open-faced, with a long brown ponytail.

“Looks about twelve,” said Milo, digging into his pocket. “Maybe she’s selling Police Scout cookies.”

The cop confided something to her radio. Adjusted her belt again and came forward, one hand on her baton.

The open face was freckled, lightly made up except for generous eyeliner and mascara turned to gritty paste.

Borderline Goth; go know.

W. Bede on her badge.

“Gentlemen. That your Cadillac?”

I said, “It’s mine.”

“License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.” A too-husky voice tightened the cords of her neck. Straining, as if she’d taken lessons in authoritative but missed the final.

Milo flashed his badge and his card. “Will this do, Officer?”

Bede’s teal-green eyes seemed to enlarge as her pupils contracted.

She said, “L.A. Homicide? Nothing came up at roll call about any joint investigation.”

“There’s an investigation,” said Milo, “but it only touched upon your fair city a few minutes ago.”

“Touched? I’m not … sure what that means.”

“The occupant of this house is someone we might eventually want to talk to.”

“This house?” As if owning eight-figure real estate exempted you from suspicion.

Milo said, “Mrs. Leona Suss.”

“What’s your interest in her?”

“She may know certain individuals of interest and we wanted to make contact with her.” Smiling. “Top of that, Officer, we get to hang out in nice places. But you’re used to that.”

Bede’s posture relaxed and her eyes crinkled. Wholesome farm girl in tailored blues. “You’d be surprised, Lieutenant. We get alarm calls, ninety percent are false but we do walk-throughs anyway. You’d be amazed at the crap people call decorating in Beverly Hills.”

“Big money, no taste.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Did Mrs. Suss call us in?”

“Five minutes ago, the non-emergency line.”

“Good response time.”

“That’s why people live here.”

“What was the complaint?”

Bede smiled again. “Two males loitering in an old car.”

“A Ferrari woulda made a difference?”

“Probably.”

“Maybe someone should tell her there’s old and there’s classic.”

Bede stepped back, appraised the Seville. Did the same for me. “You do keep it up pretty nice. You get it on a confiscation? When we invoke RICO we get all sorts of cool stuff. Just added a Bentley used to be owned by a San Diego dope dealer who made the mistake of transacting here. The right plainclothes assignment comes along, someone’s going to be riding pretty.”

She glanced back at the mansion. “I do need to have contact with the complainant. What do you want me to tell her?”

Milo looked past her. Silk drapes had parted behind a ground-floor window. Woman holding a cat.

Tall, thin, with short black hair, she wore a body-hugging champagne-colored velour tracksuit and oversized, white-framed sunglasses.

Milo said, “Some variant of the truth will work fine, Officer Bede. You want, we can take it from here.”

Officer W. Bede said, “No, I need to make contact for my report. Okay if I tell her you’re kosher, doing an investigation, but I don’t add details? Then, if she wants to talk to you, it’s your game.”

“Free country.”

“Nothing’s free in Beverly Hills.”