The Wedding Guest

Chapter 37

As he had following the visit with Paul Kramer, Milo drove a bit and pulled over. “You’re thinking what I am, right?”

I said, “Same story as Peter Kramer.”

“It’s like they were on the same path.” He sucked in his breath. “Ended up in the same place.”

“By the same hand.”

“Like you said, the fucking Brain cleaning house.”

“Susie would’ve been ripe for a Pygmalion thing,” I said. “Convinced she was stupid, finally someone tells her different.”

“Trips to the library, goddamn textbooks. Not for her sake. He was out to control and manipulate her. Offs her boyfriend, plays with her for a while, she outlives her usefulness, he gets Lotz to drive a spike into her head and choke her out.”

“You see Garrett as capable of all that?”

“Because he comes across as a wimp? Why not? If he fooled Susie and maybe the Booker girl, why the hell couldn’t he put on an act for us?”

“Kramer and Lotz had a link to the building. The only connection Garrett has is his sister lives there.”

“Maybe that’s enough. He visits, notices things. Collects people like a serious psychopath.”

“You know what I’m going to say.”

He waved a big hand. “Anything’s possible but. What’s the but?”

“All we really have on him is that he’s bright.”

“Plus that look he gave when Poland came up, same for his parents. Plus, the goddamn wedding was his, who better to need damage control — hold on.”

He reached for a buzzing jacket pocket, removed his phone, went on speaker. “Alicia... what’s up, kid?”

Bogomil said, “Something to report on Amanda, Loo. Finally she left and went somewhere other than to campus or to get food in the Village. Got on her trusty little bike and pedaled past the Village — sketchily, I might add. She spaces out, doesn’t look where she’s going, drifts in front of cars. Couple of times she got honked, didn’t even react.”

“Lost in thought,” said Milo.

“Lost in something,” said Alicia. “Anyway, this time she kept going east and crossed Hilgard into the residential streets. Then over to Wilshire at Selby where there’s a light. She crosses, bikes a couple of blocks west nearly getting pulverized, then turns off at one of the fancy high-rises and rolls down into the sub-lot.”

Milo copied the address she recited. “The gate was open?”

“No, there’s a call box. She knows the combination. Interesting, no?”

“Very.”

“It’s a high-end place, Loo, even for the Corridor. Valets out front, working with the level of chrome you’d expect. I considered asking the staff if they knew her but the heap I got from the impound lot and the way I’m dressed they’d probably call the station on me. Plus I wanted to check with you first.”

“Good thinking, kid. Let’s hold off for the time being. Where are you?”

“Back at my desk. I watched the place for a couple hours but it’s tough, no parking on either side of Wilshire and I couldn’t exactly slide the heap in with Bentleys and Mercedeses. So I just kept circling and passing. No sight of her since, sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for, getting that address is a big step.”

“Hopefully it’s not her rich grandma’s crib.”

“There was no grandma at the wedding.”

“Oh, yeah. So maybe it was some kind of tryst. Though it’s hard to see her having a thing with the kind of guy who’d live there. Not only is she weird, she’s dowdy. Today she rode her bike in this ugly, flimsy gray dress, it’s billowing and blowing up like an umbrella, her legs are spread open from here to Arizona and she’s totally unaware. If she wasn’t wearing a shaper, she’d have given Westwood quite a show.”

“A shaper.”

“It’s a girl thing, Loo. Tights you put on under other clothes, they end above the knees and take care of bulges you don’t want to advertise. Not that this one has any bulges. Skinny and straight up and down as a boy. Why’d she wear a shaper? Maybe she’s got a twisted body image, maybe it’s for biking. Or like I said, she’s just weird.”

“Maybe,” said Milo. “Okay, take the rest of the day off.”

“Why?”

“Your watch on her went way past the call, even with the overtime I’m gonna write up. This is good work, I want you rested.”

“Really?” said Bogomil. Softer voice. “That’s totally nice. Maybe I found my niche.”

He hung up, pocketed his phone, stared out the windshield. “Don’t say it.”

I said, “Say what?” But I knew what he was getting at.

He ticked a finger. “A, unless Garrett has millions no one knows about, he doesn’t have a place in a Corridor high-rise. B, he’s in Italy so it can’t be him Amanda just went to see. Let alone wearing a body shaper for.”

My mind raced, what-ifs tumbling in. I kept silent.

He drummed the dashboard, produced a panatela that he quickly replaced with a chocolate lollipop. “Sugarless, got it at the dentist.”

I smiled.

“Hey. I didn’t mean no talk for the rest of the day. I wanted a Trappist monk for a buddy, I’d write the ad differently.”

That broke me up. When I recovered, I said, “The Corridor’s fine for luxury housing but you’d still need somewhere to shop and recreate.”

“So?”

“The nearest place for that is the Village. If The Brain spends time there, he’d have ample opportunity to come across the building on Strathmore, maybe meet a vulnerable young female. And/or a vulnerable addict like Lotz. Alternatively, he learned about the building from Susie Koster through her relationship with Peter Kramer.”

He kept working on the lollipop, jaw tightening, eyes compressing.

I said, “That doesn’t work for you?”

“It works. Go on.”

“What makes you think there’s more?”

He grinned.

“Okay,” I said, “third possibility is that The Brain is rich enough to keep two places — Wilshire for his main crib and Strathmore for finding his prey. Or sticking with the affluence angle, he’s familiar with the building because he’s got a financial interest in it.”

“A honcho at Academo.”

“Not necessarily. When outfits like Academo build, they don’t put up all of the money, they go to outside investors and syndicates. The Brain being a serious investor would explain Pena getting squirrelly.”

He held up a hand in mock self-defense. “I ask for a breeze and get a hurricane. Okay, so we could be looking for an intellectual type with big bucks, maybe with a link to Poland. How about we take a look at Wilshire, we get lucky some prancing Slavic popinjay in a monocle will just happen to strut out to his Rolls.”