The Museum of Desire

Chapter 9

Monday at two p.m., he called and said, “Three able detectives canvassing thoroughly, zero information.”

Tuesday at four p.m., he texted: Don’t know if it’s too short notice but Andrea Bauer’s coming by in an hour.

I’d just completed two custody reports and Robin would be working late, finishing a “dire emergency” repair on the neck of a celebrity rocker’s red-sparkle Telecaster. Koko Moe didn’t play a note and used the instrument the way a drum majorette employs a baton. But she needed to look “hot and hyper and hot,” and a limp, decapitated instrument wouldn’t cut it.

I went to Robin’s studio, kissed her, and looked at her workbench. “Artistic fulfillment.”

“We take it where we find it, darling.”

At two forty-seven, I arrived at Milo’s windowless, closet-sized office on the second floor of the West L.A. station. Other detectives work in a big room downstairs, saturated with human noise and clanging locker doors.

Years ago, my friend had been shoehorned into the apparently unworkable cell by a corrupt, soon-to-retire police chief who promoted Milo to lieutenant in return for silence about “errors of judgment” that would’ve jeopardized a huge city pension.

The chief felt smug, certain he’d gotten the better end of the deal. Unaware he’d earmarked the perfect den for this particular grizzly.

Lieutenants typically operate desks but Milo had leveraged the ability to keep working cases. When administrative tasks came up, he ignored them. Ditto memos, meetings, and paperwork outside the pages of blue-bound murder books.

Two subsequent chiefs had bristled, as organization men always do when iron rules rust. But their initial resolve to change things had fizzled: The department needed every bit of good P.R. it could cadge, and Milo’s success was too blatant to mess with.

The cramped space barely accommodates his desk and chair plus one additional hard-backed seat. The visitor’s throne might as well have my name engraved on a brass escutcheon as I’m the only person who occupies it. Witnesses and persons of interests are taken to interview rooms and when the young D.’s show up, they stand in the hall and report.

For the meeting with Dr. Andrea Bauer, Milo had selected the nearest of the rooms. But as we approached the Reserved sign dangling from the doorknob, he kept going.

I said, “Change your mind?”

“She’s from Montecito,” he said. “We’re offering valet service.”

We headed down the stairs, left the station, and stood near the curb. Butler Avenue was a steady stream of unmarkeds and official vehicles entering and exiting the staff lot across the street.

I said, “Why’s she coming here?”

“She called and offered. I don’t argue with someone with the net worth of a midsized Caribbean country.”

“You researched her finances.”

“After she called, I took a superficial look at the numbers. She’s coming down for a board meeting at The Music Center, figured it would be efficient to stop by. Still haven’t been able to reach her employee, McGann. I’m hoping Bauer can direct me.”

He glanced at his Timex.

I said, “Nothing from the crypt?”

“The decomp case still rules, all four of my bodies are in the fridge closet, can’t even get a commitment for autopsy schedules. Adding to the joy, I got into Solomon Roget’s apartment yesterday and turned up nothing but a pile of those tear-off ads he posted who-knows-where. An appointment book woulda been nice, guy had to have some way to organize his schedule.”

“Whoever killed him took it.”

“That would be my guess. Along with his cellphone. He uses some small-time carrier, I subpoenaed his account, heard nothing, will keep on it. I also drove around near his apartment checking out supermarkets and convenience stores. If Roget posted at any of them, his ads have been taken down.”

“What about cameras?”

“The places I found, none are directed at the boards, the concern is pilferage, not free advertising. I also talked to the agency that rented the house for parties. Place has been vacant for a year, some sort of nasty divorce. Still unlocked by the way, I just got back, rechecked every one of twenty-plus rooms. Nothing bloody. The murders didn’t go down there.”

I said, “Nasty divorces kick up all sorts of passions so maybe the dump spot wasn’t chosen randomly. Who are the feuding parties?”

“Ansar versus Ansar. Mom split with the kids, is hiding out somewhere in the Middle East.”

“Maybe I can get you specifics. There are judges I can call.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s your other job, isn’t it? Great, thanks, terrific — okay, here’s our philanthropist.”

A maroon Porsche Panamera had turned onto Butler from Santa Monica and continued to glide toward us. Milo waved, the car stopped, he pointed to the staff lot, hustled across the street, and used his key card to raise the barrier. I waited and a few minutes later he emerged from the lot with a woman wearing a black hoodie, black tights, and red ballet shoes.

Same face and coif as her pictures but Andrea Bauer had let her hair go white. Artful white, shiny as chrome, every strand in place. She moved quickly but with the slightly off-kilter gait you see in women who’ve sacrificed stability for extreme thinness.

Milo doing all the talking, Bauer staring straight ahead. By the time the two of them reached me, her hand was out. She allowed me a brief shake of her fingers. Stiff and cool, nails cut short and buffed. Her nose and chin were sharp enough to cut paper, her eyes nearly black.

“Nice to meet you, Doctor. Good to hear the police value behavioral science.” Deep, slightly abrasive voice; Lauren Bacall with a cold.

I smiled. “Dr. Bauer.”

“Andy.” She looked at the station door. “Never been in a police station before. Time for everything, I guess.”

We stepped inside and Milo offered her the elevator.

She said, “The stairs, use it or lose it,” and climbed ahead of us. Medium-sized woman but able to take two steps at a time. At the second floor, Milo outpaced her and held the door to the tagged interview room. He’d set it up friendly: table in the center, three chairs on three sides, bottled water, plastic cups.

Andrea Bauer took the center chair without instruction. “Interesting. I imagine the environment alone intimidates suspects.”

Milo said, “All kinds of people come in here.”

“Such as?”

“People helping us out.”

He sat across from her. I took the side chair.

“What do you call them, sources? Informants?”

Milo smiled. “People helping us. So what would you like to tell us about Benny Alvarez?”

Andrea Bauer’s thin lips turned down. “This has been incredibly difficult, I’ve never dealt with anything like it. Benny was a sweet, innocent human being, Lieutenant. I was pleased to be able to take him in. Was he probably abducted on the way from work?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Can you tell me if he suffered greatly?”

“I don’t believe he did.”

“It’s utterly mad,” said Andrea Bauer. “I can’t imagine anyone deliberately wanting to hurt him. But I suppose I’m being naive. There’s all sorts of evil out there, isn’t there?”

“Unfortunately, ma’am. How did you come to take him in?”

Andrea Bauer crossed stick-legs and looked up at the ceiling. “It was a couple of years ago. I was full-up at the Skaggs facility but a caseworker called and just about begged. There was a vacancy at my place in San Diego, it’s the largest — twenty residents — but the worker felt the move would be difficult for Benny, his experiences had been rather limited.”

I said, “Emotionally or geographically?”

“Both. From what I gathered, he’d lived with mother in Echo Park then with his fosters only half a mile from there. The worker described him as having the mind of a child though I learned later she was selling Benny short.”

I said, “He functioned higher than she thought.”

“Most people don’t understand but I’m sure you do, Dr. Delaware. The concept of mental age is given more credit than it deserves — mind of a six-year-old, mind of a ten-year-old. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

I shook my head. “A slow adult is qualitatively different than a normal child.”

She turned to Milo. “What your psychologist means, Lieutenant, is that an adult with cognitive impairment can function low on one measure and high on another. Benny was a prime example. His reading skills were just about nil but his vocabulary was pretty darn good — you’d meet him and think he was okay. On top of that, he could function socially and had no physical stigmata — small stature but he looked normal... no pain? You’re sure?”

Milo said, “He died by a single gunshot that would’ve been rapidly fatal.”

Andrea Bauer sank an inch. “Oh, God, how grotesque. And you have no idea who could’ve done this?”

Milo said, “Not yet. Could we go back to his history, for a sec? You had no vacancies but you found a way.”

“I had to do some shuffling, make sure no one else was put at a disadvantage. I’d just accepted a resident at Skaggs but she hadn’t moved in yet. Williams syndrome, slightly lower-functioning than Benny but one part of that diagnosis is extreme sociability. On top of that, she’d moved around a bit so I thought she might be okay in San Diego. So off she went and Benny got the slot at Skaggs.”

She recrossed her legs. “Small victories, gentlemen. That’s how you need to look at it.”

I said, “You take a personal interest in the residents.”

“There’s no reason to work with people unless you’re interested in them.”

She edged closer to the table, grazed a water bottle with her fingernails. Clipped utilitarian nails but nothing ascetic about her: The hoodie was cashmere, a four-carat diamond stud glinted from each ear, and a platinum ring set with a round yellow diamond at least twice that weight banded her left ring finger.

“That probably sounds glib but I mean it,” she said. “I never set out to run facilities, fell into it after my husband died. He owned all kinds of things — office buildings, apartments, shopping centers, reinsurance companies, and just before his stroke, he picked up four dozen old age homes and drug rehab centers as part of some sort of trade. I was ready to sell everything, wanted no part of warehousing human beings. But then I thought, Hey, it’s been years since I’ve worked with human beings, why not give it a try? So I held on to a few locations. The goal was to create spaces for unaddicted people born with cognitive problems. Nothing grand. Bill — my husband, was all about grand, I’d had enough of grand.”

“Something manageable,” I said.

“I’m not going to sit here and tell you I’m Saint Andrea. The state and county pay me handsomely for each resident but every penny is plowed back, I make no profit. Don’t need to, Bill set me up.” Fleeting smile. “Grandly.”

“Are all your places Level One?”

“The one in San Diego — that was my first, it used to be an old age home — is larger so we have a few Level Twos. But I stay away from anything below that. The point is to offer maximal quality of life in a relaxed manner. You visited Skaggs. Did it seem anything other than comfy and nurturing?”

Milo said, “It seemed nice, ma’am.”

“When Bill ran it, it housed addicts and was painted a horrid pea green.”

She rolled the edge of a cashmere sleeve, looked down at a diamond-studded Lady Rolex. “Got to get over to Disney Hall. Tedious meeting, but one commits.”

Milo said, “Is there anything else we should know about Benny?”

Head shake. No movement of hair. “On the drive down I tried to pick my brain but came up with nothing. What seems likely to me is this was a robbery — a mugging that went wrong or just one of those crazy random things.”

“Did Benny carry money around?”

“When they leave the facility, we give them ten singles and a limited-use cellphone. Two numbers programmed: 911 or the facility. But maybe someone wanted the phone, didn’t know it was useless. Kids kill each other over shoes, why not a phone?”

I said, “We were told Benny had a job at an art gallery.”

“Marcella arranged that,” said Andrea Bauer. “And for the first week she or a student volunteer walked him to and fro. He learned quickly, had an excellent sense of focus.”

Milo said, “Meaning?”

“He could divine a route, set a goal, and reach it, Lieutenant. That’s what Dr. Delaware and I meant about mental age. In some ways, Benny was like a fully operational adult. If we felt he was in danger, we’d never have allowed it.”

Her thin face shimmered as a tremor ran from chin to eyebrow. She twisted the massive ring. “Will it be necessary to publicize Benny’s living arrangement? I’d love to avoid media coverage. For my residents’ sake.”

Milo said, “Far as we’re concerned the less press the better.”

“I concur.” She stood. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

Milo said, “Thanks for taking the time.”

Andrea Bauer’s smile was cool and knowing. “To be perfectly frank, I wanted to meet you face-to-face to make sure Benny was getting optimal attention. There are people I know, Lieutenant. And now I’m reassured that I won’t need to contact them.”