The Wedding Guest

Chapter 5

Two burly morgue drivers waited in the hallway facing the bathroom. One played with his phone, the other raised his eyebrows. “We good to go?”

Milo said, “Not yet,” and followed Peggy Cho into the cramped fetid space. The body was prone on the floor.

Cho said, “Let me turn her.”

“Want help?”

“No, I’m fine.” She rotated the head gently, deftly parted the woman’s dark mane, and revealed a bright-red dot on the nape of a long, graceful neck.

If the injection had pierced the spinal cord, the result would’ve been blindingly painful. A high-voltage shock.

I said, “No struggle says whatever she was injected with put her out quickly.”

Cho said, “Maybe a fast-acting paralytic.”

“Or a fast-acting opioid. Fentanyl comes to mind.”

“You know, that makes sense,” said Cho. “A proper dosage for pain can take only minutes, right? Squeeze in more and we could be talking seconds.”

I said, “Margin of error’s not that great. It could also be fatal.”

“Oh, yeah, we’re seeing tons of O.D.’s.”

Milo said, “This shot probably wasn’t fatal, at least not immediately.” He pointed. “Look at all the blood around the ligature wound.”

Cho said, “You’re probably right and I don’t want to be annoying, but that could be postmortem seepage. The things I’ve seen on the job, anything’s possible.”

Milo thanked her and we headed for the stairs.

The driver with the aerial eyebrows said, “We good now?”

Back on the ground floor, Milo said, “Fentanyl or something like it. The shit’s all over the place, the Chinese are churning it out sending it to Mexico and the cartels are competing with Big Pharma. But there are still legit uses. Rick’s aunt was on patches for chronic pain when she was dying. Wonder if Doctors Stu and Marilee find it useful in family practice.” He blinked. “Wonder if there are veterinary applications.”

I palmed my phone, ran a search. “There are, same as for people. Chronic, intractable pain, surgical paralysis when appropriate.”

“So I keep the Burdettes on the table. Okay, let’s do the little sister and Ms. Leanza. After we see how Sean’s doing with the staff.”

Binchy was holding the attention of a table of people. Doing a little dance-step, gesticulating with both hands, adopting an air-guitar stance, keeping up a smiling patter.

When he saw us, he stopped abruptly. But I’d caught the tail end of his lecture.

“For my money, Rancid still rates as classic.”

Mining the riches of his ska-punk former life.

Milo drew him aside. “Anything iffy from any of them?”

“No tells that I picked up, Loot. Just the opposite, they’re coming across salt-of-the-earth.”

“Music fans.”

Binchy colored around his freckles. “That, too, but that’s not why I’m saying—”

Milo slapped his back. “Rock on, kid, just giving you a hard time. Got all their DMV data?”

“You bet.” He showed Milo a piece of paper, neatly hand-printed. “Surprisingly, every license is current but I haven’t had time to run any of them through—”

“We’ll do that later, Sean. Now I’m gonna meet your campers and go over what you did. No one blurts out a spontaneous, heartfelt confession, they’re free to go. Meanwhile, you go out back and collect all the auto data from the uniforms. Nothing iffy, you can head back to the office, leave all the info on my desk, and go home.”

“You’re sure, Loot?”

“Couldn’t be surer, you deserve some free time,” said Milo.

“I’m really okay, Loot.”

“Go, Detective. Hearth, home, wife, adorable offspring — oh, yeah, pull out the Fender bass, do a Rancid ditty, show it on YouTube — just kidding, Sean.”

The servers, bartenders, and janitors were Hispanic, except for the cocktail waitresses who were blond women around the same age as the bride. The deejay, a gaunt man in his twenties named Des Silver, wore a black velvet suit and a green porkpie hat. The photographer, a pudgy, patchily bearded young man in his twenties named Bradley Tomashev, wore an ill-fitting gray suit over a white T-shirt and cradled a Nikon.

No one unnecessarily avoiding eye contact or playing ocular pinball, no shaking legs, clenching and unclenching of fists, profuse sweating, tics, or other displays of undue anxiety.

That was just a spot evaluation and far from foolproof because psychopaths are better than most at staying calm under pressure and the more psychopathic, the colder their nervous systems. But you can’t hold on to people without evidence and with the crime feeling personal, the chance of a woman dolling up to attend a party where her significant other was on the job seemed remote.

Milo let everyone go, except the photographer.

Bradley Tomashev said, “If Brears is okay with it, yeah I can send you the file once I put it together. It’s going to take time, though. There’s tons of images.”

Milo said, “What we’re most interested in are crowd shots. Coming, going, and during.”

“Oh,” said Tomashev. “There are some but not a lot, Brears didn’t want that.”

“What did she want?”

Tomashev shifted in his chair. “Brears is my friend and she’s the bride.”

“Same question, Bradley.”

Tomashev sighed. “Don’t tell her I told you, okay? I don’t want to step in anything.”

Milo crossed his heart.

“What she wanted was basically herself. Along with a little of the normal stuff. Like the procession, the vows back at the church.”

“But otherwise, her.”

“She’s the bride, so whatever,” said Tomashev.

I said, “Speaking of vows, was the clergyperson at the reception?”

“Uh-uh, the church was like a rented thing, some old guy showed up and read the vows Brears wrote.” Tomashev scratched his chin. Curly, rusty hairs rustled. “She wanted what she wanted, I tried to give it to her. I’m not really a wedding photographer, sirs, this is basically my first.”

“Did you get paid?”

“No, sir. I was happy to do it.”

Milo said, “Well, even a few crowd shots would help.”

“I’ll look for them, sir, but I didn’t go out for those. Even with the dancing, she was always the focal point.”

“All about Brears.”

“She’s the bride,” said Bradley Tomashev. “My job was trying to make sure I honored that.”

He trundled off, still holding his camera like an infant.

Milo said, “Unhealthy attachment to Ms. Rapfogel?”

I said, “He does seem enamored but I don’t see that leading to murder. On the contrary, he’d want everything perfect for her.”

He thought about that for a while. Hooked a thumb to the final table.

Leanza Cardell remained seated, still engrossed with her hair and the remains of a four-ounce Martini.

Amanda Burdette was up on her feet well before we arrived, hustling toward us swinging her book and her yellow marker. Rapid but stiff walk. The shapeless dress bagged on her.

I got close enough to read the book’s title. Meta-Communication in the Post-Modern Society: A Comprehensive Ethologic Approach.

Milo muttered, “Beach read.”

She flipped the book. A diagonal sticker on the back said Thirsty. Waving the marker, she said, “I’ve got a test tomorrow, I go first.”

Milo glanced at Leanza. She drank and twirled, impervious.

“Sure.”

We brought Amanda to the far right corner of the room and sat. Milo motioned her to an empty chair.

She said, “I’ll stand. Been on my ass all day.”

Small plain girl with dark eyes as animate as coffee beans and a husky, strangely flat voice that verged on electronically processed. She’d piled her ponytail into a careless top thatch. Errant brown hair frizzed like tungsten filament. No makeup, jewelry, nail polish.

No eye contact.

Milo pointed to the book. “The test is on that?”

“No-oh. It’s on chemistry,” said Amanda Burdette. “Chem for dummies but still.”

“A challenge.”

“Staying awake is a challenge because it’s boring as fuck. Is any of this relevant? I don’t see it fitting the narrative.”

“What narrative is that?”

“Death at a wedding. I’m assuming unnatural death. Everyone is because of all the time you’re taking doing your police thing.”

Milo smiled.

Amanda Burdette said, “I didn’t realize I was being humorous.”

He showed her the picture of the dead girl.

She said, “That’s her.”

“You know her?”

“Nope, just acknowledging it’s her. Being phenomenological. As in you already showed me the same picture and I assume she hasn’t morphed or otherwise altered her molecular status.”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “You assume right. Any suggestions?”

“About?”

“The murder.”

“Murder is bad,” she said. “Unless it’s justified. Like killing a Nazi. Or a molester.”

“You’re a communications major?”

“No.”

I waited.

So did she.

I said, “What is your major?”

“I curate my own major.”

“Really.”

“Really,” she mimicked. “As if you care.”

Milo said, “Have we offended you, Ms. Burdette?”

“Your role offends me. The need for your services offends me.”

“Crime—”

“Your presence means the world doesn’t have its act together. By now, we should be more than rampaging baboons.”

“You see the police—”

“Must we have a symposium?” said Amanda Burdette. “I see you as a prime symptom of a barbaric society. And yes, every society has needed people like you. Which is precisely my point: So-called humankind hasn’t evolved.”

I said, “The major you put together—”

“Cultural anthropology slash economic history slash — yes, communications, congratulations for being one-third correct.”

“I went to the U., don’t recall—”

“Obviously times have changed,” said Amanda Burdette. “The powers that be deigned to allow me to construct a personal but informed narrative contingent on taking a certain amount of so-called science courses. Ergo chemistry for the mentally challenged, which ergo I need to pass. Which ergo requires staying awake and memorizing molecular structure so if you don’t mind—”

I said, “Did you notice anything unusual during the wedding?”

“I noticed everything unusual. The phenomenon is by definition unusual. Two people wearing clown costumes and pretending they’ll be able to avoid fucking other people for fifty years.”

I said, “How about something specific to this wedding?”

“For starts she’s retarded.”

“Brears.”

“Brears Brearely Brearissimo.” She let out a metallic single-note laugh. “That sounds like a dog’s name. Yes, Brearely is barely literate.” Barest upturn of lips. “The image in my head is a pampered lapdog that gets its ass wiped by willing sycophants.”

Milo said, “You don’t like your new sister-in-law.”

Amanda Burdette looked him up and down. Twenty years old but well schooled in the withering glance.

“It’s not a matter of like. She’s not worth thinking about.”

“Your brother—”

“Gar’s always been gullible.”

“About?”

“Life. He’s always blinded by something. At this moment it’s alleged love.”

“Alleged.”

“I’m talking your language as a semantic shortcut,” said Amanda Burdette. “Alleged perpetrator until proven otherwise?”

She undid the thatch, drew her hair forward, and played with it. “If it doesn’t last, he’ll be shattered, and she won’t feel a thing because she’ll have already fucked a bunch of other guys and planned her exit strategy. Will he learn? Probably not. Though life will eventually go on for him, too. And in answer to your probable next question, I can see someone hating her and wanting to fuck up her wedding. Could that entail killing this person?” Tapping the photo. “Why not? Depends on the narrative.”

Milo said, “Whose narrative are we talking about now?”

“Obviously the alleged killer’s.”

“What exactly do you mean by narrative?”

Another dehydrating once-over. “I’ll keep it simple. Every reality is tempered by innumerable bio-psycho-social constructs, contaminants, and other intervening variables. Everyone tells innumerable stories throughout their lives to themselves and others as well as to the greater external environment.”

She engaged Milo’s eyes with her own, smallish orbs. “And that means, Mr. Policeman, that your job will always be a giant pain in the ass for you because you will never spend your days dealing with honesty, nor will you ever reach the point where you feel you’ve accomplished anything. Because you haven’t. Because people suck.”

She hefted her book. “Anything else?”

Milo said, “Guess you’ve covered everything.”

“I’ve covered nothing,” said Amanda Burdette. “And by saying I have, you obviously don’t get it.”

She turned her back and walked away.

Milo said, “Did that just happen? Nasty little piece of work. Thinks she’s brilliant but she just made me more interested in her.”

“You’ve got your narrative, she’s got hers.”

“What’s yours?”

“I’d like to talk to her.” Eyeing Leanza Cardell.

This time, the unlucky bridesmaid got up as we approached. Wiggling to maintain balance and calling out, “My turn?”

Thickly built but shapely and blessed by a beautiful, clear-skinned face, she knew her flaming waist-length hair was an eye-catcher and used it like a prop, tossing and arranging and rearranging as she sashayed toward us in impossible heels. Her glossy satin dress shifted between gray and mocha depending on the light.

The garment looked tight enough to restrict respiration. One of those sadistic things brides pick for their supposed friends in order to look good in comparison. But Leanza seemed to enjoy working it, walking in a way that maximized gelatinous bounce. Her smile nearly bisected her face, her teeth whiter than fresh snow.

Milo led her to the area vacated by Sean’s group.

She sat carefully, tugged her bodice down to expose an additional inch of bosoms.

“At your service, Lieutenant.” A look at me. “Yours, too, sir.” Tinkly, little-girl voice. Huge blue eyes awned by false lashes that could’ve been fashioned from tarantula legs.

Milo said, “Sorry for the wait, Ms. Cardell. Terrible thing you’ve been through.”

“Call me Lee, Lieutenant. Yeah, it freaked me out, I mean all I wanted was a place to... you know.” Spidery flutter. “The little girls’ room. But I’m fine now, had a Martini — that’s okay, right? I mean I don’t have to be totally sober to talk to you, do I?”

“What you endured, Lee, I can see booze helping.”

Leanza Cardell laughed. “You sound kinda like a TV detective.” Edging satin knees closer to Milo.

He said, “Columbo?”

“Who’s that?”

“Historical figure.”

“Huh?”

“Please run it by us again, Lee.”

With her hair and chest as props, Leanza retold her narrative, creating a mini-drama in which her bladder starred.

“I mean, really, you go in to tinkle — that’s what my grandma calls it, to tinkle — you go in to tinkle, are trying to pull down your panties, and you see that? I thought I’d lose it completely. So who is she?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Lee.”

“She was dressed to party, had to be on the invite list.”

“She isn’t and no one seems to know her.”

“Really? I assumed she was from his side. I mean I knew she wasn’t from Brears’s side, I know everyone Brears knows.”

“You and Brears go back?”

“High school, we were both cheerleaders.”

“So your first impression was she was Gar’s friend.”

“Well,” she said, “I just assumed. She’s not? Wow, that’s weird. You’re sure she’s not?”

I said, “No one from his side admits knowing her.”

“Admits? You think they’re lying?”

“Any reason they would be?”

“I’m not saying that — can I ask your name? So we can talk like people. You, too.”

“Milo.”

“Alex.”

“Nice names for nice guys,” she said, smiling crookedly. “All I mean, Alex, is that if she’s not from Brears’s side, she’d have to be from Gar’s side, right? It’s like, that’s the whole thing, right? So if they don’t admit — I mean it’s the process of elimination, right? She has to come from somewhere.”

I nodded. “You were just sitting with Gar’s family. Did anyone indicate they knew her?”

“Uh-uh. They weren’t talking much. Pretending like it didn’t happen, you know? Gar’s dad did go on a bit about how much it cost and now look what happened, and Gar’s sister — the married one — was saying she was pissed she couldn’t bring her kids but now turned out that was a blessing.”

We waited.

Leanza Cardell said, “That’s it, really.”

I said, “Did Amanda have anything to say?”

“Her? The freak? She reads,” said Leanza Cardell. “Brears warned me about her.”

“Warned you about what?”

“Her being a psycho freak. Autistic like, what do they call it, spectral? You just met her, she’s weird, right? Brears didn’t want to invite her to the bachelorette in Vegas but she had to. Thank God she didn’t come. Said she had a test. Wasn’t nice about it.”

“Rude.”

“Not answering the e-vite, not answering Brears’s calls. Finally, the day of she emails, like, ‘got a test.’ Every time I’ve seen her, she’s reading. I mean come on.”

I said, “Speaking of the bachelorette, anything interesting happen?”

She flushed scarlet. “No, it was great.” Loss of volume on the last two words. Her eyes slid to the right and back.

Milo said, “Lee, if there’s something that could relate to this murder, we need to know.”

Fingers knotted around flame-colored hair. Pale knuckles.

“Lee?”

“No, no, nothing like that, it was — the usual.”

I smiled. “Never been to a bachelorette so don’t know what the usual is.”

She squirmed. Satin squeaked. “You know. We ate and drank and had... you know, male dancers.”

“Any conflict — fights among the girls?”

“No, we were — it was all about the party.”

White knuckles as her lips moved. Again, she glanced to the side.

I said, “Did Brears do anything that might’ve gotten her into trouble with someone?”

Leanza Cardell’s head dipped toward her satin lap. “I really don’t want to talk about this. It’s not fair.”

“To who?”

“Brears. She’s entitled to her... time on the runway.”

“Stardom.”

“Yeah, it was supposed to be her big day.”

I said, “So what, the party was an intro to the big day?”

“Well...” Grimace. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Milo said, “Someone was murdered, Lee. If you know anything—”

“I don’t. It had nothing to do with it.”

“What’s it, Lee?”

“Nothing.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” she repeated. “Dancers are nothing to anyone, they’re like... they’re... no one even knew anyone’s name, okay? It’s not like the two of them had an affair, just a quickie—”

She clamped her hand over her lips. “Omigod I’m such a...” Wet eyes.

Milo said, “There was some fooling around. A dancer and Brears.”

“You never heard that from me. It’s not important!” She began crying.

I said, “We’re not here to judge.” One of the baldest lies I’ve ever told.

“I’ve messed up everything!”

“You haven’t, Lee. Really.” I placed a hand on hers. Warm, slightly moist flesh. A body maintained on simmer.

She looked at me. “Really? You’ll forget about it?”

“If there really was nothing more than some fooling around.”

“There really wasn’t, sir — Alex. I swear to you. We don’t even know their names, everyone wears masks, no one knows anybody or anything.” She looked around, panicked. Lowered her head again and said something inaudible.

“What’s that, Lee?”

“Ma fau.”

“Your fault?”

Mournful nod.

“For...”

“Not stopping it. He asked me first, picked me out and said I was hot, it would be fun. I said no way.”

“You opted out. Nothing wrong with that, Lee.”

“That’s what I thought!” Squeezing my fingers.

I said, “Brears thought differently.”

“It was supposed... I thought... I figured it would just be—” She stroked air. Placed a hand behind her head and pushed down. “I should’ve done it to save her. I just wanted to stay classy!”

I said, “You took care of yourself, Lee. Nothing to be ashamed of, just the opposite.”

“But I should’ve protected her. She already had drank way way too much, she had these cocktails... I should’ve, I mean I tried, told her don’t do it but she laughed and then she’s getting up pulling her dress down so her you-knows are all exposed and then he’s taking her hand...” More tears. “They actually did it. I couldn’t believe it, they did it. And everyone’s cheering.”

“Then it was over,” I said.

“Don’t judge her. Please. That’s how she is.”

“Determined.”

She sniffed. “Yeah. She always gets her way. Always.”

Milo produced a tissue and Leanza dabbed her eyes. We questioned her gently, going over the same ground, probing for new info. She said, “Uh-uh, I swear that’s everything. And no way the party is important.”

I said, “How many girls were there?”

“Why? You’re not going to talk to them — please, I don’t want them to know I told!”

Milo looked at me. If we needed to find out, we could.

He said, “Sure. Big party?”

“No, just girls who’re close. Four, okay? But no one would ever tell. Because... some of them also.” Looking down. “Actually, everyone got into it. It was crazy. Except me.” Looking down. “I had my period. Also, I didn’t want to.”

She ruffled her hair. “Totally crazy, we had masks. No one was themselves. Except me. And I was the one who felt weird.”

She tottered as she stood. Milo said, “How’re you getting home?”

“Uber.”

“Okay, be careful.”

“I will, sir.”

Staggering off.

Milo rubbed his face. “Girls gone wild with a bunch of hired studs. The groom finds out, I can see an excellent motive for strangling the bride but not some third party. And there’s no indication the groom did find out. From what I’ve seen he’s still basking in the glow of oblivious love.”

He laughed. “Poor sap. Probably happens more often than we think.”

I said, “His family doesn’t know, either. If they did, they’d have tried to stop the wedding.”

“Mean Amanda would’ve loved that narrative.”

“Amanda attending the bachelorette would probably have kept things tame.”

“Chastity belt on legs?” He laughed. “I guess I could talk to the other girls at the party but if it turns out not to be relevant, I’ve made things even worse for these poor kids and their families.”

“Agreed,” I said. “At this point, best to be discreet.”

He laughed. “Put otherwise, I remain stuck at ground zero.”

We left the building and stepped out into cool night air soured by gasoline and garbage.

I said, “How long since this place was a strip club?”

“Back to the dancer thing?”

“She’s a good-looking young woman who knew where the upstairs bathroom was.”

“Or like Leanza she just had bladder issues, went looking, and lucked out.”

“Leanza didn’t luck out. She knew because she was a bridesmaid and had changed upstairs. The location’s out of the way. My bet is Red Dress either was familiar with the layout or was meeting up with someone who was.”

“Tryst in the loo?” he said.

“She may have been lured there for a hot time, but I don’t see this as rough sex gone bad. Our bad guy came with a garrote and a shot of something nasty. She was brought upstairs to be killed.”

“Bad guy’s a wedding guest? Or he, too, knew the place from before? Why pick a stranger’s wedding to kill your soon-to-be-ex?”

“Maybe some sort of fantasy — double-crashing and getting it on. Plus there’d be practical reasons. When the building’s not being used, it’s locked, and noise from the party would be a great sound baffle.”

“I guess so,” he said. “But we’re still talking high-risk, Alex. Anyone could’ve come up there at any time.”

“Maybe danger was part of the fantasy. She was left to be found. Displayed in a demeaning way.”

“Hypo full of dope,” he said. “That takes me right back to Gar’s clan with all their medical training.”

I said, “Including the women. Sandy Burdette and Marilee Mastro are both tall, strong-looking women, and the injection would’ve reduced the need for physical control.”

“Amanda isn’t big but she’s smart enough to plan and sweet as a wolverine. Now the big question for all of them: motive.”

I shrugged. “We need to know more about the families — both sides.”

“How kind of you,” he said, patting my shoulder.

“What is?”

“The benevolent plural. We need to know.”

“What are friends for?” I said.

“When it comes to our newlyweds, good question.”