Gone Page 8

  “Tight clothes, short skirts, going out all the time.”

  “Going out with who?”

  “The only one I saw was the one in the picture. Sometimes she went out alone.” Shayndie Winograd blinked. “A few times we said hello. She said my children were cute. Once she offered Chaim Sholom— my six-year-old— a candy bar. I took it because I didn’t want to insult her but it wasn’t kosher so I gave it to a Mexican lady who works at the day care...she always smiled at the children. Seemed like a nice girl.” Deep sigh. “So terrible for her family.”

  “She ever talk about family?”

  “No, sir. We never really had a conversation, just to say hello and smile.”

  Milo put his pad away. He hadn’t written anything down. “Anything else you can tell me, ma’am?”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever comes to mind.”

  “No, that’s it,” said Shayndie Winograd. Another deep blush. “She was beautiful but I felt sorry for her. Showing a lot of...herself. But she was nice, smiled at the babies, one time I let her hold one because I was getting into the car and had lots of packages.”

  “So you had no problems with her.”

  “No, no, not at all. She was nice. I felt sorry for her, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “Living by herself. All the going out. People think they can go out and do anything they want but the world is dangerous. This proves it, no?”

  Squalls sounded from a bedroom. “Uh-oh.” We followed her into a ten-by-ten room taken up by two cribs. The occupants were a pair of infants, purple with indignation and, from the aroma, freshly soiled. Gershie Yoel bounced like a Slinky toy and tried to butt his mother as she changed diapers.

  “Stop it! These men are policemen and if you don’t behave they can take you to the Beis Hasohar like Yosef Aveenu.”

  The little boy growled.

  “Beis Hasohar, I mean it, you good boy.” To us: “That’s jail. Yosef— Joseph, from the Bible, he ended up there, seven years until Pharaoh took him out.”

  “What’d he do?” said Milo.

  “Nothing,” she said. “But he was accused. By a woman.” She rolled up a filthy diaper, wiped her hands. “Bad things. Even then there were bad things.”

  * * *

  Milo left his card at the other apartments. When we got to the ground floor the mail carrier was distributing envelopes.

  “Afternoon,” said Milo.

  The postman was a gray-haired Filipino, short and slight. His U.S. Postal Service van was parked at the curb. His right hand grasped one of several keys on a chain attached to his belt as the left pressed bound stacks of mail against his torso.

  “H’lo,” he said.

  Milo identified himself. “What’s the situation in Box Three?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When’s the last time she emptied it?”

  The carrier opened Michaela’s compartment. “Looks like not for a while.” He let the keychain drop and used both hands to separate the stacks. “Two for her today. It’s not my regular route...lucky this is all she got, not much room left.”

  Milo pointed to the two envelopes. “Can I take a look at those?”

  The mailman said, “You know I cannot do that.”

  “I don’t wanna open them,” said Milo. “She got murdered last night. I just wanna see who’s writing to her.”

  “Murdered?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s not my regular route.”

  “You already said that.”

  The carrier hesitated, handed over the envelopes.

  Bulk solicitation to apply for a low-interest home loan and a “Last Chance!” pitch to resubscribe to InStyle magazine.

  Milo handed them back.

  “How about the stuff inside?”

  “That’s private property,” said the mailman.

  “What happens when you come back in a few days and there’s no more room?”

  “We leave a notice.”

  “Where does the mail go?”

  “Stays in the station.”

  “I can get a warrant and come by and open it all up.”

  “If you say.”

  “I say I just wanna look at the envelopes that are in there. Seeing as the box is already open.”

  “Privacy— ”

  “When she got killed she lost her privacy.”

  * * *

  The carrier made a show of ignoring us as he went about delivering mail to the other tenants. Milo reached into Box Three, removed a thick stack wedged so tightly he had to ease it out, and thumbed through.

  “Mostly junk...a few bills...urgent one from the gas company meaning she was overdue...same deal with the phone company.”

  He inspected the postmarks. “Ten days’ worth. Looks like she was gone well before she died.”

  “A vacation’s not likely,” I said. “She was broke.”

  He looked at me. Both of us thinking the same thing.

  Maybe someone had kept her for a while.

  CHAPTER 11

  We sat in the car, in front of Michaela’s building.

  I said, “Dylan Meserve cleared out of his place weeks ago. The neighbor heard him and Michaela arguing and Michaela told me she hated him.”

  “Maybe he came and got her,” said Milo.

  “Took her on another adventure.”

  “What about Mr. Sex Criminal Peaty? Maybe he snatched both of them.”

  “If Peaty did abduct anyone, he didn’t take them to his place,” I said. “No way to keep that from Mrs. Stadlbraun and the other tenants.”

  “Too small to entertain.”

  “Still, he’s the one with the record.”

  “And he’s weird. So now I’ve got two high-priority bins.”

  * * *

  As we drove away, he said, “Coffee would prop my eyelids.”

  I stopped at a place on Santa Monica near Bundy. Scrawled the possibilities as I saw them on a napkin and slid it across the table as Milo returned from making some calls.

  1. Dylan Meserve abducts and murders Michaela, then flees.

  2. Reynold Peaty abducts and murders Michaela and Dylan.

  3. Reynold Peaty abducts and murders Michaela and Dylan’s disappearance is a coincidence.

  4. None of the above.

  “It’s that last one I love.” Milo waved for the waitress, ordered pecan pie à la mode. Finishing most of the wedge in three gulps, he nibbled the rest with excruciating care, as if that proved self-restraint.

  “I called Michaela’s mother again, it was all about her, big time woe-is-me. Too sick to come out to claim the body. The way she was gasping I figure it’s probably true.”

  I summarized Michaela’s account of her childhood.

  “Ugly duckling?” he said. “Every gorgeous girl says that...what that Jewish lady said, the lifestyle issue, maybe she had a point.”

  “Michaela got caught up in the Hollywood thing.”

  “You know what that does to the ninety-nine-point-nine percent who fall on their asses. The question is, did it snag her or was it just one of those bad-luck deals.”

  “Like running into Peaty.”

  He ate the last bit of pie, wiped his mouth, put way too much money on the table, and extricated himself from the booth. “Back to the salt mine. Lots of boring stuff to do.”

  Boring was his code word for I need to be alone. I drove him to the station and went home.

  That evening Michaela’s murder was the lead story on every local broadcast, blow-dried news readers half smiling as they intoned about the “shocking crime” and exhumed mock-solemn memories of Michaela and Dylan’s “publicity stunt.”

  Dylan was cited as “a person of interest, not a suspect.” The implication was clear, as it always is when the police phrase it that way. I knew Milo hadn’t given them the quote. Probably some public relations officer, issuing yet another boilerplate release.

  Next morning’s paper ran a page-
three story with five times the ink space the hoax had merited, graced by two pictures of Michaela: a sultry, airbrushed head-shot taken by a photographer who churned them out for Hollywood hopefuls, and her LAPD booking photo. I wondered if either or both would resurface in the tabloids or on the Internet.

  One way to get famous is to die the wrong way.

  I didn’t hear from Milo that day, figured the tips would be pouring in and he’d either learn a lot or nothing. I filled my time polishing up reports, thought about getting a dog, took a new referral from an attorney named Erica Weiss.

  Weiss had filed suit against a Santa Monica psychologist named Patrick Hauser for molesting three female patients who’d attended his encounter groups. Chances were it would settle and there’d be no court appearance. I negotiated a high hourly fee and felt pretty good about the deal.

  I looked up Hauser’s office address. Santa Monica and Seventh. Allison also practiced in Santa Monica, a few miles away on Montana. I wondered if she knew Hauser, thought about calling her. Figured she might see it as an excuse to get in touch and decided against it.

  At a quarter to six, when she was likely to be between patients, I changed my mind. Her private line was still on speed dial.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Hi,” she said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Fine...I was about to say, ‘How’ve you been, handsome.’ Got to watch those little slips.”

  “All compliments will be received with gratitude, oh Gorgeous One.”

  “Listen to this smarmy mutual admiration society.”

  “If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

  Silence.

  I said, “I’m actually calling on a professional matter, Ali. Do you know an esteemed colleague named Patrick Hauser?”

  “I’ve seen him at a few meetings. Why?”

  I told her.

  She said, “I guess I’m not surprised. Rumor has it he drinks. An encounter group, huh? That does surprise me.”

  “Why?”

  “He seems more the corporate consultant type. How many patients are we talking about?”

  “Three.”

  “That’s pretty damning.”

  “Hauser claims it’s a group delusion. There’s no physical evidence, so it boils down to a he said/they said. The State Board’s been sitting on it for months, still hasn’t handed down a disposition. The women got impatient and contacted a lawyer.”

  “All three have one lawyer?”

  “They’re framing it as a mini–class action, hoping others will hear about it and come forward.”

  “How’d they find out they’d had similar experiences with Hauser?”

  “They hung around after session, went for drinks, it came out.”

  “Not too smart of Hauser to put them in the same room.”

  “Fondling patients is no act of genius.”

  “So you think he did it.”

  “I’m open-minded but all three were seeing Hauser for mild depression, nothing delusional.”

  “Like I said, he’s known to imbibe. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Thanks...so how’s it been?”

  “Life in general?” she said. “It’s been okay.”

  “Want to join me for dinner?”

  Where had that come from?

  She didn’t answer.

  I said, “Sorry. Rewind the tape.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m thinking about the offer. When did you mean?”

  “I’m open. Including tonight.”

  “Hmm...I’ll be free in an hour, have to eat anyway. Where?”

  “You name it.”

  “How about that steak place?” she said. “The one where we met the first time.”

  * * *

  I asked for a booth away from the mahogany bar with its low-pitched alkie chatter and sports on TV. By the time Allison showed up ten minutes later, I’d finished my Chivas, was working on my second glass of water.

  The restaurant was dim and she stood there for a few seconds letting her eyes adjust. Her long, black hair swung free and her ivory face was serious. I thought I saw tension around the shoulders.

  She stepped forward, revealed color. An orange pantsuit hugged her trim little body. Tangerine-orange. With that hair of hers, Halloween Costume could’ve been a problem but she made it work.

  She spotted me, strode forward on high heels. The usual adornments sparkled at earlobes, wrists, and neck. Gold and sapphire; the stones brought out the deep blue of her eyes and played off the orange. Her makeup was perfect and her nails were French-tipped. The smile that parted her lips was hard to read.

  A substantive woman but she takes a long time getting herself together.

  The kiss on my cheek was quick and cool. She slid into the booth, just close enough to make conversation feasible but too distant for easy touching. Before we could talk the waiter had planted himself in front of us. Eduardo, the feisty one. Eighty-year-old Argentinian immigrant who claimed he could cook seafood better than the chef.

  He bowed before Allison. “Evening, Dr. Gwynn. The usual?”

  “No, thanks,” she said. “It’s a little chilly outside, so I think I’ll have an Irish coffee. Make it decaf, Eduardo, or I’ll be calling you up at three a.m. to play cards.”

  His smile said that wasn’t a dreaded outcome. “Very good, Doctor. Another Chivas, sir?”

  “Please.”

  He marched off. I said, “Been coming here a lot?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He used your name.”

  “I guess I’m here every three weeks or so.”

  Alone or with another guy?

  She said, “The T-bone made a lasting impression on me.”

  Eduardo returned with drinks and menus. Extra whipped cream for Allison’s Irish coffee. Bowing again, he left.

  We touched glasses and drank. Allison licked foam from her upper lip. Her face was smooth and white as fresh cream. She’s thirty-nine but when she eases up on the jewelry, she can pass for ten years younger.

  She pushed her drink away. “How’s Robin?”

  I worked at a casual shrug. “I guess she’s okay.”

  “Haven’t seen her much?”

  “Not much.”

  “Sleeping with her?”

  I put my scotch down.

  She said, “That means yes.”

  When in doubt, revert to shrink tactics. I kept quiet.

  “Sorry, that was totally inappropriate.” She smoothed hair away from her face. “I knew it and felt like asking, anyway.”

  Bending over her coffee, she inhaled steam. “You’re entitled to sleep with anyone you want, I just yearned to be bitchy. Sometimes I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you myself.”

  “Sometimes is better than never.”

  “On the face of it, why shouldn’t we?” she said. “Two healthy, libidinous people. We were great together.” Faint smile. “Except when we weren’t...not very profound, is it?”

  We drank in silence. The second Chivas brought on a nice warm buzz. Maybe that’s why I said, “So what the hell happened?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “And I’m asking you back.”

  I shook my head.

  She drank, laughed. “Not that anything’s funny.”

  Eduardo came over to take the food order, saw the looks on our faces, and turned heel.

  Allison said, “Maybe nothing went wrong, it was just evolution.”

  “Devolution.”

  “Alex, when we started out, there was this rush of feeling every time I saw you. All I had to do was hear your voice and this sympathetic nervous system thing kicked in— this incredible flood of emotion. Sometimes when the doorbell rang and I knew it was you there’d be this heat— like a hot flash. I started to worry I was going through early menopause.” She looked into her Irish coffee. “Sometimes I’d get sopping wet. That was something.”