White walls were mostly blank, except for a few of the inoffensive abstract prints you see in chain hotels. A sixty-five-inch flat-screen faced the long arm of the sectional. On the floor beneath the TV sat a pair of squat little Sonos speakers. No attempt to hide wires.
I said, “Not much personal investment. A rental?”
Milo said, “You’re on a roll. Found the lease in a nightstand along with the guy’s wallet and an Italian passport.” He consulted his pad. “Giovanni Aggiunta, twenty-nine a few months ago.”
He spelled the surname. “In answer to your next question, don’t know anything about him yet.”
I looked around. “Don’t see any sign of disturbance.”
He pointed to the hallway, left me to follow. One door to the right, on the left a nondescript beige bathroom followed by a nondescript beige bedroom.
Giovanni Aggiunta’s sleeping chamber featured the same tile floor. A pair of windows facing the backyard were blocked by accordion shades. I lifted a few pleats on each. Both casements were shut tight and held fast by latches.
Not even cheap art in here, no chest or dresser, the only furniture a pair of chromium-legged black marble circles serving as nightstands. Rust-specked chrome. I’d seen budget hotels given more consideration.
A pair of wide double doors took up most of the facing wall.
Milo pointed to the bed. “Guess this could technically be counted as disturbance but not the type I’m interested in.”
The king-sized mattress was made up with plum-colored sheets and pillows that had seen recent use. The pillows were bunched up against a black lacquer headboard. A corner of fitted sheet had come untucked, exposing the mattress pad. At the foot of the bed, a quilted, purple-brown silk spread humped where it hadn’t trailed to the floor.
On the floor, neatly arranged a few feet from the bed, were a pink velour jogging suit, padded mini-socks, black-and-pink Asics running shoes.
The nearer stand hosted a matte-gray vibrator, a box of ESP condoms, a jar of Nivea crème, and a vial of something called Sweet Touch Love Oil. On the farther stand, a pink leather fanny pack.
Next to the pack were a diamond tennis bracelet and matching anklet, a platinum cocktail ring set with two serious diamonds and an even larger sapphire, and off to one side, a simple chain necklace set with a small purplish amethyst. The necklace seemed markedly lower-caliber. Maybe sentimental value.
Milo said, “No reason to go for small stuff when this was in plain sight but doesn’t look as if there was ever a laptop or a desktop, just that tablet in the living room. All that’s on it are the apps it came with and one that turns it into a remote. No evidence the bad guy ever came inside. So much for classic motive number one.”
He lifted the fanny pack, tweezed out the contents, arrayed them on the bed.
Three twenty-dollar bills folded in half, shiny gold Gucci lipstick tube, brushed-gold container holding one point six ounces of Gucci Guilty perfume, the California driver’s license of Meagin Lea March, blond/blue, five-six, one thirty, DOB forty-one years ago.
I said, “No phone?”
“It was on the stand next to the jewelry, techies pulled up prints on the case so they bagged and tagged before I had a chance to eyeball. I asked for a call-dump and a zip drive.”
I read the address on the license. Guarida Lane, 90077. “Right here in Bel Air.”
“Little under a mile and a half south over in the high-priced spread.”
I said, “Who drives the Maserati?”
“Titled to a leasing company in the Palisades. Signor Aggiunta gets to use it for twenty-four months.”
“So either he drove her here or she walked or jogged over.”
“Fresh-looking grit in the soles of her running shoes says she’s been using them somewhere recently.”
He looked at the clothing on the floor, then the rumpled bed. “Physical fitness.”
I said, “Both of them naked and him bringing out the condom says they were ready for chapter two. Wonder why she took all her jewelry off but left her wedding rings on.”
“I wondered about it, too. Figured maybe they were too tight. But I checked and they weren’t. So maybe that was part of the thrill.”
“Not thrilling for the husband.”
“Exactly. Classic motive number two. Once I’m outta here, learning about hubby is priority one.” He looked at his Timex.
“Jealous spouse,” I said. “Could turn out to be straightforward.”
He crossed his fingers.
“What is it you think I can help you with?”
“Nothing specific, just spread your aura.”
That sounded like tokenism and it made me wonder.
He said, “Anything else you wanna see?”
I opened the double doors to a generous closet. Hanging space to the left, drawers to the right.
Milo said, “Been through it, nothing in the pockets except more condoms. Two packets for each jacket and a couple more boxes in the medicine cabinet. Italian design, Swiss manufacture. Gluten-free and vegan.”
I laughed.
He said, “I’m serious. And maybe the poor guy was onto something because there was nothing interesting medication-wise. Guy didn’t even seem to have headaches.”
I examined the clothing. Not much quantity but plenty of quality.
Three unstructured Brunello Cucinelli cashmere sport coats were paired with brightly colored slim-fit slacks, a black calfskin jacket was coupled with black Stefano Ricci jeans. No ties, no dress shirts but for a Prada wing-collar formal under a navy-blue tux. Both crisp enough to be unused. A handwritten receipt on high-quality paper hanging from a button inside the tux jacket supported that. Handmade for Sig. G. Aggiunta by a tailor in Milan. Thirty-four hundred euros.
The drawers contained black T-shirts, mostly silk, a few linen and cotton; black silk bikini underwear, turtlenecks, cashmere sweaters, fitted polos in the same bright hues as the pants.
In contrast with the limited display of textiles, shoes filled every inch of floor space and two upper shelves. Tennis shoes for exercise and for show, suede drivers, supple loafers, woven oxfords, glossy wingtips, lace-up boots. Four pairs of Chelsea boots. Peanut butter leather, gray leather, crocodile, ostrich hide.
Milo said, “Maybe married women weren’t his only fetish.”
I pointed to a mustard-colored jacket coupled with scarlet pants. “No suits, what the Italians call spezzato.”
“What?”
“Unmatched components.”
“And you know this because...”
“Evaluated a family originally from Rome a while back. The husband was into it, one point of contention was he wanted to dress his ten-year-old son the same way. The wife thought it was vulgar. Like him.”
He looked down at his own contrasting getup.
I said, “Ahead of your time.”
“Live long enough, everything comes ’round.”
“I mentioned it because apart from no business wear, his tux looks unused and he doesn’t own a tie. Whatever he does to make money doesn’t require formality.”
“Maybe he’s Cobbler to the Stars... so far, haven’t found evidence of any kind of job.”
“The clothing’s expensive, so he’s got an income from somewhere.”
“Yeah, alligator boots have to cost three figures... poor lizard. Anything else you wanna check out?”
“What’s behind the closed door?”
“Nothing. Empty space.”
“Then I’m fine.”
“Then outta here has arrived.”