“That assumes I asked him when my focus was on altruistic civil service.”
“Same question.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I worked a few questions in but the only thing he added was that Gio once mentioned another woman he dated here named Lulu. No details other than it was right after he arrived, so maybe before he hooked up with Meagin. Or he was juggling both of them. But seeing as Gio’s looking more and more like collateral damage, don’t see the point of pursuing it.”
“Makes sense.”
He said, “Meaning I should follow up, anyway.”
“Up to you.”
“Meaning definitely. Fine, but not now, too bushed. Maybe tomorrow unless a miracle occurs and I get an actual lead.”
On Monday, I woke up at six forty-five, was at my desk an hour later, and found a text from Milo sent seven minutes ago.
Call me.
I said, “Per your instruction. Good morning.”
He said, “The Lulu thing stuck in my head. No doubt because you planted it there.”
“I said it was up to you.”
“But the way you said it. Anyway, I managed to reach Rikki Montel and she said, ‘Oh, yeah, Lulu, saw her with him a few times at the Four Seasons.’ ”
“Another aging pro?”
“Nope, some sort of executive, Rikki thought she mentioned working in Santa Monica.”
“How did the two of them meet?”
“Gio introduced them at the Waldorf and Rikki sat down to have a drink. Rikki liked her because Lulu was successful but didn’t snob her out. She never learned a last name but I did a bunch of homework last night and found a hotshot named Lulu whose real name is Evelyn Mastrecht. Chief managing officer of a business software company on Twenty-Sixth Street.”
I said, “Not far from the day spa.”
“Gio’s happy hunting grounds,” he said. “Anyway I called her, she’d just gotten back from a business trip to Singapore and hadn’t heard about Gio. She broke down and said, sure, no problem talking but it had to be early because she’s flying to Santa Clara for lunch. Got her to pencil me in at eight thirty. You available?”
“Where on Twenty-Sixth?”
“You don’t need the address, I’ll pick you up at ten after.”
Chapter 33
Evelyn “Lulu” Mastrecht did what CMOs do at a company called Visuant Solutions, headquartered in a five-story, pink marble building just north of Olympic. A massive parking area was announced by a Valet Only sign backed by half a dozen sky-spraying fountains. The lot was spoon-shaped, with the entrance the stem and the bowl the rounded curb in front of the structure. Chunks of lava rock bordered cobblestone that annoyed the unmarked’s suspension. The surrounding landscaping was textbook Hawaiian hotel.
Most of the bowl was a four-deep stack of vehicles overseen by two valets in pink shirts and tan chinos. If you weren’t on the periphery, getting free would mean waiting as a giant rebus was solved. Milo slid in at the tail end of the congestion, leaving space between the unmarked and an armada of Teslas and gas-eating Euro prestige.
One of the attendants hurried toward us, shaking his head and wagging a finger. Mid-fifties and showing every second of it, with a pemmican-face shaded by a shaggy, improbably yellow mop. Walking fast but stiff-legged.
Former surfer or still riding the waves despite knotty knees.
He regarded the Impala with the disdain you sometimes see in people who can’t afford luxury but have aligned themselves with the power elite.
“Nope, you gotta pull up in front and have us park it.”
Milo flashed the badge. “Nope, I gotta stay right here.”
The attendant considered a retort but swallowed it. A frown seamed the skin around his lips, like a change purse pulled tight. “Okay, but give me the keys in case I have to move it.”
“Sorry, pal, no can do.” Clipping the badge to his breast pocket.
“What do you mean — hey — oh yeah, got it. You got lethal stuff in there.”
“Let’s just say official policy.”
“Yeah, yeah, how long you gonna be?”
“Hard to say.”
We walked past him. He stood there, looking defeated.
Milo said, “I know, it’s sad. C’mon.”
We strode past the second attendant, younger, shorter, chubbier. His eyes rounded at the sight of the badge and he saluted as we entered the building. The lobby was a fifty-foot, glass-domed atrium bottomed by black terrazzo. A uniformed guard behind a central station didn’t look up. Elevator banks filled both lateral walls.
Four chrome-legged gray faux-suede couches were arranged in a perfect square around nothing. One human being in all that space. A small woman perched on the edge of the leftmost couch who got up and click-clacked toward us on spike heels.
“Lieutenant? Lulu Mastrecht.” Throaty voice.
“Thanks for meeting with us, ma’am. This is Alex Delaware.”
“Alex.” A smile began melting around the edges and ended up wistful. Her hand was firm and soft. Narrow and tiny like the rest of her.
Lulu Mastrecht was around the same age as the parking valet but with smooth, rosy-cheeked skin. Five foot two with the heels, maybe ninety pounds fully dressed, with silver hair cut short and feathered at the front. Her face was heart-shaped, prettied by oversized blue eyes and an undersized, uptilted nose. She’d probably been called cute for most of her life, either loved or despised it. She wore a fitted, royal-blue, mannish shirt over black jeggings, and gold in all the strategic places.
“Do you mind if we speak right here? I like to keep business and personal separate.”
“No problem, ma’am.”
Lulu Mastrecht returned to where she’d been sitting and we settled to her right.
Close enough for me to see pink rims at the outer edges of her eyes. Among the gold was a broad wedding band studded with emeralds.
She crossed her legs, let a foot dangle. The shoes were white with red soles.
Milo said, “Again, thanks, ma’am.”
“Of course. I’m still trying to wrap my head around Gio.” Long sigh. Longer, slower head shake. “Such a sweet guy, it makes no sense.”
“How did the two of you meet?”
Given the wedding band, a question that could’ve led to tension. Given the wedding band, why had she agreed to talk?
Lulu Mastrecht’s shoulders relaxed, loosened by pleasant memory.
“How did we meet? At the Four Seasons on Doheny. I was there for a business meeting that ended early.” Semi-smile. “That’s business-speak for it didn’t go well. It was too late to come back to the office so I decided to drown my sorrows in the bar. Not my thing, drinking alone, but that night it felt like the right thing to do. The funny thing is, I got strange looks from the host. Finally, I figured out he suspected I was some kind of sex worker.”
Full smile. “Pretty crazy, huh, at my age. I chose to take it as a compliment. But I didn’t want to give the wrong impression, so I took a corner table, sent a few texts, ordered my drink, kept my head down and logged onto Forbes.com.”
“Minding your own business,” said Milo.
“Making a point of it,” said Lulu Mastrecht. “I.e., ignoring the men who were in there. By my second drink, they must’ve figured out I was legitimate because they left me alone. I’m midway through it and this young, gorgeous, beautifully dressed guy comes in, looks around, and sits two tables away. I’m thinking, ‘Oh boy, he’s got the same impression, what is it with this place?’ So I ignore him completely, keep reading. A few minutes later, I look up, the way you do, it’s natural right? And his eyes are on me. He smiles, which takes me by surprise so I smile back. He summons the waiter, says the next one’s on him and moves to the adjacent table. I continued to shine him on but it’s hard. Knowing he’s there. When the drinks come, he waits a sec, then pulls his chair close and says, ‘Ah, you’re reading a business article,’ in this adorable accent, and tells me he’s in business, too — designer shoes. So I’m figuring the hooker thing is out of the way, why not enjoy some attention?”