“Once or twice, she’d show up, they’d go out. So she’s probably his girlfriend or whatever. But don’t blame me if you’re not careful. Asshole.”
Milo said, “Can you describe the woman?”
“Old, white hair — why, is she some kind of suspect?”
“Just collecting background on Mr. Loach.”
“I meant to ask you about that,” she said. “What exactly’s going on with him? Please please tell me he’s in serious trouble, some sleazy lawyer thing.”
Milo smiled. “I wish we could get into that, Britnee. But too early in the game.”
She smiled back. Perfect teeth. “At least there’s a game. Okay, great. But can you promise me one thing? If whatever he did helps me with my lawsuit, you’ll let me know?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks, guys,” she said. “I mean, if he’s an ax murderer or something, that would help, right?” She laughed. “Sean says I could sue him, the firm, maybe even the agency that got me the job. Luck out, I can score some serious F-U money, finally get a vacation.”
I said, “Haven’t had one in a while?”
“Like in never. School and work and nothing else since my sophomore year in high school, which is when my dad died.”
Milo said, “You really do deserve a break, Britnee. Good luck — can you describe the woman a bit more?”
“Old,” she reiterated. “Tall, skinny. Not a bad figure, I guess. Not bad, she might’ve been cute a long time ago. Rich-looking. That Chanel was real. So were her Louboutins, when she was going down on him I saw those red soles. I’d say she could be his wife but he’s not married. Which he told me after I’d been there for a week. After shamelessly letch-leering my butt.”
She ran a hand down one smooth flank. Flipped her hair.
I said, “Rich older lady.”
“What else... I said white hair but it was really white-blond, probably cost a fortune... oh, yeah, GILF lipstick, coral red.” She grinned. “All smeared up on the side of her face. She did move fast, kind of graceful, I’ll give her that. Like maybe she danced when she was younger? Or she takes yoga, whatever.”
Milo showed her Enid DePauw’s DMV photo, careful to cover the name with his hand.
“Oh, wow. Yup, that’s her. She doesn’t look so great here.” Shaking her head. “Itchy lips, lock the door, bitch. Guess I’m lucky to get out of there, it was only a matter of time before he’d be trying to get me to do it.”
She ate another piece of shrimp. “Tell you one thing: I feel sorry for the next person they exploit.”
I said, “There’s a temp working there now. Not too bright.”
“Figures. Not that the job involves brainwork. Taking messages from his Audi mechanic? His tailor? Sean says that’s what senior partners do. Loaf around and exploit everyone below them. He calls it modern-day feudalism. Says the rest of us are the new serfs. Maybe I’m lucky. Maybe working for Loach is bad karma. The assistant before me had it a whole lot worse.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know her name,” said Britnee Fauve. “Don’t even know if it was even a her or a him. But soon after I started working there, some dude downstairs in the mailroom made the crack about a voodoo hex up in Suite 1100. Like ‘Good luck, hope you do better than the last one.’ I said what are you talking about and he told me. Pretty tasteless, joking about it.”
We waited.
Britnee said, “Death isn’t funny. I was fifteen when my dad died.”
Milo said, “Loach’s previous assistant died?”
“That’s what the dude said. I didn’t ask anyone to confirm it, there was no one to talk to anyway, I was basically in solitary confinement up there. And when I came downstairs I couldn’t wait to get out of there because of all the chemical smells — toners and whatnot.”
“Do you remember the dude’s name?”
“Antoine,” she said. “He’s black, some kind of French-like accent. Maybe he was just messing with my head. But if he wasn’t, you think it could be important? For my lawsuit?” She ate another piece of shrimp, said, “This is delicious, going to bring Sean here. Thanks, I mean it.”
Milo said, “Our pleasure. Take the rest to go. And get some dessert — get two, for you and Sean.”
“That is really sweet, sir, but I’m really not much of a dessert person.”
“Given what you’ve been through, maybe you should be. Go ahead, on us.”
“Naw — you really think so?”
“We know so, Britnee.”
“Well... I do try to stay away from white sugar. But maybe they use something else.”
Milo called for a menu. She scanned. “Coconut custard... I do like coconut... custard’s eggs, that’s protein — okay, custard. Thanks.”
“How about Sean?”
“I’m not sure if he’d eat anything, he’s like Mr. Workout... hmm... okay, mango and coconut rice. He loves mango. Puts them in the blender for smoothies.”
Milo put in the order, asked the waiter to pack it up along with her barely touched lunch, and handed over cash.
The waiter smiled. Britnee Fauve smiled.
Milo and I worked at keeping our faces neutral.
When the take-out bag arrived, she stood up and briefly touched Milo’s shoulder. “Bye. You really know how to take care of people.”
Her breath caught. “My dad was like that.”
We ordered more tea. The still-happy waiter brought a pitcher and a plate of cookies.
Milo said, “Lawyer and client extending the relationship. That remind you of anything?”
Last year we’d worked on the murder of Ursula Corey, a wealthy importer of Asian goods, gunned down in the parking lot of her divorce lawyer’s office building. The attorney, Grant Fellinger, was also her sometimes lover and became the prime suspect.
I said, “These two are both alive.”
“But people around them are trending dead. Let’s chat with Antoine from the mailroom. Black guy with a French accent, can’t be too many employees who fit that bill.”
Keywording the name and that of the firm, he googled. Held up a Facebook page, said, “Thank God for the social network,” and began scrolling.
“Antoine Philippe Bonhomme. Xeroxes but bills himself as an administrative legal assistant... originally from Port Au Prince, Haiti... came to Florida as a kid in a boat... bunch of sad pictures... likes Mexican food and, get this — light opera... graduated four years ago from Columbia U., majoring in anthropology, did research on... some biological thing on alleles.”
“Genetics,” I said. “Welcome to the age of lowered expectations.”
“Him and Britnee, both. Tough being a kid, nowadays. Old age, on the other hand, seems to present erotic opportunities. Enid being naughty in Chanel. Who’da thunk?”
“The pleasure principle is an equal-opportunity employer.”
“Nothing surprises you?” he said. “That could get boring.”
“It’s the reason I take your calls.”
“Let’s hope Monsieur Bonhomme is just as amiable.”
It took a while to connect to someone in the law firm’s mailroom. “Tony” Bonhomme was out sick. A DMV search produced an address on Fuller Avenue in Hollywood and a photo. The reverse directory supplied a landline that went unanswered.
Milo said, “Let’s chance a drive-by, I can leave him my card.”
The house was a hulking, dark-green Craftsman. Tony Bonhomme was visible from the curb, sitting in a lounge chair at the rear of the driveway, reading. As we got closer, I saw the charge cord from a laptop on the ground snaking through the open doorway of a smaller, rear structure. Inside was a kitchenette, dishes stacked neatly on a counter. Work space or guesthouse.
The book Bonhomme grasped with both hands was a large-format paperback with a bright yellow cover. Riveting; he didn’t notice our approach.