The Museum of Desire

Chapter 29

Two hours later, Milo had commandeered the same interview room and set up a whiteboard. The only other equipment: a box of muffins from a bakery in West Hollywood.

No writing on the board, no complex mesh of directional arrows. That’s for the movies where plot elements need to be explained to the audience.

This was four knowledgeable detectives and me looking at a three-by-two array of victim photos to the left and enlarged DMV shots of Medina Okash and Geoffrey Dugong to the right.

Milo summarized what we’d learned at the Caribbean market.

Bogomil said, “So we know Okash had access to Roget’s little tabs but we can’t prove she actually took any.”

“Small steps, Alicia. Speaking of which, we get to subpoena her phone. That burner Gurnsey and Roget both talked to can’t be documented but maybe she carried a cell with an account and we can GPS her locations. Anything from the homeless folk?”

“I wish, L.T. No one remembers Huralnik at all, let alone any sexual bad habits.”

Reed said, “They’re transient, someone who did know her could be anywhere by now.”

Bogomil said, “Transient and brain-damaged. I saw one woman with these festering sores on her legs. I offered to call the EMTs. She told me to fuck myself in the ass.”

Milo said, “No good deed, it’s my version of Newton’s law.”

“Which one?” said Binchy.

“All of them, Sean. Moses, anything more from New York on Okash’s assault?”

Reed said, “One of the D’s who worked it is deceased, I reached the other, he’s in corporate security. He said he remembered the case ’cause it was different, one yuppie white girl pulling out a blade and slashing another across the face. Other than that, he was fuzzy, couldn’t recall motive. If he ever knew it. I finally got the victim’s name from the Seventh Precinct. Contessa Welles. No social network presence, no employment or death records, so maybe they got the name wrong.”

Bogomil said, “Or she avoids the limelight. Someone slashed my face, I might.” Touching her own smooth cheek.

Milo said, “Knife attack. That’s no catfight.”

He turned back to the board and jabbed Dugong’s beard. “Despite his dope busts, this prince isn’t currently known to Key West PD, under his marine-mammal moniker or his real one, Jeffrey Dowd. Sergeant I spoke to said they’ve got twenty-five thousand residents and a couple million tourists each year, it’s a constant balancing act between keeping bad behavior low and not pissing off the chamber of commerce. When I told her Dugong was an artist she suggested I try some of the galleries. So far I’m zero for eight. Until six years ago, the guy’s got no employment history, which fits day labor on a boat, like his bio said. Alex did find a website for his art.”

I said, “Six years ago, he began doing macramé, then switched to photographic collages. Painting started three years ago but he hasn’t produced much so he still may be working under the table — deckhand, fisherman, landscaping, maintenance.”

Bogomil said, “Tying knots and pasting up magazine photos. Any actual talent going on there?”

I said, “Put it this way: He’s got a loose brush.”

Laughter.

Milo said, “From what we saw his salesmanship skills are lacking.”

“A failure with a bad temper,” said Reed. “That’s combustible.”

“Exactly, Moses. He came across stupid angry, like a kid who habitually tantrums. We don’t see him as controlled enough to plan the limo.”

“Okash is the boss?”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “If the two of them are involved, she’s running the show.”

Bogomil said, “She aims Dugong, he shoots.”

“Makes sense,” said Reed. “We’ve been thinking more than one offender. So what’s the overall theory of how it went down, Doc?”

I said, “Best guess at this point is Okash and Rick Gurnsey had repeated sexual contact. She could be the woman seen with him at the fundraiser back in January. At some point, whatever they had went bad. We’ve heard two things about Gurnsey that could’ve led to that: He’s been known to cut off relationships without warning or explanation and he could get pushy about sex, including pressuring women to do anal. The women we spoke to dealt with it and moved on. Maybe Okash didn’t.”

“Agg assault with a blade,” said Reed. “Wrong woman to pressure.”

Reed said, “So she thinks up a way to get back at Gurnsey with Dugong’s help. Why the others? Why the limo?”

I said, “I’d been thinking about it as a theatrical production but Milo pointed out it could be performance art. Okash may even think of herself as an artist, so it’s possible she constructed a tableau.”

Up to that point, Binchy had remained uncharacteristically mute. Now he spoke in a low voice. “Human collage. Dugong was once into cut and paste.”

“Good point, Sean.”

“Once in a while I come up with one.” Still subdued. At odds with his usual cheer. Milo and Reed and Bogomil looked at him. He shrugged.

I said, “Whatever the exact motivation, Gurnsey was placed in a humiliating pose. Along with Mary Jane Huralnik, who we also know acted out sexually and who may have accosted Okash downtown. Solomon Roget I’m still seeing as collateral damage — murdered for his limo. Benny Alvarez is more of a question mark. He worked for Okash, he may have seen something he shouldn’t have. But as to why she’d want him in the picture? No idea.”

Milo walked to the board, pointed to McGann and Vollmann. “Seeing something is our working theory on these poor folk. They show up at the gallery on Saturday because McGann cares about Alvarez. Vollmann’s there because they’re heading to Mexico in a few hours. The two of them are shotgunned and dumped in Inglewood.”

Bogomil said, “If it’s true, these people are monsters.”

Binchy said, “Crazy art.” Looking down at the table, tight-jawed. “ ’Scuse me, need a pit stop.” He hurried out of the room.

Last year he’d encountered a murderous power freak and nearly died in the process. I’d saved his life. Since then, he’d feigned being okay and we’d never really talked about it.

Everyone knew. No one spoke because this was the job, not group therapy.

Milo said, “Have some muffins, kids. They’re fresh.”

Binchy returned looking as if he’d been sick.

Milo ignored that and sketched out the new plan: The four of them would divide the watch on Okash into six-hour shifts beginning with Binchy at six tonight, Milo taking over at midnight, Reed handling six a.m. to noon, and Bogomil working the afternoon.

If Dugong’s L.A. residence could be determined, there’d be improvisation: a looser watch on him with Milo handling most of the extra hours. Milo would also pursue and analyze Okash’s phone records.

Bogomil said, “Full plate, L.T.”

“That’s why I get the big bucks.” He looked at the uneaten muffins. “Plenty of nutrition to go around— Don’t grimace, Moses. Once upon a time you ate for pleasure.”

With the interview room emptied, Milo began folding up the whiteboard.

I said, “What do you need from me?”

“Stay smart.”

“Seriously.”

“I’m being serious. Go home, I need you, I’ll ask. One thing I’ve never been accused of is reticence.”

I took Sepulveda to Sunset and drove east. My return trip would normally end at the Glen, well west of Benedict Canyon. But I said Why not? and continued past the Glen into Beverly Hills.

Three thirty p.m. was theoretically early enough to beat the northern commute to the Valley. But early home-goers had already queued up north of Sunset, turning the ride into a stop-and-go.

That was beneficial, enabling my peripheral vision. A mile short of Ascot Lane, during a stop phase, something caught my eye.

Blue hair, electrified by sunlight, far brighter than the surrounding vegetation.

Medina Okash’s dress helped, as well. Red, short, tight as sausage casing, a shiny fabric that bounced solar rays like a prism as she toted a four-by-four brown-paper square to the front door of a house just off the main road.

During the meeting, she’d left the gallery, eluding notice.

The square was the same size and wrapping as the canvases we’d seen in the back of her gallery.

The dress was a good sign: You didn’t attire yourself that way if you knew you were being watched.

I took advantage of the next traffic lull by making eye contact with the motorist facing south and eliciting a weary go-ahead nod. Hooking into a driveway on the west side of Benedict, I pulled off as quick a three-pointer as the Seville would allow and drove back to where I’d seen Okash.

The street was named Clearwater Lane, a steep slash of blacktop not unlike the one leading to the old bridal path that terminates at my house. I got there just in time to see the front door of a house close. Kept climbing until the road flattened, reversed, and descended.

No street parking on the north side of Clearwater, permit-only after six p.m. on the south. That hadn’t stopped a vehicle from stationing itself where Okash had gotten out.

Not Okash’s BMW; a brown Toyota RAV4. A man sat at the wheel. Not Geoffrey Dugong. Older, heavier, swarthy, working his phone.

Another male friend? Another potential weapon? Then I saw the black-and-white Uber windshield sticker.

The driver kept his head down and his fingers manic, caught up in cellular narcosis. Betting that would hold, I backed up, swung around, and repeated my climb up Clearwater. This time I settled with a clear view of the SUV and waited.

The house Okash had entered was a pale-blue fifties ranch with a flat gray roof and decorative wooden slats over the front windows.

Unassuming and at odds with the white Rolls-Royce parked in front. Better fit with the white Volvo station wagon positioned next to it. I copied down the address.

During the sixteen minutes Okash remained inside, her hired driver never looked up. When she reappeared, her hands were free and she high-stepped with a bounce that flexed her calves and quivered her rump.

Victory prance.

She got into the RAV’s rear seat. The driver started up and turned right on Benedict Canyon.

North, toward Ascot Lane. But the driver continued for less than a minute before stopping well short of the B.H. — L.A. line and performing his own three-pointer — this one rash and rude and met with horn-blares.

Bumping the curb, he slued wildly across both lanes, raised more protest, headed back toward Sunset.

The direction you’d take to either Okash’s place on Fountain or the gallery downtown.

In one of those eternal traffic mysteries, the drive had sped up to a smooth cruise that kept me moving at eighteen mph with no chance to turn off. As I continued north, I barely caught a glimpse of Ascot Lane, now blocked by a chain-link rent-a-fence.

I phoned Milo and told him about Okash.

He said, “I’ll tell Sean to position himself near her crib. She doesn’t show up in reasonable time, he’ll go to the gallery. What’s the vehicle?”

“Brown RAV4.” I gave him the house address.

“Got it, thanks, Alex. What were you hoping to see in the first place?”

“I thought I’d check out the crime scene but obviously it’s off limits now.”

“Cart, horse, ain’t that the way it usually is? Any particular reason the scene interested you?”

“Hoping for inspiration.”

“Aren’t we all? I’ve been up there myself a couple of times, nada. So Okash looked pleased with herself.”

“Profit will do that to you.”

“Vamping,” he said. “She loves herself, our Medina. What do you always say — self-esteem is good for good people, bad for bad people? Okay, gracias again for keeping an eye out. Now go home per prior executive order. Kiss Gorgeous for me. And canine Gorgeous. Be sure to give me the credit.”

When I stepped into the house, Robin was curled on the sofa nearest the door reading, Blanche’s bratwurst body molded to her and ruffling with slow, sleepy breaths.

One canine eye opened. Serene dog. I thought about the luck of the draw.

It was earlier than Robin’s usual quitting time but she was out of her work clothes and into a black cashmere hoodie, black tights, black platforms that boosted her to five-five.

I said, “We’re going out?”

“Italian or Thai, take your pick.”

I said, “The comfort of a limited choice. What’s the common factor, noodles?”

“Such deductive powers.” She got up and kissed me. Blanche bounded off the chair, stood on her hind legs panting, rubbed her knobby bulldog head against my leg, then hugged it with both her forepaws.

Robin said, “She’s making me look bad.”

I said, “So nice to be in demand. I’ll go change.”

Blanche’s compensation for being left at home was an oversized bone-shaped, tooth-cleaning treat the color of a new lawn and the consistency of marble.

Twenty minutes later, Robin and I were sharing a corner table at a small family-run place on Westwood Boulevard south of Olympic. Gregarious family, homemade pasta, early enough to get in without a reservation.

Over bread and Sangiovese, I asked Robin about her day. When she finished telling me, she said, “Your turn.”

I told her about the new suspicions of Okash and Dugong.

“The art world,” she said. “Yeah, it can get really vicious, one of the many reasons I left school. I think it’s because artists get a pass — talent confused with being a good person, they don’t think the rules apply to them.”

I said, “Caravaggio?”

One of the greatest painters who’d ever lived had been a rage-prone murderer.

“Of course, Caravaggio. But Degas and Mapplethorpe were bigots, Gauguin was a syphilitic pedophile, we won’t even get into how Picasso treated women and stocked his studio with stolen artifacts. If we move on to musicians, we’ll be here until morning — ah, here’s our food.”

Over fruit and coffee, she said, “Violence as performance art... like Chris Burden having someone shoot him in the arm. Or one of those classic grotesques — Bosch, that kind of thing.”

I said, “Maybe Geoffrey Dugong in his pre-candle days.”

“He was into gore?”

“No idea because no images from his early days have turned up. Maybe because they’re not fit for public consumption.”

“He could’ve used another nom de paintbrush.” She shook her head. “Dugong. What was the guy thinking? Did he figure on growing flippers? That could sure limit your brush control.”

When I stopped laughing, she said, “Now you’re relaxed. When we get home, we’ll have a leisurely dessert.”