He held out a palm. “No need to say it, I’m a long way from evidence. But at least I know who my victim is. Let’s see where and how she lived. I find any sign Garrett’s been there, he’s toast.”
Chapter 23
The computer had offered a spot-on image of the house on Amadeo Drive. What it hadn’t provided was tone and nuance.
Suzanne DaCosta’s last known residence was a sixties box marred by signs of neglect: cracking and flaking at the corners, ragged window sashes, missing roof shingles. All-concrete frontage killed any notion of landscaping.
Milo pointed.
DaCosta’s gray Honda Civic nosed a dented metal garage door. Behind it sat a pair of eighties Corvettes, one white with a red interior, the other white and beige.
All three vehicles were dusty.
Milo said, “White Vettes. That remind you of anything?”
I said, “Your basic call-girl ride back when hotels pretended not to notice.”
“Oh, yeah. Nowadays it’s SUVS and hatchbacks. The girls carry massage tables to get past the desk.”
“Maybe Suzanne sidelined.”
He visored his eyes with a hand and peered into the Honda. “Laundry on the passenger seat... bottled water... jogging shoes. Poor kid, she was living her usual life.”
Back to the Vettes. “Two cars for one girl I can see, not three. Maybe Lover Boy’s into velocity.”
“His and hers,” I said. “Romantic. Until it wasn’t.”
He looked the house up and down, gave his gun another pat, and approached the front door.
The bell sounded a three-note chime.
A chirpy female voice called out, “Who is it?”
Before Milo could answer, a second female voice echoed the question. The result was an out-of-sync duet, like a poorly dubbed film.
Milo said, “Police.”
The first voice said, “Really?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The second voice said, “Hold your I.D. up.”
Milo showed the peephole his badge.
“Hold on, I’m turning off the alarm.”
A bolt slid, then another, and the door opened on two twenty-something blond stunners in bikini bras and Daisy Dukes.
Black top for the taller girl, emerald green for her shorter, bustier friend. Moisture beaded on toned bronze bodies but dry hair. Soaking, not swimming.
“Welcome, Police,” said Black, flashing perfect teeth. Soft honey curls ended at her shoulders. Emerald’s hair was dyed nearly white and hung to her waist.
Milo introduced us.
“Milo and Alex. Sounds like a cutie cartoon.” She giggled. “Sorry. I’m Serena, she’s Claire. It sure took long.”
“What did?”
“The noise up there,” said Claire, curling a silver-nailed thumb backward.
“Up where?” said Milo.
“Where? You’re kidding.”
Milo smiled.
“Oh, wow.” Claire flipped her hair, adjusted a bra cup, and rolled her eyes. Huge black irises were a counterpoint to Serena’s icy blues. Dramatic contrast, as if both women had been sent by a casting agent. “Where? Really? The hills up there. We complained to you guys like” — to her friend — “four times?”
“At least,” said Serena. “Loma Bruna Circle, crazy big party house. You can’t see it ’cause of the trees but you sure hear it. Every week it’s a techno shit-storm.”
Claire said, “We work, we need our sleep.”
Serena said, “You guys don’t know about it? Oh, man. Everyone else does. The neighborhood complains, you guys don’t do squat.”
Claire said, “What we heard, the A-H who owns it is related to the mayor.”
Serena said, “Money lucks, everyone else sucks.”
Twin glares from lovely eyes, followed by pouts.
Milo said, “I’m sorry for the hassle, ladies. Unfortunately, we’re not here for that.”
“Then what, garbage cans or something else stupid?” said Serena. She ran a slender finger under the sodden waistband of her short-shorts, shoulder-nudged her friend. “We got out of the pool for nothing, girl.”
Milo said, “We’re here about Suzanne DaCosta.”
“Kimbee?”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
Eye-consultation between the women. Serena said, “Like a week and a half?”
Claire said, “We don’t keep watch on her. What’s up?”
“Unfortunately, she’s deceased.”
Black saucers, blue saucers. Four hands leaped to finely molded lips.
Serena was the first to allow her arms to drop. She shook her head. “No freakin’ way.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Claire’s right hand dropped and began clawing under her waistband. Frantically as if something beneath the denim was attacking her. Her mouth expanded and became a maw. She bent double. “No no no no, not that, not again, no no no no no.”
Letting out a gagging noise, she ran into the house.
Milo said, “Again?”
Serena said, “Her mom died like four months ago. Something just blew up in her brain, she was beautiful and super fit, also a model, didn’t deserve that. To make it worse, her dad died when she was a little kid. She hates death.”
“So do we, Serena. That’s why—”
“Kimbee’s really...?” She began crying and shook her head some more. “I guess our noise thing is pretty bullshit to you.”
“It sounds like a super hassle,” said Milo. “I’ll make a call and see what I can do. Meanwhile, can we come in and talk about Kimbee?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, of course, sure. Let me go calm Cee down, you guys sit wherever.”
Chapter 24
“Wherever” was a limited choice: a sun-cracked black leather sofa or a floor carpeted in grubby green. No other furniture in the low, shallow living room. The house’s interior matched its dermis: unadorned, pallid, shabby.
We took the couch and waited while female conversation filtered from the left. A box of bottled water sat near a glass slider that opened to the rear of the property. Where the yard wasn’t swimming pool it was scarred pebbled decking and discouraged wooden fencing. Power lines ruled on a blue paper sky. The pool was small, a remnant of the time when aquatic design was dominated by the mystique of the kidney. Robes and towels were piled on a pair of mismatched lounge chairs. A brick incinerator sat in a far corner, souvenir of a time when creating smog was a civic duty.
The lack of furniture in the living room wasn’t due to minimalism. Most of the space was taken up by wheeled, tubular racks of women’s clothing.
Gowns, dresses, bathing suits, blouses, slacks. At least a third of the floor space was taken up by shoes. Scores of them, unpaired and bunched into piles like leather mulch.
Milo said, “Not much in the way of ambience. If they are pulling tricks, it’s outcall not in-call.”
I said, “Serena said Claire’s mother was ‘also a model.’ Maybe these are work duds.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or it’s the euphemism of the month. Like ‘dancing’ for Ms. Kimbee.”
Wincing as he mentioned the name. For over a week, he’d been living with his victim as a wisp. Now she had an identity and a home and the pain of her murder was seeping into his bones the way it always did.
Faint padding footsteps previewed the women’s reappearance. Both had removed their bras and put on gauzy midriff tops that proved more revealing. Black tights, green tights.