The Wedding Guest

Chapter 31

He stopped in front of my house, keeping the engine running. “Gonna set up the watch schedule for tonight, maybe I’ll get lucky and catch Mandy doing something bad. Have a nice rest-of-the-day.”

Before I could answer, he’d sped away.

Robin’s Post-it was stuck to the inside of the front door. Out delivering a Baroque lute to a rock musician in Pacific Palisades who didn’t play Baroque music or the lute. (“Took Blanchie. I need intelligent conversation.”)

I went to my office and tried Maxine Driver again.

She said, “You are persistent. I was just about to text you, good, this saves my fingernails. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to report. I made all the calls I could think of without arousing suspicion. Got a general sense that no one wants to talk about the program.”

“The suicide?”

“I was told it just didn’t work, kids dropped out. What I did manage to pry out is that it wasn’t a touchie-feelie group thing. No meetings of all the kids, just individual mentoring when requested.”

I said, “When requested. Sounds like a loose setup.”

“That was the point, another do-your-own-thing. That’s the way it is nowadays, Alex. Too much structure’s a no-no because if you offend the little bastards they slime you on Yelp, you might as well be a sushi bar or a shoe store. You’d expect administration to back up the faculty. You’d be wrong. They read the ratings and get all antsy about fewer applications leading to a lower rating in U.S. News leading to Academic Armageddon.”

I said, “Toddlers running the nursery.”

“Except toddlers are cute. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Who mentored these tots?”

“Outside advisors.”

“Not regular faculty?”

“Nope.”

“Academics from other colleges?”

“No idea, Alex. For all I know they used volunteer alumni. The program only lasted two quarters, which in postmodern, ADHD college terms means it never happened.”

I said, “Poor you, Maxine. Short attention spans must be tough for a historian.”

“It’s death on wheels. I mention Darfur I get blank looks. I talk about socialism and the little darlings think it means a lot of likes on Facebook and Instagram.”

“Thanks, Maxine.”

“Wish there was something to thank me for. Any progress at your end?”

“We got a victim I.D. but it could be false. Suzanne DaCosta. Please tell me she sat in your class next to Amanda.”

She laughed. “Want me to see if she was ever enrolled here?”

“If you could.”

“Easy-peasy,” she said. “Compared with all that CIA attitude I get when I ask about that stupid program.”

I phoned Robin.

She said, “On the way home, sitting on Sunset near the Archer School. Two blocked lanes, guys in orange vests and hard hats standing around near big machines looking way too mellow.”

A couple of miles west of the Glen. “ETA?”

“At least half an hour.”

I groaned.

She said, “Exactly. I thought I’d cook but now I don’t feel like it. Let’s go out.”

“You bet. Where?”

“Anywhere away from idlers in orange vests.”

I checked my notes for direction.

One source I hadn’t gotten close to: Peter Kramer, assistant manager of the apartment complex when Cassy Booker had died.

I searched some more, came up empty. Lots of reasons for that. Given the building on Strathmore, one stuck in my head. Unlikely, but...

I looked at my watch. Unfair to Basia?

Then again, if she was still in the office, she was working.

She answered, sounded tired. “I’m on my way out, Alex.”

“Sorry. Forget it.”

“Very clever, making me curious. What?”

“I was wondering if you could look up one more name to see if he ever checked into your hotel.”

“Hotel,” she said, laughing. “Morbid. I like that. Who’s the potential guest?”

“Peter Kramer. To be relevant, his death would have to occur no later than two years ago, February.”

“After the Booker girl died. You think he’s connected to her?”

“Probably not but he worked at her building and disappeared shortly after she died.”

“Hold on.”

Click click click.

Her breath caught.

“Oh, Alex. The body of a man by that name came to us on March seventh. He was found in an alley off East Fourth Street.”

“Skid Row.”

“Right in the center of Skid Row. Would you care to guess COD?”

“Heroin with a fentanyl chaser.”

“No, just heroin,” she said. “We termed it accidental... well-nourished Caucasian male, thirty-four years of age... et cetera, et cetera, et cetera... this is interesting: one fresh puncture mark in the right cubital fossa but no sign externally or internally of addiction.”

“A virgin?” I said. “A serious shot of heroin alone would do it.”

“Based on his blood chemistry, a very serious shot. Twice the estimated lethal dosage.”

“Any family contacts listed?”

“Father,” said Basia. “Milo needs to officially ask for the infor — oh, forget it. Do you have a pen?”