“These dogs, Loo, are about the same vintage as their owners. One had filmy eyes and just sat there, another licked my hand and rolled over for a tummy scratch, and the third dragged around looking totally out of it. Also, they sleep in the bedroom and there’s a noise machine going.”
“Everyone comfy, cozy, and unaware.”
“You got it,” said Alicia. “I felt bad having to tell them, they really got spooked. But better to be prepared, no? Not that they’re likely to be targeted, this feels focused, don’t you think? Not some maniac on the prowl.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Learned something about the male victim.” He told her about the shoes.
She said, “Aggiunta? Never heard of them.”
“Maybe they only make men’s stuff.”
“Probably,” she said. “Women’s, I’m an expert.”
“That so.”
“Believe it or not, Loo, off the job I can get girlie. Scored myself a pair of Jimmy Choos at the Nordstrom sale last year. Big heels, you know how tall Al is. Want me to look into the company?”
“Appreciate it. Where are Moe and Sean?”
“Moe was canvassing with me and Sean was on his way but both of them got called in, don’t know for what.”
“Not you.”
“Well,” she said, “sometimes I get so much static on my radio.”
When we got to the staff lot, Milo said, “You up for checking out Meagin’s place? If I get lucky, Dougie-with-two-esses will be sitting there with a guilty look on his face, on the verge of confessing. It’s right on the way back to your place so we’ll take separate cars.”
“Makes sense.”
“Also,” he said, “God forbid my lead-foot should cause anxiety.”
The residence of Meagin and Douglass March was a two-hundred-foot-wide, Palladian Revival manor. Three stories of cream-colored limestone were lidded by a stout slate roof. A columned entry sheltered a massive glass-and-brass door. On either side of the structure were wide passageways angling around the house.
Stained stone and darkening at the seams created a patina you couldn’t fake. This was one of the original Bel Air dream palaces erected during the twenties. The decade had started off grandly only to be murdered by the Great Depression.
The front of the property was walled with ten feet of piled rock that, combined with an even higher iron gate, discouraged drop-ins. Through the slats of the gate, a park-like stretch of lawn was centered by a sinuous driveway lined with topiary balls.
Milo was parked, reading his notepad. I slipped behind him and the two of us walked to the gate where he stabbed the call-box button.
Five phone rings before a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
“Police, ma’am. Please let us in.”
Most people hearing that ask questions. This time the line went dead. Seconds later, the front door swung open and a woman in a pale-blue maid’s uniform stepped between the columns and peered out.
Milo gave a small wave and held up his badge.
The woman took a few steps closer, studied us some more, returned to the house and slipped from view.
The gate glided open and we hiked to the front door. When we’d reached midway it reopened and the maid stood there watching us.
Milo said, “Lieutenant Sturgis, ma’am. This is Alex Delaware.”
She nodded but her eyes were tight. Thirties, Hispanic, fresh-faced, pretty. Someone materialized behind her. An older woman, shorter, dressed in an identical uniform. Equally apprehensive.
“May we come in, please?”
Both women shifted to the right, as if trained to be a welcoming party.
The entry hall was a thirty-foot disk of white marble inlaid with small black squares. An elaborately carved and gilded center table held a three-foot crystal vase filled with silk flowers.
Behind the disk, a double marble staircase climbed to a window-backed landing. A Persian runner centering the steps was held fast by brass rods.
The bordering walls were hung with a tapestry on each side and tall paintings. Portraits of elaborately dressed, pallid, flat-faced people. Most likely imaginary ancestors. The kind of artwork that looks impressive at first glance but fetches low prices at auctions because who wants to be surrounded by dyspeptic Victorians?
On both sides of the entry were cavernous spaces that defied labeling. Great room? Living room? Salon? Indoor football field?
Identical six-foot black granite fireplaces at both ends, the mantels topped by silver torchères and another pair of judgmental faux forebears.
Milo pointed to the nearest portrait. “Family?”
The women giggled. The older woman said, “He buys.”
“Mr. March.”
“Si — yes.”
Milo said, “Is Mr. March here?”
The younger woman shook her head.
“Where is he?” Smiling and keeping his voice soft.
“Traveling.”
“Any idea where?”
She looked back at the older woman. Dual shrugs.
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
The younger woman began to shrug again but stopped when the older woman touched her shoulder and said, “He say Tuesday. But sometimes he doesn’t.”
“Sometimes he doesn’t arrive when he says he’s going to?”
Nods.
Milo said, “Do you have a number where he can be reached?”
The younger woman left, walked to the left of the staircase and around.
The older woman said, “In the kitchen.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
She gnawed her lower lip. “This is about Missus?”
“You’re concerned about Missus.”
“She go out running, no come home.”
“That hasn’t happened before?”
She looked at the floor. “Sometime she home late but always she come home.”
“She likes to run at night.”
Silence.
The younger woman returned with a white business card. Milo read it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it to me. The moment I touched it I knew what had surprised him. The paper was so flimsy it threatened to dissolve under my fingertips. Flat printing, no embossing. Like something a high school student might run off on a home computer.
Guy lives in a house like this and economizes on paper?
He’d also held back on the details of self-promotion.
B. Douglass March
Venture Quest Properties, LLC
P.O.B. 467-89 B, Los Angeles, 90067
888 545 6201 Ext. 632-D
Milo stepped a few feet away and punched in the number. What he heard made him frown. Leaving an inaudible message, he glanced toward the right-hand cavern and headed there. I followed. The maids remained in place.
The room was at least fifty feet long and half as wide, set up with multiple conversation zones formed by careful arrangements of brocade, velvet, and suede seating that looked as if buttocks had never dared intrude. Twenty or so tables of various materials hosted boxes, paperweights, glass animals, silver ashtrays, enamel figurines.
One exception, the table that interested Milo. Nothing but a lone photograph in a silver rococo standing frame.
Full-body view of the woman we’d seen a few hours ago, captured bright-eyed and vital. In death, Meagin March’s good looks had been a sad abstraction. In life, Meagin March had been gorgeous, graced by the kind of confident beauty that results when great genetics melds with a high level of self-care.
Her skin was clear and tan, her smile broad, white, warm, spiced by a hint of impishness. A long, smooth neck supported a perfectly proportioned face, the cheekbones high and pronounced, the eyes pale blue. The hair she’d pinned up carelessly in preparation for lovemaking, followed by a swim, was upswept in a soft but obedient chignon.
Shoulders bared by a black sleeveless cocktail dress were square, strong, and tanned. Some of the diamonds we’d seen a few hours ago glinted from strategic locations and the amethyst necklace settled perfectly in the V of the dress, as if the garment had been tailored to accommodate it. The dress was knee-length, fitted as snugly as a wetsuit. Red shoes with serious heels elevated her a couple of inches above the man whose arm she clutched.