I said, “Maybe Geoffrey Dugong in his pre-candle days.”
“He was into gore?”
“No idea because no images from his early days have turned up. Maybe because they’re not fit for public consumption.”
“He could’ve used another nom de paintbrush.” She shook her head. “Dugong. What was the guy thinking? Did he figure on growing flippers? That could sure limit your brush control.”
When I stopped laughing, she said, “Now you’re relaxed. When we get home, we’ll have a leisurely dessert.”
Chapter 30
Strenuous dessert. Followed by a long bath and a couple of hours watching Foyle’s War.
I’d intended to stay up after Robin fell asleep as I often do. Wanting to wring info from the computer on Dugong/Dowd and if that didn’t produce anything, search real estate sites for ownership of the house where Medina Okash had delivered the painting.
The next thing I saw was a blade of golden light riding the top of the bedroom curtains. Seven forty-eight a.m. Still in bed. No memory of the intervening hours.
Robin’s side of the mattress was empty. Slow, steady snuffling from my side led me to look down.
Blanche snoring joyfully, one paw resting in one of my slippers.
She waited, smiling, as I brushed my teeth and put on a robe, then padded after me into the kitchen. Coffee in the pot, two slices of rye toast on the table.
I said, “Where’s Mom?”
Trotting to the service-porch door, she sat.
I filled a cup and grabbed a piece of toast and the two of us went out to the garden. Pausing at the pond, I scooped a handful of pellets from the old porcelain Japanese urn I keep near the water’s edge and tossed them in. A few fell to the ground and Blanche was rewarded for her vigilance. The koi splashed her as they gobbled. She shook herself off and smiled some more. Not at me, at life, in general.
The right way to start the day.
Nothing on knife-attack victim Contessa Welles but the computer was more than happy to tell me who owned the house on Clearwater.
Privately held company named Heigur, LLC. Nothing anywhere about what it peddled.
I called Milo. He said, “Saw that, looked up the business license. Real estate, no details, no transactions for a while. Caught a picture of the house, doesn’t look like much.”
“But they do have a Rolls.”
“White, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“Your basic B.H. retiree drive.”
“There was a Volvo, too.”
“Probably the maid’s,” he said. “We could be talking venerable types who went for one of ol’ Geoff’s masterpieces. In terms of Okash, Sean was there when she Ubered home and I had a fascinating night watching her stay there. Reed got all the action: At eight she drove her own car to a breakfast place on Eighth Street near Vermont. Still there. Meanwhile, no word where Dugong’s crashing.”
I said, “He could’ve gone back to Florida.”
“If he flew, there’s no record of it.”
“Just thought of something: Roget’s kids live in Florida.”
“Don’t wanna brag but that also occurred to me so I called them. Neither has heard of Dugong and Ocala’s not close to Key West, nearly five hundred miles north. I also emailed Okash’s photo to Rick Gurnsey’s roommate, Briggs. He’s never seen her, doubts Ricky dated her, too much of a fat-face, quote unquote. Briggs ain’t the most observant fellow and we know Gurnsey didn’t bring every conquest home so no doors are closed. I sent the same photo to civic-minded Ms. Kierstead. She had nothing to add.”
I said, “I couldn’t find anything on Okash’s victim.”
“Me, neither, but I haven’t dug deep. You’re thinking people disappear for all sorts of reasons. Let me see if I can find a death certificate somewhere — hold on, incoming call — Marc Coolidge, I’ll call you right back.”
He didn’t.
But at three thirteen p.m. he rang my doorbell.
I said, “Coolidge found something?”
“What — no, he was just letting me know he got another D to work with him, the two of them want to check out every CC camera they can find between McGann and Vollmann’s crime scene and the two nearest freeway exits. We’re talking enough video-viewing to earn a degree in film history.”
I said, “Conscientious.”
“The fact that his case could be tied in to something bigger has gotten to him.” He stepped into the living room, sat. “The reason I took the liberty to grace your doorstep is guess who just called? Todd Leventhal the precocious party meister. Sounding scared out of his gourd.”
“Of what?”
“He wouldn’t say but asked to meet soon. More like demanded. Don’t enjoy indulging brats but at this point, anyone wants to talk to me, I’m a cheap date.”
Leventhal had asked to meet on Spalding Drive south of Olympic, a short drive from his high school. The black Challenger was in place when we arrived, parked in front of a red-brick condo complex that took up half the block.
Plenty of spaces across the street but the boy had chosen to sit squarely in a red zone, blocking a fire hydrant.
Milo said, “Entitled little prince.”
I said, “Or he thinks you can protect him from the parking nazis.”
“Delusions abound.” He U-turned at the next corner, glided to the curb across the street from the Challenger, and rolled down his window. “Todd.”
Leventhal, hands fixed rigidly on his steering wheel, turned jerkily and nodded. None of the bravado he’d shown the first time.
He said, “Um, where?”
“Here.” Milo hooked a thumb toward the Impala’s rear seat.
“We’re taking a ride?”
“No, we’re taking a meeting. C’mere.”
The boy looked around and got out. Gray hoodie, bright-blue board shorts, orange sneakers. The thunderbolts etched into his hair had been highlighted yellow. He crossed the street, got into the backseat behind Milo, and immediately began fidgeting. “Smells weird back here.”
Milo said, “New cologne, Todd. Eau de Felony. So what’s on your mind?”
“This.” Reaching into his jean pocket, Leventhal produced a single sheet of paper.
Screenshots of several Twitter posts.
The same poster: V–I-M Numero Uno.
Similar messages, one day after the other, all within the last week:
TL and SA socialize suckalize screwalize.
TL and SA and their ilk are like elk. hunted.
TL and SA have low genetic life expectancy. dna do not allow.
TL and SA party partially perish permanently.
TL SA MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD.
Milo said, “Someone doesn’t like you and Shirin.”
“No! It’s more!” The boy’s new voice was shrill, constricted. “Look at the bottom one — look!”
“Lotta MD’s. Something to do with a doctor?”
“No! It means ‘must die’!”
“You figured that out because—”
“I didn’t figure, I know! Motherfucker comes up and whispers it to me, online he doesn’t want to get kicked off so he hides it with code. Look at his handle! It’s obvious!”
“V–I-M...”
“Vengeance is mine! He says that, too!”
“This person has threatened you to your face.”
“He always looked at me weird,” said Leventhal. “Now he’s saying it. Whispering. Like he’s telling me a fucking secret.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Piece of shit autistic spazz-whack named Moman.”
“First name?”
“Crispin.” Snickering at the sound of the name.
“Crispin also goes to Beverly.”