Chapter 11
VCR Staffing Specialists occupied a ground-floor office in a squat two-story brick building. High-rises and strip malls abounded in East Brentwood. This building had been forgotten by time and developers. But maybe not for long: A For Sale sign was nailed to the brick, just right of a pebble-glass door.
A lobby floored in grimy fake terrazzo opened to a brown-carpeted hallway. VCR’s suite was toward the back. Dead bolt below the doorknob but the knob turned.
Inside was an empty waiting room decorated with prints of Paris street scenes from the nineteenth century and the type of black-and-white celebrity photos you see in dry cleaners and other places celebrities never go.
Small desk, one chair. Hard gray tweed sofas said no one of import waited here.
Another wooden door centered the wall behind the desk. Voices filtered through. Muffled but not enough to conceal emotional tone.
Male voice, female voice, talking over each other.
Milo rapped hard and the conversation stopped.
The male voice said, “You hear something?”
The female voice shouted, “If you’re so damn curious, go check.”
Denny Rapfogel, flushed and sweaty and rolling a black plastic pen between his fingers, opened the door. He blurted, “What the?” then checked himself and offered a queasy smile.
His too-tight, green aloha shirt was patterned with Martini glasses and cocktail shakers. Off-white linen pants bagged to the floor, puddling over olive-green basket-weave loafers.
From behind him came a bark worthy of a watchdog: “Who?”
“The cops from the wedding.”
“Why?”
“How the hell would I know?”
Corinne Rapfogel came into view, jostling past her husband. The impact jellied his jowls. The skin where his jaw met his earlobes reddened and his shoulders rose. Still, the seasick smile endured.
Corinne’s smile was huge and white. “Oh, hi, guys.” New voice, soft and kittenish.
Alicia Bogomil’s plan was to doll up to get the job done. Corinne Rapfogel had dolled down for her work space, even accounting for wedding versus everyday.
She wore a blousy light-blue dress that hung past her knees, chipped white patent flats on her feet. Dark hair was tied back carelessly, with errant strands shooting out from the sides of her head, more than a few gray filaments glinting. Reading glasses perched atop a shiny nose. Like a lot of faces accustomed to heavy makeup, hers looked unformed and blurred without it.
Despite all that, she began vamping, working stubby eyelashes, cocking her head to one side, her hip to the other.
Milo said, “Ms. Rapfogel.”
“Pu-leeze, we’re old friends by now, right? Corinne.” Taking hold of Milo’s hand and holding on for too long.
Denny Rapfogel said, “They’re not here to socialize, this is business.” To us: “Hopefully good business — you solved it?”
Milo freed his hand. “I wish, sir. We’re here for a follow-up, tried calling but no one answered so we thought we’d—”
Corinne Rapfogel said, “What can we follow you up on, guys?”
Milo said, “First off, has anything new occurred to you?”
“Occurred,” she said, as if learning a foreign word on a self-teaching tape. Long, sweeping leftward movement of her eyes. “No, can’t say that it has.”
Denny said, “You’re saying no progress at all? More I’ve been thinking about it, more pissed I get. They ruined our day.”
Milo said, “The dead woman’s day didn’t go too well, either.”
“The woman,” said Denny. “You’re not going to tell me you don’t know who she is.”
“Unfortunately—”
“Christ. What’s the problem? With social media, who can’t be identified?”
Corinne said, “Obviously some people can’t.”
Using the tone you employ for spelling simple things out to dullards. Denny knew it and glared. Corinne didn’t notice, or chose not to. Her eyes made another sweep to the left. The fingers on her outthrust hip drummed.
She saw me looking. Smiled and nodded, as if we were sharing a secret.
I raised my eyebrows. She did the same.
Shall we dance?
Milo watched without expression. Denny Rapfogel, turning away from his wife, saw none of it. He shook his head. “Total disaster. That’s what you came to tell us? Jesus H.”
Corinne said, “It’s follow-up.”
“Whatever.”
“They’re doing their best. These are honest working guys.”
Her turn to glare. The unspoken as opposed to.
The flush spread to Denny’s cheeks. “It wasn’t my dad who was an insurance dentist—”
“An honest, hardworking DDS,” said Corinne. “You never knew him so don’t be judging.”
“Right.” To us: “Her old man’s face used to be on bus benches.”
Corinne produced a rictal smile. “My dad grew up in the projects and earned his dental surgery degree from New York University. Some people take the initiative.”
Denny muttered, “Bus benches.”
Milo said, “So. Any new ideas?”
“Like what?” said Denny.
“Like whatever could help them, obviously,” said Corinne. Another glance at me, followed by a conspiratorial nod.
I said, “Mr. Rapfogel, your comment about a ruined day is right on. I know you were asked this at the time but can you think of anyone who’d want to screw up the wedding?”
“From our side?” said Denny. “No freakin’ way. Our side was mostly Brears’s friends and obviously friends don’t want to ruin anything.”
Corinne said nothing.
I said, “Mrs. Rapfogel?”
She shook her head and said, “I can’t think of anyone,” but the fingers on her hip had stilled and the index finger had extended. Keeping the gesture low and out of her husband’s view, she curled the digit.
Come hither.
I returned her tiny nod.
She smiled.
Denny Rapfogel said, “Look, it’s a bad time. The building just went up for sale and we need to do some contingency planning, okay?”
“Okay,” said Milo. “Sorry for disturbing you, sir.”
“If you ever actually solve it,” said Denny, “any disturbance will be worth it. You find out who it is, I’ll sue their ass.”
Corinne said, “It’s a criminal matter, not civil.” That same patronizing tone.
He wheeled on her. “Like O.J.? Ever hear of that one? The cops fucked it up but the family got justice from the civil suit. Geez.”
He stormed back into the rear office and slammed the door.
Corinne Rapfogel said, “Sorry, guys. I’ll walk you out.”
When we reached the sidewalk, she said, “Where’s your police car?”
Milo pointed. “The green Seville.”
“Ooh, plainclothes — I love that model. My dad had one, a white one with the designer gold plating. He used to loan it to me to go to the beach with my friends.” Loosening her hair and shaking it out as she spoke.
I said, “A real classic.”
“My dad was a classic,” she said. “Unlike the junker I married.” She edged closer. “Listen, guys, I’m leaving him but he doesn’t know it. I just sat down with a lawyer.”
“Guess I shouldn’t say sorry to hear it?”
She laughed. “Hell, no.” Another hip thrust. “Hell on toast no, it was long coming. I waited for the wedding to be over. Didn’t want to spoil Baby’s big day.” Her eyes misted. “So much for that.”
Milo said, “What an ordeal. Sorry. If you think of anything.”