I said, “She’s been working in L.A. for at least two years, has to have some kind of residence.”
“It’s a big county,” he said, wheeling back and stretching his legs. “Kimby, Sooze. Backpack. Maybe you’re right about her being a student. Or the barkeep’s right and she was just putting on airs to stand out.”
He looked at his phone again. “Nothing from Alicia on the dress, yet. Which I knew without checking because I already checked twenty seconds ago. What’s the treatment for OCD?”
“It’s anxiety-reducing behavior,” I said.
“So?”
“Sometimes success does the trick.”
He pretended to study the phone again. “Maybe if I stare at it long enough, something wonderful will take place.”
“That happens,” I said, “write a book and make millions.”
Chapter 12
No word from Milo until Thursday, just after four p.m.
“Couldn’t catch Corinne, office was locked. Headquarters for Rapfogel marital bliss is in Sherman Oaks. Couldn’t see driving out there on the off-chance, so I left an ambiguous message on her cell, still waiting for a callback. Consistent with all that joy, the manager at The Booty Shop called in sick so Moe couldn’t talk to her. Some of the dancers showed up, though, and he talked to them, the kid owes me. No one who works there now knew Sooze/Kim/whoever. The only remotely possible bright spot is the manager lives close to the station, I’m gonna try a drop-in. You free? Or just reasonable?”
Consuela Elena Baca lived in an aquamarine stucco ranch house near L.A.’s southern border with Culver City. Neatly kept place, aloe and yucca and verbena in place of a slavering lawn, a copper-colored nineties Jaguar convertible in the driveway.
Decals on the house’s front window touted the services of a security company. The door button elicited Westminster Abbey chimes.
From within, a nasal female voice: “Who is it?”
“Police, Ms. Baca.”
“Not the alarm again!”
The door cracked but remained chained. Eyes so pale they verged on colorless took us in.
“Your I.D., please.”
Milo gave her a look at his badge. Not his card; no sense beginning a conversation with “Homicide.”
She undid the chain and appraised us again.
Tall woman in her forties wearing a clingy black rayon robe over something beige and lacy. Red nose, bloodshot eyes, white-blond hair bunched up atop her head.
“Yes, I’m Consuela.” Sniffle, throat clear. A wadded tissue in her hand dabbed the nose. A droplet formed at the bottom of one nostril. She said, “Ugh,” and caught it before it dropped.
“Listen, I really can’t be paying any more false-alarm fines. It did not go off. Not once during the past twenty-four hours and I’m sure because I’ve been here all that time. Got this crud of a virus, okay? Haven’t left the house. So whatever problem you think there is, it’s not mine.”
Name notwithstanding, Consuela Elena Baca looked proto-Nordic, with milky skin, a high-bridged uptilted nose, and a firm, square chin. Leggy and full-breasted, close to six feet tall in fuzzy slippers.
Milo said, “This isn’t about the alarm, ma’am.”
“Then what?”
“May we come in?”
Consuela Baca thought. “Sure, but at your own risk. There’s a gazillion obnoxious little germs floating around.”
“We’ll chance it,” said Milo.
“Brave cops, huh?”
“Protect and serve.”
She smiled. Coughed. Muttered “oops” and covered her mouth, bent over and coughed some more. When she stopped, her face was grave. “Is someone dangerous lurking around the neighborhood?”
“Not at all, ma’am. We’re here to get some help.”
“I can help you?” said Consuela Baca. A half shrug brought on more coughing. “Why not? There’s been times you’ve helped me. At work, I run a nightclub. Though it’s inconsistent, sometimes you guys really know how to take your time — what the eff, c’mon in.”
We followed her into a square white living room. A black sofa faced a red sofa. Both were shaped like dog bones. In between sat a chrome-and-glass table on a rug that looked stitched from white rags. On the table, a box of lotion-enhanced tissues. On the floor, a black plastic wastebasket overflowing with used paper.
Two walls were hung with half a dozen black-and-white photos, all featuring the moody chiaroscuro of prewar French camera work. Three depicted jazz combos playing in dim, smoky rooms. Spotlight on the leaders: Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Benny Goodman.
The remaining trio of images starred Consuela Elena Baca, naked, in her twenties. Darker shade of blond, a complex hairdo full of flips, shags, and layers, long smooth body adored by the camera.
She motioned us to the red sofa. Directly opposite her photo-memoir.
Ill but still able to choreograph.
“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Great to be young, right, guys?”
Nowadays, even compliments can get you in trouble. We smiled.
She crossed her legs, allowing the robe to ride up to mid-thigh. “What kind of help do you think I can give you?”
Milo said, “If you know this woman, it would be a tremendous help,” and handed her Red Dress’s death shot.
She said, “Suzy Q? She’s... oh, God, she is, isn’t she.”
“She’s the victim of a homicide, ma’am.”
Consuela Baca’s right hand flew to her mouth. She reached for a fresh tissue, patted both eyes. “Poor Suzy. How? Who?”
Milo said, “Unfortunately, we can’t get into how and we don’t know who. That’s why we’re here. Anything you can tell us about her will be appreciated.”
Pale eyes narrowed. “How’d you connect her to me?”
“One of our detectives visited The Booty Shop. We were told she danced there.”
“That was a couple of years ago.” She frowned. “They gave out my personal data?”
Milo smiled and took out his pad. “No, we detected and found out you managed the place. So you knew her as Suzy Q. Last name, please.”
Consuela Baca kept studying the dead girl’s image. “She’s not someone I’d have thought would end up — I mean she never did anything high-risk. Not that I saw. If anything, she was kind of... buttoned-up — restrained, that’s the word.”
I said, “As opposed to other dancers?”
“Dancers,” she said. “They teach you guys PC, huh? They’re not ballerinas, they’re strippers, and yes, a lot of them like to walk the edge. It’s the nature of the business.”
“What’s the edge?”
“The wrong guys, the wrong drugs.”
“Not Suzy,” I said.
“Far as I knew. In terms of her last name, she told me Smith. Susan Smith. I assumed it was phony.”
“Because it was Smith?”
“That and fake names are also part of the biz. Girls do it for safety and security and because they like to create alter egos. When I worked in Vegas I was Brigitta. When I wasn’t Ingrid. Or Helga. My Minnesota Swedish mother wasn’t amused. My dad never said anything but when she started yelling at me, I caught him smiling.”
The memory made her sigh. She took another look at the photo, shook her head, and returned it. “Poor Suzy.”
Milo said, “When did Susan Smith become Suzy Q?”
“It wasn’t a formal thing,” said Baca. “She suggested it and I said okay. It’s kind of a natural extension of Susan, no? Like Hannah becomes Honey Pie, Sarah’s Sexy Sadie? I had one girl, her name was Dara, which was actually fine as a stage name. She thought becoming Drizella was a great idea. I told her that’s one of the ugly sisters in ‘Cinderella,’ bad idea. So she became Dru. Is that better than Dara? But everyone has their own ideas. They do the job, I don’t hassle them.”