The Wedding Guest

Chapter 11

VCR Staffing Specialists occupied a ground-floor office in a squat two-story brick building. High-rises and strip malls abounded in East Brentwood. This building had been forgotten by time and developers. But maybe not for long: A For Sale sign was nailed to the brick, just right of a pebble-glass door.

A lobby floored in grimy fake terrazzo opened to a brown-carpeted hallway. VCR’s suite was toward the back. Dead bolt below the doorknob but the knob turned.

Inside was an empty waiting room decorated with prints of Paris street scenes from the nineteenth century and the type of black-and-white celebrity photos you see in dry cleaners and other places celebrities never go.

Small desk, one chair. Hard gray tweed sofas said no one of import waited here.

Another wooden door centered the wall behind the desk. Voices filtered through. Muffled but not enough to conceal emotional tone.

Male voice, female voice, talking over each other.

Milo rapped hard and the conversation stopped.

The male voice said, “You hear something?”

The female voice shouted, “If you’re so damn curious, go check.”

Denny Rapfogel, flushed and sweaty and rolling a black plastic pen between his fingers, opened the door. He blurted, “What the?” then checked himself and offered a queasy smile.

His too-tight, green aloha shirt was patterned with Martini glasses and cocktail shakers. Off-white linen pants bagged to the floor, puddling over olive-green basket-weave loafers.

From behind him came a bark worthy of a watchdog: “Who?”

“The cops from the wedding.”

“Why?”

“How the hell would I know?”

Corinne Rapfogel came into view, jostling past her husband. The impact jellied his jowls. The skin where his jaw met his earlobes reddened and his shoulders rose. Still, the seasick smile endured.

Corinne’s smile was huge and white. “Oh, hi, guys.” New voice, soft and kittenish.

Alicia Bogomil’s plan was to doll up to get the job done. Corinne Rapfogel had dolled down for her work space, even accounting for wedding versus everyday.

She wore a blousy light-blue dress that hung past her knees, chipped white patent flats on her feet. Dark hair was tied back carelessly, with errant strands shooting out from the sides of her head, more than a few gray filaments glinting. Reading glasses perched atop a shiny nose. Like a lot of faces accustomed to heavy makeup, hers looked unformed and blurred without it.

Despite all that, she began vamping, working stubby eyelashes, cocking her head to one side, her hip to the other.

Milo said, “Ms. Rapfogel.”

“Pu-leeze, we’re old friends by now, right? Corinne.” Taking hold of Milo’s hand and holding on for too long.

Denny Rapfogel said, “They’re not here to socialize, this is business.” To us: “Hopefully good business — you solved it?”

Milo freed his hand. “I wish, sir. We’re here for a follow-up, tried calling but no one answered so we thought we’d—”

Corinne Rapfogel said, “What can we follow you up on, guys?”

Milo said, “First off, has anything new occurred to you?”

“Occurred,” she said, as if learning a foreign word on a self-teaching tape. Long, sweeping leftward movement of her eyes. “No, can’t say that it has.”

Denny said, “You’re saying no progress at all? More I’ve been thinking about it, more pissed I get. They ruined our day.”

Milo said, “The dead woman’s day didn’t go too well, either.”

“The woman,” said Denny. “You’re not going to tell me you don’t know who she is.”

“Unfortunately—”

“Christ. What’s the problem? With social media, who can’t be identified?”

Corinne said, “Obviously some people can’t.”

Using the tone you employ for spelling simple things out to dullards. Denny knew it and glared. Corinne didn’t notice, or chose not to. Her eyes made another sweep to the left. The fingers on her outthrust hip drummed.

She saw me looking. Smiled and nodded, as if we were sharing a secret.

I raised my eyebrows. She did the same.

Shall we dance?

Milo watched without expression. Denny Rapfogel, turning away from his wife, saw none of it. He shook his head. “Total disaster. That’s what you came to tell us? Jesus H.”

Corinne said, “It’s follow-up.”

“Whatever.”

“They’re doing their best. These are honest working guys.”

Her turn to glare. The unspoken as opposed to.

The flush spread to Denny’s cheeks. “It wasn’t my dad who was an insurance dentist—”

“An honest, hardworking DDS,” said Corinne. “You never knew him so don’t be judging.”

“Right.” To us: “Her old man’s face used to be on bus benches.”

Corinne produced a rictal smile. “My dad grew up in the projects and earned his dental surgery degree from New York University. Some people take the initiative.”

Denny muttered, “Bus benches.”

Milo said, “So. Any new ideas?”

“Like what?” said Denny.

“Like whatever could help them, obviously,” said Corinne. Another glance at me, followed by a conspiratorial nod.

I said, “Mr. Rapfogel, your comment about a ruined day is right on. I know you were asked this at the time but can you think of anyone who’d want to screw up the wedding?”

“From our side?” said Denny. “No freakin’ way. Our side was mostly Brears’s friends and obviously friends don’t want to ruin anything.”

Corinne said nothing.

I said, “Mrs. Rapfogel?”

She shook her head and said, “I can’t think of anyone,” but the fingers on her hip had stilled and the index finger had extended. Keeping the gesture low and out of her husband’s view, she curled the digit.

Come hither.

I returned her tiny nod.

She smiled.

Denny Rapfogel said, “Look, it’s a bad time. The building just went up for sale and we need to do some contingency planning, okay?”

“Okay,” said Milo. “Sorry for disturbing you, sir.”

“If you ever actually solve it,” said Denny, “any disturbance will be worth it. You find out who it is, I’ll sue their ass.”

Corinne said, “It’s a criminal matter, not civil.” That same patronizing tone.

He wheeled on her. “Like O.J.? Ever hear of that one? The cops fucked it up but the family got justice from the civil suit. Geez.”

He stormed back into the rear office and slammed the door.

Corinne Rapfogel said, “Sorry, guys. I’ll walk you out.”

When we reached the sidewalk, she said, “Where’s your police car?”

Milo pointed. “The green Seville.”

“Ooh, plainclothes — I love that model. My dad had one, a white one with the designer gold plating. He used to loan it to me to go to the beach with my friends.” Loosening her hair and shaking it out as she spoke.

I said, “A real classic.”

“My dad was a classic,” she said. “Unlike the junker I married.” She edged closer. “Listen, guys, I’m leaving him but he doesn’t know it. I just sat down with a lawyer.”

“Guess I shouldn’t say sorry to hear it?”

She laughed. “Hell, no.” Another hip thrust. “Hell on toast no, it was long coming. I waited for the wedding to be over. Didn’t want to spoil Baby’s big day.” Her eyes misted. “So much for that.”

Milo said, “What an ordeal. Sorry. If you think of anything.”

He and I turned toward the car.

Corinne Rapfogel said, “Hold on, guys.” Her eyes flicked back to the office building. She walked several feet ahead of us and stopped.

“Look, I’m not saying this is anything relevant, but one of the reasons I’m leaving him is he can’t keep it in his pants. That’s why our business is sliding into the crapper. We’ve had a bunch of Me Too lawsuits and now we’ve got a poisonous reputation. He ruined the business, okay? He habitually pisses people off.”

She paused, flipped her hair. “If there’s anyone someone would want to mess up, it’s him.”

I said, “Is there a type of woman he goes after?”

“The type with a vagina.” She looked ready to spit. Then she slumped.

“When I met him, he was good looking, believe it or not. Surfed, seemed nice, played tennis, kept in shape, I really thought he was the guy. The being buff lasted longer than the nice. By the time Baby was a toddler, he was cheating on me. Probably before, but that’s when I found out about it. I threatened to leave him and he did the atonement bit and claimed it wouldn’t happen again.”

She middle-fingered the sky. “We’ve been to couples counseling with three different therapists, lot of good they do. He even spent some time in a ridiculous rehab place for sexual addiction. Like it’s a disease, huh? Total bullshit, it’s bad behavior. I asked my therapist and she agrees.”

I said, “So he’s pretty indiscriminate.”

“The ones I know about were all too young for him.” A beat. “Some were halfway cute. Like your victim, I guess. At least from that picture, she looked cute. Considering.”

“But you don’t recognize her.”

“Nah,” she said. “Except for the ones who worked for us, I never met any of them, he’s a sneak, not a flaunter. Only reason I found out he was hitting on the staff is one quit and a year later she sued us and then came the others. Four others, can you believe that?”

Her turn to flush. “Bastard. Then I told a couple of my friends and boy did that open the valves. They started telling me about seeing him with bimbos, offering their husbands threesomes, all kinds of sleazy shit. You’d think they might’ve considered letting me know, right? They’re ex-friends now, but that’s okay, I don’t need anyone.”

The hip retracted. Her spine bowed. “I’m ready to strike out on my own, use the grit and initiative I learned from my daddy. He was poor, put himself through school — I might even go back to school, become a hygienist. I was in Daddy’s office enough to know more about teeth than most dentists.”

Milo and I both nodded.

I said, “Good luck, Corinne.”

“Hopefully I won’t need luck, just talent,” she said. Another glance at the building. “If there’s anyone who could inspire hate it’s him.”

Movement from the building. Denny Rapfogel lumbering toward us. He held out his hands, palms-up, in a what-the-hell gesture.

Corinne said, “Just saying goodbye.”

“Can we get back to business? That rental agent just called back. There’s a place on Olympic might work.”

“Sure, Den,” said Corinne. Under her breath, her lips out of view: “Motherfucker.”

I drove west on Wilshire, turned south at the next light, and headed back toward the station.

“That was something,” said Milo.

I said, “The ties that un-bind.”

“Denny the dog, younger women. Looks alone, Red Dress would seem out of his class. But she took off her clothes for money. Maybe she thought he had enough so she could retire. But given Corinne’s plans, you’d think she’d be watching him, might notice a hottie in Fendi. Even if she didn’t, him slipping away long enough to strangle someone, tidy himself up, and return to the festivities woulda caught her attention.”

“Maybe she’s past the point of caring.”

“Good point. There’s also his role. My brother Patrick married off four daughters, told me father of the bride ranks right below janitor.”

I said, “Any way to get Denny’s phone records, maybe establish a link between him and Red Dress?”

“If it’s a joint account and Corinne volunteers access... maybe. Lemme ask John.”

He speed-dialed Deputy D.A. John Nguyen.

In place of Nguyen’s usual wise-guy, baseball-reference-laced voicemail was a terse message. I’m not in, leave a message.

“Hmm.” He phoned the main office, was informed D.A. Nguyen was out, no idea when he’d be back.

I said, “John sounds grumpy.”

“That’s because John’s a rational human being — hold on.” His cell chirped an excerpt from Handel’s Water Music. “It’s Reed.” Click. “What’s up, kiddo?”

“Struck out everywhere else but a bartender at The Booty Shop on Sunset says she used to dance there a couple of years ago. Not as Kim or Kimberly. He knew her as Sooze.”

“Short for Susie?”

“When I suggested that to him, he got all puzzled, like I was talking in Afghani or something.”

“Einstein.”

“Old guy, probably been pickling himself for decades with well booze.”

Milo said, “I’m not gonna ask your definition of old. Geezer was sure it’s her.”

“Says he is. And he described her the same way the bouncer did: lazy dancer, kept to herself. The backpack, too. She’s the only one he’s ever seen who did that, apparently dancers really do go for big designer purses. I asked him why he thought she acted different. He said she probably wanted to be different. I said maybe she’s shy. He said, ‘Shy people don’t flash their pussies at perverts.’ I kept that out of my notes.”

“Does the place keep better employment records than The Aura?”

“Don’t know, L.T., still trying to find out who owns it. Geezer gave me the name of what turned out to be a shell corporation, address near the docks in Wilmington that’s now a parking lot. The manager’s due in soon. I can wait around for her unless you need me somewhere else.”

“Wait, kid. Have a Shirley Temple on me.”

Reed chuckled. “You know me and sugar.”

“Your loss,” said Milo. “Female manager, huh?”

“How’s that for cracking the glass ceiling?”

Just as Milo pocketed the phone, it chirped again. Radical shift to something atonal — Schoenberg or the like.

John Nguyen said, “Finally, you ask me a no-brainer. With a joint account, you get permission from either account holder, it’s legally obtained evidence.”

“Even if the two of them end up in a nasty divorce.”

“Do it before the divorce.”

“Even with—”

“You want to debate? That’s the law.”

“Great. You okay, John?”

“I’m fantastic.” Sounding anything but.

“What happened to the old voicemail?”

“New boss,” said Nguyen. “Don’t ask ’cause I won’t tell, telling’s what got me in the shit in the first place. Did you know baseball represents white male privilege and is an inappropriate intrusion on work-related communication? Bet you didn’t. Bet you do whatever the hell you want over in Blue Land.”

“You’re white?” said Milo.

“When they want me to be I am.”

Click.

Milo’s lips fluttered, emitting a raspberry.

I said, “Good news on the phone.”

“If it’s in Corinne’s name and she agrees. But probably a waste of time. What’s the chance Denny would be stupid enough to phone his girlfriend when his wife has access to his call record?”

“Doesn’t sound as if he’s ever been discreet. Maybe part of the thrill is throwing it in her face.”

“Okay, I’ll try to get her permission. Maybe I’ll stalk the office later this afternoon, get lucky and catch her by herself. Meanwhile, we’ve got another sighting of Red Dress but with a different name.”

I said, “She’s been working in L.A. for at least two years, has to have some kind of residence.”

“It’s a big county,” he said, wheeling back and stretching his legs. “Kimby, Sooze. Backpack. Maybe you’re right about her being a student. Or the barkeep’s right and she was just putting on airs to stand out.”

He looked at his phone again. “Nothing from Alicia on the dress, yet. Which I knew without checking because I already checked twenty seconds ago. What’s the treatment for OCD?”

“It’s anxiety-reducing behavior,” I said.

“So?”

“Sometimes success does the trick.”

He pretended to study the phone again. “Maybe if I stare at it long enough, something wonderful will take place.”

“That happens,” I said, “write a book and make millions.”