The Museum of Desire

Chapter 20

Further research on Stephen Wayne Vollmann revealed a thirty-one-year-old Iraqi war vet employed as a pool maintenance man for a Granada Hills company named Agua Fresca, Ltd. No priors, wants, or warrants, good driving record. A six-year-old blue Camaro was registered at an address on Cochran Avenue in mid-city that matched Marcella McGann’s.

A call to Agua Fresca, Ltd., earned him an earful from the owner, a hoarse-voiced man named Lachlan Lindley.

“Him? Totally flaked on me.”

“Since when?”

“Since Wednesday when he was supposed to be here. Why are the cops after him?”

“He and his girlfriend were scheduled to go to Mexico but never showed up. We’re looking at them as missing persons.”

“Oh. Steve’s never flaked before. It is kind of weird.”

Milo said, “Did he talk about his trip?”

“Just that it was at some big resort, he was going to ride a dolphin,” said Lindley. “He was pretty excited, first time south of the border. He never showed up? Damn. You think some cartel got him? You know what it’s like. They’re mowing people down and the cops there are in on it.”

“Did Steve talk about his girlfriend?”

“Just that she was going with him. Shit. You think she did it? Shoved him off a boat or something?”

“Why would I think that?”

“ ’Cause it happens,” said Lindley. “People are in a relationship and someone goes nuts. There was that guy in New York, goes boating, chick he thinks loves him shoves him into the river, he’s drowning and she’s sitting there eating a sandwich. Talk about evil.”

Milo said, “Vollmann’s chick isn’t a suspect. You ever meet her?”

“Nope, didn’t even know her name,” said Lindley. “Don’t socialize with the staff, period. They do their routes, I mail them their checks.”

“Relaxed setup,” said Milo.

“If everyone does their job it is. I used to service myself, loved anything to do with water, swam at Cal State Northridge. Then I dove the wrong way and ended up in a wheelchair.”

“Sorry.”

“For what?” said Lindley. “You play the hand you’re dealt.”

“Thanks for your time, sir.”

“Got plenty of it.”

I said, “The road not taken leads to Mexico.”

“Hmph. Let’s see what Sleepy has to say.”

He punched a number he had stored in his head and connected to his contact at Homeland Security. A man I’d overheard on speaker but knew nothing about.

A slurred, somnolent voice said, “I don’t need anything from you so it’s not trading season.”

“It’s not complicated,” said Milo. “Just wanna find out if two people flew to and maybe from Mexico during the last week.”

“Fugitives? Ask the marshals.”

“Missings. Marcella McGann and Stephen Vollmann, L.A. to Cabo.”

“You know for sure they flew.”

“It’s what, fifteen hundred miles? Don’t see them driving.”

“Eleven hundred forty-four,” said Sleepy. “Three days at a relaxed pace. I’m asking because it’s a clusterfuck at the border, someone drives or walks into TJ, I can’t always access it right away.”

“I’ll take my chance with flying. Stephen with a ‘ph,’ middle name Wayne, Vollmann, two ‘l’s, two ‘n’s, Marcella McGann, capital ‘M,’ small ‘c’—”

“I’m an intuitive speller, got it already,” said Sleepy. Long luxuriant yawn, then typing clicks. “Neither passport has been active for the past twelve months. He traveled a few years ago to Canada, nothing since, she got hers a few months ago, never used it, period. Do I really need to check the airlines?”

“Guess not—”

“Oops, already pushed the magic FAA button. No flights in or out for either of them. And now because you’ve already upset my circadian rhythm and I need to slow my brainwaves, I’ll try those border checkpoints.”

Thirty seconds passed. “No walk-throughs I can find but like I said, that’s not infallible. Now you seriously owe me.”

“Name it.”

“When the time’s right.”

Yawn.

Milo put down the phone.

I said, “Maybe Justine’s onto something.”

“Something happened to Vollmann and McGann? Why would they be targeted?”

“McGann was Benny Alvarez’s caretaker when he went missing. Suppose she got upset enough to go looking for him, learned something, and made herself a threat.”

“Her and Vollmann.”

“She took him along for protection.”

“And he couldn’t protect her... looking for Benny woulda meant between the home and his job.”

I said, “An area where someone like Mary Huralnik would hang out.”

He phoned Bogomil. “Where are you, kiddo?”

“Strip mall on La Brea and Olympic, working my way east looking for Roget’s ads. Still nothing but I’m not sure that means anything. Free posting means no one at the register pays attention.”

“Time to shift gears,” said Milo. He told her about I.D.’ing Mary Jane Huralnik.

She said, “Homeless like we thought.”

“Homeless and mentally ill and doesn’t collect benefits so she wouldn’t be crashing at any SROs or shelters that collect government dough.”

“But maybe a nonprofit,” said Bogomil. “Church-run, that kind of thing. Or she just stayed on the street.”

“Exactly, Alicia. Forget the ads for the time being, head downtown and start looking for places. Now that we’ve got a name, maybe someone’s memory will get jogged.”

“On it, L.T.”

“I owe you lunch. You like pastrami?”

“Not really, too fatty.”

“You and Moe, both.”

“Nah, I’m just a girl trying to stay healthy,” she said. “Moe’s another species.”

He put BOLOs out on McGann’s Sentra and Vollmann’s Camaro. The second request elicited an immediate ping.

He said, “Excellent.” Then: “Damn.”