Long black hair was Bethany McGonigal, twenty-five, administrative assistant to an unnamed boss in an unnamed location.
Red and curly traced to Yolanda “Yoli” Echeverria, twenty-four, staff assistant, again, no details.
DMV said Tori Burkholder lived in the same neighborhood where she worked, an apartment on Coldwater, four blocks north of Marissa’s. Beth Halperin and Yoli Echeverria roomed together in Reseda, and Bethany McGonigal listed a flat in North Hollywood.
Milo said, “Buncha Valley girls, maybe that’s where the parties were. Including the last one. And 818 is porn central, which would fit with Beef being from that world... lemme see if Leary got back — nope.”
He tried the Vice detective’s desk.
Brandon Leary said, “Hey, just got it. Sorry, don’t know the dude. He rape and kill someone?”
“Looks like he O.D.’d a woman, did his thing, and dumped her body.”
“Oh man, that’s evil. Okay, I’ll show it around, he does have that predator thing going on.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime, Milo. Glad it’s you not me dealing with it.”
No home numbers for the four friends, but those of the salon and the café were public knowledge.
He tried Christopher Van Vliet Hair & Beauty first and asked for Tori Burkholder.
A slow-talking man with a nasal voice said, “She’s not in today. Would you like me to book an appointment for tomorrow?”
“No, thanks, I need to talk to her.” Milo identified himself.
The man said, “She’s in trouble with the cops? I find that hard to believe.”
“A friend of hers is in trouble.”
“And you want Tori to rat the friend out?”
Milo exhaled. “The friend is deceased, sir. I’m gathering information.”
“Deceased. Oh my. Hold on, I’ll give you Tori’s cell.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Deceased,” said the man. “The world has gone insane.”
Voicemail at Tori Burkholder’s number. Milo moved on to Bistro Genial, talked to a harried-sounding woman and worsened her mood.
“We are busy.”
“It’s a police matter, ma’am—”
“Whatever. Quick, quick, what do you want?”
He began explaining.
Click, then static on the line.
He said, “She hung up on me?”
A soft, accented voice came on. “This is Beth. What is going on?”
Milo said, “This is Lieutenant Sturgis from the police department. Sorry to drop this on you but something bad has happened to a friend of yours—”
“What friend?”
“Marissa French.”
“We’re not so much friends,” said Beth Halperin.
“I see. Well, I thought you might be able to help me with information.”
“Information?” Hardened voice. “You are one of those — trying to get my data?”
“No, ma’am. Unfortunately, Marissa is dead and I’m the detective—”
“Dead!” A loud wail caused him to distance the phone from his ear. “No way!”
“I’m afraid so. She died last night—”
A gasp. “No!”
“Is there any way we could talk about Marissa?”
“Okay, yes, sure, yes,” said Beth Halperin. “I will leave now, I cannot do soufflé like this — Marie-Claire? I am leaving... no, no, I have to... a friend has died... do what you want, I am going.”
Milo said, “Where can we meet?”
“I’m going home.” She rattled off an address on Amigo Avenue.
Milo said, “That’s Reseda?”
“Do a GPS.”
Chapter 5
We left just before two, hit merciful traffic on the 101, and arrived thirty-two minutes later.
Beth Halperin lived in a custard-colored cube with a low-peaked tar roof that evoked a five-year-old’s drawing of a house. Gray pebbles in place of a lawn. No greenery visible beyond the cracked driveway hosting an older black Celica.
More of the same on the rest of the block. Bungalows built for aircraft workers in the fifties.
Milo said, “Amigo Avenue. You spot any signs of friendliness?”
During the drive, I’d found the property listed on a rental agency website. A thousand square feet on a cement lot three times that size. No garage but AC, hardwood floors, a granite kitchen, and cable-readiness.
Three thousand a month, six-month lease, and a month’s worth of deposit required. The cost of being young and barely self-supporting in L.A.
Beth Halperin opened a flat gray door wearing a man’s white shirt over black leggings. Since posing for her California I.D., short blond hair had expanded to long and pearly white.
A tattoo in some sort of foreign script ran along her right forearm. The hand at the end of the arm trembled, as did its mate. She laced her fingers to still them and looked us over with huge, pale-blue eyes that lingered on Milo’s olive-green vinyl attaché case. The irises were rimmed in red, a mascara blot smudged her left cheek, a pimple so rosy it had to be fresh had erupted on her chin like a nasty little volcano.
Despite the symptoms of stress, lovely. Same as the other three.
Maybe that had been part of the appeal. The pretty girls hanging together.
Milo introduced us but Beth Halperin didn’t seem to be listening as she stepped back and let us into a small, low living room set up with a black, faux-leather sectional that screamed by-the-month. Aluminum-and-glass tables looked as if they couldn’t withstand a breeze.
“AC” was an ancient louvered box sitting atilt in a window, “hardwood” was cheap gray laminate that extended into a gray kitchenette. Three framed posters hung on custard-colored walls. The Grand Canyon at sunset, adorable penguins huddled on an ice shelf, glossy towers on a beach. In the beach scene, Tel Aviv was emblazoned atop the skyline in wispy white letters meant to emulate skywriting. Or maybe a plane had actually left the message.
Milo said, “Elisheva. That’s an Israeli name?”
Her frown said, Here we go again. “It’s a Hebrew name. The original where they got Elisabeth. So call me Beth.”
“Got it.” He smiled.
Unimpressed, she sat on the shorter arm of the sectional. “What happened to Marissa?”
Milo said, “Can’t get into details but she may have overdosed.”
“Impossible. Marissa did not take drugs.”
“Never?”
“Not since I am knowing her. She told me she took them in high school and it messed her up. She drank a Sea Breeze, that’s all. Maybe sometimes another cocktail. But only one, she wanted to be in control.”
“Sea Breeze.”
“Vodka and cranberry juice, I think they are disgusting. Mostly she held them to look like she was drinking. She did not overdose.”
Milo leaned forward. “Beth, I’m a homicide detective.”
“Yes, I know that, I googled you.”
“The point is she may not have known she overdosed.”
A second of silence, then: “Oh.”
Beth Halperin’s hands separated and relaced around her right knee, bending her forward. She rocked a couple of times, stopped, sat up straight, and looked away from us.
“Stupid, stupid, I got... mevulbal... confused.”
“Understandable, Beth. How’d you and Marissa meet?”
“She knew Yoli — my roommate — from high school.”
“Which high school?”
“Here. Reseda.”
“Did Bethany and Tori also go there?”
“Yes — you talked to them?”
“Not yet. Marissa listed the four of you as her friends.”
“Okay. Yes. They were friends from a long time. I started rooming with Yoli and they didn’t know me. But later they accept me.”