Milo turned to the maids. “This is Mr. March?”
They hesitated for a second, then approached.
“Yes,” said the older woman.
“Where was this taken?”
Head shakes.
“Looks like a party.”
Silence.
Milo said, “Do Mr. and Mrs. March go to a lot of parties?”
The maids looked at each other.
The older one said, “Not a lot.”
Out came his pad. Working to maintain his smile. “What are your names, please?”
“Irma,” said the older woman.
“Last name, please?”
“Ruiz.”
He scrawled. “And you, ma’am?”
“Adelita. Santiago.”
“Why you need names?” said Irma Ruiz.
“Just for the record.”
“Something happened to Missus.” A statement, not a question.
“I’m afraid so. That’s why I need to talk to Mr. March.”
“Yes,” said Irma Ruiz. “I think Memphis. But not sure.”
“Great, thanks, very helpful. Is he at a hotel?”
“I think.”
“Any idea which hotel?”
“No.”
Adelita Santiago said, “There are ducks.”
Irma Ruiz looked surprised.
Milo said, “Docks, like boats?”
Adelita Santiago wiggled her fingers and pantomimed flight.
“Ducks? Like the birds?”
Nod.
“He’s staying at a farm.”
“No, a hotel.”
“A hotel with ducks.”
Nod.
“Okay...” He returned to the photo of the Marches and I got out my phone.
When I clicked off, I studied Douglass March’s image.
Slightly built and at least five years younger than his wife. Handsome in a starving-poet way, with limp, sandy hair worn longish, narrow dark eyes, and a waxy complexion suggesting susceptibility to infection. He wore a black suit, a black shirt striped with white, and a royal-blue tie. Reacted to the camera with the stingiest upturn of lips.
Smile!
Don’t bug me.
The contrast with his wife’s full-on photogenic glee was striking. Fissures in the relationship well under way?
Milo edged closer to me and spoke just above a whisper. “I was expecting a Daddy Warbucks twice her age and this guy’s what — thirty? Looks more like a boy-wonder math prof than a real estate tycoon.”
He took in the vastness of the house. “Making it young and thinking he’s got it all.”
I said, “Or not. He doesn’t look overjoyed.”
He studied the photo. “Good point. So maybe he already knew something was up when she went out running and there’s the motive... they do look kinda mismatched. Wonder when this was taken.”
He picked up the photo and walked over to the maids, still standing in the entry, immobile. “When’s the first time you saw this?”
Adelita Santiago said, “Missus told me to find a good place for it... maybe... I don’t know for sure.”
“Doesn’t have to be for sure,” Milo said gently. “Even a guess.”
Silence.
“Is it new or from before?”
“Before. Maybe... two months ago?”
Irma Ruiz said, “I think maybe three. They went to a party in Mister’s car.”
“Where is Mister’s car?”
“In the garage. Missus’s, too.”
“Got it. Anything else you want to tell us?”
Silence.
“Okay, thanks, you’ve been helpful.”
That assessment made both women tighten up.
I said, “What’s wrong?”
Adelita Santiago said, “We not supposed to talk to people. To let people in.”
“Makes sense,” said Milo. “But we’re not people, we’re the police.”
Her mouth quivered. “Something happened to Missus.”
Milo thought for a moment. Glanced at me. I nodded.
“I’ve got very bad news for you, ladies. Missus is muerta.”
Irma Ruiz clutched her chest. “No.”
Adelita Santiago clutched the sides of her face. “No, no, no.”
“I’m sorry,” said Milo.
That opened the spigots. Both women broke down and sobbed.
Chapter 7
Leaving me with the maids in the entry, Milo traced the same route Adelita had taken to the kitchen. The two of them spent the time crying and hugging each other, were still doing so when he returned with a box of tissues and two bottles of Fiji Water.
The women wiped their eyes but held on to the water, unopened.
He said, “Anything you want to tell us?”
Neck-straining head shakes.
Neither had asked any questions about Missus’s death. Some jobs are based on not asking.
Milo laid his own business card on the center table. “If there’s anything else you want to say, please call.”
The maids stood there, glassy-eyed.
“We’ll get going now. Could you please open the gate for us?”
“Black button,” said Adelita. She remained in place, as did Irma.
Neither of them budged as we saw ourselves out.
The black button took a moment to locate. On the side of a stone post, tucked near the junction with the wall, several feet above the motor that activated the gate.
When we were through, he said, “Ducks? Must be a language problem.”
I said, “The Peabody hotel in Memphis has a twice-a-day ritual. The birds march off an elevator, walk across the lobby, and swim in a fountain. Then they go back. Morning and evening. Apparently it’s a big attraction.”
“Unbelievable. How do you know this?”
“You pick stuff up.”
“Ducks. I verify him in Memphis, he didn’t pull the trigger. But a guy of his means would have no problem hiring someone. And like you said, there’s a precise feel to it. Big money buys the best.”
Leaning against the unmarked, he phoned the hotel, asked for Douglass March, waited. “Okay, please tell him Lieutenant Sturgis from the Los Angeles Police Department called. Here’s my number... that’s it, no additional message. Thanks. By the way, how’re the ducks doing...? Nope, haven’t, just heard about it... yeah, I definitely will if I ever get over there... I believe you, sounds like fun. Bye.”
He hung up. “Mr. March is registered but out of his room. The ducks are in fine form. And notice, I made no cracks about l’orange.”
He walked me to the Seville. “Hopefully March will get back to me soon. I’ll let you know and we can do a face-to-face.”
We. Good sign.
I said, “Aren’t most contract executions usually headshots? If not the first bullet, then the coup to the back of the skull?”
“The few pro jobs I’ve seen have been that. But there are always exceptions.”
“Granted,” I said. “But the question is why deviate and two possibilities come to mind, starting with symbolism. You broke my heart, I’ll destroy yours.”
“Dougie gave the hit man instructions? Yeah, I like it. What’s the second?”
This you won’t like. “Who gets training to aim for center mass?”
His face tightened. “Fine, we do. Most departments do. Aim to stop not just to kill, minimize corollary damage. A cop-turned-hit-man? Sounds like a movie.”
I said, “Maybe, but we’re likely dealing with a .38 revolver and what’s the most common type?”
“S and W Police and Military,” he said. “Note the emphasis on and. Every branch of the military used ’em. Plenty of private citizens, too. There’ve got to be millions of them out there. Look that up in the Bible.”